But Jo was quite another person to young Tom Gavot whom she met a mile farther on. The boy was a handsome, shabby fellow and at present his throat was bound close in a band of red flannel. His clothing was thin and ragged and his bare hands rested upon the handle of a shovel which he held. He leaned slightly on it, as he paused to greet Mam’selle Morey. "Tom, you’ve been sick," said Jo, stopping short and leaning toward him. "I hated not to come to you—but I couldn’t." "’Tis all right, now, Mam’selle. I went to the curé when my throat was the worst and the good Father took me in and sent for the doctor." "I’ll remember that, Tom, when the curé asks for help this winter. And, Tom, how goes life?" The boy’s clear, dark eyes looked troubled. "I want to get away, Mam’selle Jo. I can never make anything of myself here. Sometimes," the boy smiled grimly, "sometimes I find myself—longing to forget everything in——" "No, Tom, not the tavern! Remember what I’ve always told you, boy, of the night your mother went. She said you paid for all she had suffered! Tom, when you get down and things look black, just remember and keep on being worth what she went through. It was worse than anything you’ll ever be called upon to bear." The boy’s eyes dimmed. "I’m holding close," he said grimly. "Holding close to—I don’t know what." "That’s it, Tom, we don’t know what; but it’s something, isn’t it?" "Yes, Mam’selle." "Now listen, Tom. How old are you? Let me see——" "Sixteen, Mam’selle." "To be sure. And you study hard at the school, the curé has told me. And you mend the roads in the summer with the men?" "Yes, Mam’selle," Tom grinned, "and get a bit of money and hide it well. There’s nearly twenty dollars now." "Good! Well, Tom, this winter, study as you never have before and next summer, if the men come, work and save. You shall go away some day, that I swear. I’ll promise that, but it must be a secret. You shall have your chance." "Mam’selle!" Tom instinctively took off his hat and stood beside Jo like a ragged and forlorn knight. "You’ve got to pay for all your mother suffered!" Jo’s lips quivered. "It’s the least you can do." Then with a nod and a cheery farewell, Jo bobbed along while Tom Gavot returned to his self-imposed task of filling in the ruts on the road. Occasionally a traveller tossed him a coin, and the work kept him occupied, but best of all it assumed the dignity of a job and made him capable of helping intelligently when the real workers came in the late spring. Just after midday Jo Morey drew up before the Home of St. Michael’s-on-the-Rocks. She was very quiet, very dignified and firm, but her heart was pounding distractedly against her stiffly boned waist. She was to learn, at last, all there was to learn about the girl who, at that moment, was locked in the white house behind drawn shades, with instructions to remain hidden until Jo’s return.