"They’ll get to think the girl’s common property if I don’t set her above their reach," muttered Jo, and then wondered whether it would be safer to lay the truth bare to Father Mantelle. Would it be safer for Donelle to come forth in her true character, as the daughter of a supposed murderer, or to remain as she was, the supposed love-child of a deserted woman? For herself Jo Morey took little heed; the self-respect that had always upheld her came to her support now. Had Donelle been hers, she believed her inheritance would have been better than that which was rightfully hers from her real mother. "A minister’s words can’t make or mar these things," she muttered, "and since my blood doesn’t flow in the girl’s veins, my common sense can save her, God helping me!" As she plodded on poor Jo thought of Langley himself. She had never believed the accusation brought against him. She could not, but what proof had she to support her belief? And somewhere, in the world, possibly, that man was still alive who had brought forth the charge. Might he not at this late day materialize and menace Donelle were she, Jo, to let the full light of truth on her? What reason was there for that strange man to want to get possession of Langley’s child? Was he afraid of her? Did he want to silence her, or—and here poor Jo stopped in the road and breathed hard—had he believed that Donelle was his? For a moment Jo grew dizzy. Suppose he did think so. How could she prove the contrary? Would her insistence as to resemblance or her innate belief in her love going true, weigh against any proof which that unknown man might have? Less and less did Jo believe that Donelle would ever recall the past. And if she did, what would it avail? "I think I will have to let the poor child stagger along with me tacked to her past," she concluded, "her chances for safety are better, though she may never know it. I may be able to keep her from hearing, people do forget, and my money and her learning may help." Jo sighed and trudged on. The relations between Father Mantelle and Mam’selle were very peculiar. The old priest admired her intelligence and was amused by her keen wit and independence. He simply could not account for her and that added to his interest. He had not been in Point of Pines long, he rarely left it, and never had company unless a passing father stopped for refreshment or a report. In short, Mantelle was as much a mystery as Mam’selle, and for that very reason they unconsciously respected each other. They never discussed religion, but Mantelle’s attitude toward Jo had been always one of esteem and neighbourliness. "In loneliness the poor soul has worked out her own redemption," Mantelle had decided. At first he had pondered upon Mam’selle’s loneliness, but had never questioned it, having much sympathy for any one who, for any reason, could not mingle freely with his fellows.