The tears rose to Donelle’s eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her surfaces. "Jim," he said, "here’s Miss Walden." Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said: "Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It’s awfully good of you to spend hours making life a little less of a bore to a fellow." Donelle tried her brand-new voice: "One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to do it." Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then: "May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?" "Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I’m a squatter. This is Mr. Law’s place." In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person. Law began to enjoy the sport now that he knew Donelle was not going to betray him. "I’m going over to the north end of the room," he said, "and daub. There’s a book on the stand, Miss Walden, that Norval likes. There’s a cigarette stump between the pages where we left off." "Reading will not disturb you, Mr. Law?" Donelle was reaching for the book when suddenly Norval started up as if an electric current had gone through him. Donelle shivered, that cigarette stump had made her careless. "What is the matter, Mr. Norval?" she asked in Mary Walden’s most casual and businesslike tones. "Oh! just for a moment, please excuse me, but you made me think of someone I once knew. The blind are subject to all sorts of fancies. Law, did you notice——" but Norval stopped short and Anderson Law waved frantic hands at Donelle. She did not let go of herself after that for many days; not until her assumed voice became so familiar to Norval that those undertones lost their power over him. Donelle read tirelessly, her practice with Jo stood her in good stead. Books, books, books! Greedily Norval demanded them, motionless he lay upon his couch, and listened while Law at the north window painted and dreamed, and then painted his dreams. He got Jo at the oven on canvas for the spring exhibit. Donelle silently wept before it, kissed the blessed face, and gave Law a bad half hour painting off the kiss! Always while life lasted Donelle was to look back upon those studio days as a sacred memory. Life was using her and she was ready to pay—to pay. New York, until years later, meant to her only three high notes: terror of its bigness and noise, patience while she waited with Mary Walden until she was used, glory as she served the man she loved.