"You see, I haven’t ever had any one who cared since my mother died. I never dared tell any one but you about the roads. You seemed to understand; you didn’t laugh. And when I’m off in Quebec and something in me goes stretching over the road until it hurts, it’s going to be you at the other end! You’re not laughing?" "No, Tom Gavot, I’m—I’m crying a little." "I think it’s your eyes, they’re like lights. And then you are kind, kind." Just then Jo shook herself and awoke. A few days later Tom was off for Quebec and Donelle’s homesickness and longing for Mam’selle were to be lessened by an unlooked-for occurrence. Mrs. Lindsay had not thought of Donelle being in the slightest musical, though Jo had suggested it, for she never sang in the Walled House as she did at Point of Pines. There were lessons and walks and drives; Mrs. Lindsay was growing genuinely attached to the girl, and more and more determined to see that life should play fair with her, but the idea of interesting old Professor Revelle did not occur to her. The shy, delicate old man shrank from strangers with positive aversion. He was not unfriendly, but his loss of eyesight was recent. His late poverty and illness, from which Anderson Law had rescued him, had left their scar, and he kept to the rooms Mrs. Lindsay set aside for him with gentle gratitude. Sometimes she dined with him there; often sat evenings with him; but for the most the old man was happiest alone. Then came the day when the silent garden tempted him. He had heard the carriage depart earlier and thought that Mrs. Lindsay and the stranger girl had both gone driving. With his violin under his arm Revelle groped his way from the house; he was learning, slowly, as the lately-blinded do, to walk alone. At the far end of the garden there was an arbour, Revelle knew it was rose-covered by the fragrance, and he loved to play there, for no one ever disturbed him. To-day he found the place and sat down. His old face was growing peaceful, full of renunciation; the fear and bitterness were gone. The roses thrilled him, he could touch them by reaching out his hand; they were soft and velvety, and he hoped they were pink. He had always loved pink roses. And then he played as he had not played for years. Close to him sat Donelle. She had been reading when he entered. She did not move or speak though she longed to help and guide him. She knew all about him, pitied and respected his desire to be alone in a very lonely and dark world, but she had never heard him play before. As she listened the yellow eyes darkened. Never had Donelle heard such music; never had she been so gloriously happy. Something in her felt free, free! Then something, quite beyond her control, floated after the notes; it rested and throbbed, it ... but just then Revelle, with a wide sweep of the bow, stopped! Donelle crept to his side, his quick ear caught the sound. "Who is it?" he asked sharply.