Sometimes this fact frightened Jo, but she knew her people fairly well. The ugly belief about herself had been so silently borne that she trusted that when Donelle went among them her advent would not loose tongues. For the rest; she meant constantly to guard the girl, meant, in time, to send her away to school. Jo dreamed long dreams and, mentally keen and wise, was stupid in her ignorance of the more sordid aspects of life. "If they’ll only keep still!" she fervently hoped. And she based her present life on that. In the meantime Donelle, in a marvellous fashion, had appropriated everything about her, Jo included. Nick was the girl’s abject slave. Sometimes he’d turn his eyes on his mistress remorsefully, as he edged toward Donelle; his affections were sorely torn. The animals all learned to watch for Donelle, Molly, the horse, was foolishly sentimental. The house rang with girlish laughter and song. In the once-still rooms a constant chatter went on whenever Jo and the girl were together. Donelle, especially, had much to say and she said it in a strange, original way that set Jo thinking on many new lines. How was she to keep this girl from knowing the truth, once she mingled with others? And how was she to keep her apart? Donelle had a passion for friendliness. To Jo, who had lived her life alone, the girl’s constant desire for conversation and companionship was little less than appalling. Then, too, Donelle was a startling combination of precociousness and childishness. Her mind had been well-trained; early she had been utilized in teaching the younger children of the Home. She had absorbed all the books at her command; her imagination was ungoverned, and some of the Sisters had shared confidences with her that had added fuel to the inquisitive, bright mind. There were times when Jo Morey felt absurdly young compared with Donelle, young and crude. Then suddenly the light would fade from the girl’s face, something, probably her incapacity to go back of her life in the Home, would make her helpless, weak, and appealing. So far, the little white house, Jo, and the animals, supplied Donelle’s every need, but Mam’selle sensed complications for the future. She watched and listened while Donelle read and then enlarged romantically upon what she read; she felt lost already in the face of the problem. "Mamsey," Donelle suddenly exclaimed one night, "I want you to take off those horrid old man-things. Let us burn them." Jo was rigged out in her father’s ancient garments; she had been to the outhouses working long and hard. "What’s the matter with them?" she asked half-guiltily.