After the death of Morey, Jo, according to her bargain with Longville, went to help in the care of the summer boarders who, that year, filled Madame Longville’s house to overflowing and brought in a harvest that the Captain, not his womankind, gathered. That was the summer when poor Jo, over-worked, worried at leaving Cecile alone for so many weary hours, grew grim and unlovely and found little time or inclination to play the happy part with Langley that had been the joy and salvation of their lives. And just then a girl from the States appeared—a delicate, pretty thing ordered to the river-pines to regain her health. She belonged to the class of women who know no terminals in their lives, but accept everything as an open passage to the broad sea of their desires. She was obliged to work for her existence and the effort had all but cost her her life; she must get someone, therefore, to undertake the business for the future. Her resources were apparently limited, while the immediate necessity was pressing. Since nothing was to her finite and binding, she looked upon Henry Langley and beheld in him a possibility; a stepping stone. She promptly began her attack, by way of poor Jo, who, she keenly realized, was her safest and surest course to Langley’s citadel. She made almost frantic efforts to include the tired drudge in the summer frivolities; her sweet compassion and delicate prettiness were in terrific contrast to Jo’s shabbiness and lack of charm. While Langley tried to be just and loyal he could but acknowledge that Jo’s blunt refusals to accept, what of course she could not accept, were often brutal and coarse. Then, as his senses began to blind him, he became stupidly critical, groping and bungling. He could not see, beneath Jo’s fierce retorts to his very reasonable demands, the scorching hurt and ever-growing recognition of defeat. It was the old game played between a professional and an amateur—and the professional won! Quite unbeknown to poor Jo, toiling in Madame Longville’s kitchen, Langley quietly sold his belongings to the Captain and, taking his prize off secretly, left explanations to others. Longville made them. "Mam’selle," he said, standing before Jo as she bent over a steaming pan of dishes in the stifling kitchen, "we’ve been cheated out of a merry wedding." "A wedding?" asked Jo listlessly, "has any one time to marry now?" "They made time and made off with themselves as well. Langley was married last night and is on his way, heaven knows where!" Jo raised herself and faced Longville. Her hair was hanging limply, her eyes were terror-filled. "Langley married and gone?" she gasped. Then: "My God!" That was all, but Longville watching her drew his own evil conclusions and laughed good-naturedly. "It’s all in the day’s work, Mam’selle," he said, and wondered silently if the slave before him would be able to finish out the summer.