Longville considered further. He longed to stand well in the community when it did not cost him too much. Without going into details he could so arrange this business with Jo Morey that he might shine forth radiantly—and he did not always radiate by any means. "No!" he said presently; "I’m going to give you your chance, Mam’selle, that is, if you give me all your money." "You said—two hundred!" "_About_, Mam’selle, _about_. That was my word." "But winter is near and there is Cecile. Captain, will you leave me a bit to begin on?" "Well, now, let us see. How about our building up your wood pile; starting you in with potatoes, pork, and the like and leaving say twenty-five dollars in the teapot? How about that, eh?" "Will you write it down and sign?" Jo was quivering. "You’re sharp, devilishly sharp, Mam’selle. How about being good friends instead of hard drivers of bargains?" "You must write it out and sign, Captain. We’ll be better friends for that." Again Longville considered. The arrangement would be brief at best, he concluded. "I’ll sign!" he finally agreed, "but, Mam’selle, it’s like a play between you and me." "It’s no play, Captain, as you will see." And so it had begun, that grim struggle which lasted fifteen long years with never a failure to meet the interest; and, in due time, the payments on the original loan were undertaken. Early and late Jo slaved, denying herself all but the barest necessities, but she managed to give poor Cecile better fare. During the second year of Jo’s struggle, two staggering things had occurred that threatened, for a time, to defeat her. She had known but little brightness in her dun-coloured girlhood, but that little had been connected with Henry Langley the best, by far, of the young men of the place. He was an American who had come from the States to Canada, as many others had, believing his chance on the land to be better than at home. He was an educated man with ambitions for a future of independence and a free life. He bought a small farm for himself and built a rude but comfortable cabin upon it. When he was not working out of doors he was studying within and his only extravagances were books and a violin. Jo Morey had always attracted him; her mind, her courage, her defiance of conditions, called forth all that was fine in him. Without fully understanding he recognized in her the qualities that, added to his own, would secure the success he craved. So he taught her, read with her, and made her think. He was not calculating and selfish, the crude foundation was but the safety upon which he built a romance that was as simple and pure as any he had ever known. The plain, brave girl with her quiet humour and delicate ideals appealed mightily to him. His emotions were in abeyance to his good common sense, so he and Jo had planned for a future—never very definite, but always sincere.