"And that is why I came back to her. For a moment, Tom Gavot, I stood on your road, the road you played with and mended. I wanted to run up and over the hill. I wanted to turn my back on the awful thing I had heard, but I couldn’t, Tom, I couldn’t. I would have seemed too mean to be on your road. I believe something died in me as I stood, but when I could think once more, I didn’t suffer except for Mamsey. I’m so thankful I feel this way. I want to make up to her—for—for my father. He left her, but I never will. Why once, Tom, I asked her about my father, it was long ago, and she said he was a _good father_. And then I asked her about—about my mother, and she kept still. She let me think my mother was—not good; she would not hurt my father! But oh! if I can only keep her from knowing that I know. If I could only make her think I came back to her simply because I wanted her! I do not want her to think the truth! That would kill her, I know. She is so proud. So fine. I want to make her happy in my own way." "She shall think that, if I can help!" said Tom. "But you mustn’t stay here for me, Tom. I couldn’t bear that." "See here, Donelle. If you have turned back, so will I. I had my choice of going to the States or overseeing some work back in the hills here. I have chosen." "But, Tom, you mustn’t turn back." "Perhaps neither of us has turned back," Tom’s dark face relaxed. "When things make you dizzy you cannot always tell which is back or forward. I wish you would play your fiddle." Donelle looked up at him with a kind of glory in her eyes. "I will," she said; "and after, you must tell me about your roads, the roads that you can see when there are no roads!" "It’s a bargain." So Tom sat down upon a rock and Donelle paced to and fro on the leafy path and, as she played and played, she smiled contentedly at Tom over her bow. When she was tired she dropped beside him and leaned against a tree. "Now," she whispered; "I want to hear about your roads." "It’s splendid work," said Tom. "You can imagine such a lot. Someone wants a road built; you go and see only woods or rocks or plains, then suddenly, you see the road—finished! You set to work overcoming the obstacles, getting results with as little fuss as possible, always seeing that finished road! It’s great!" "Yes, it must be. I think, Tom, the work we love is like that. When I am practising and making mistakes, the perfect music is singing in my ears and I keep listening and trying to follow. Yes, it is great!" They were both looking off toward the river. "It’s the sort of work for me," Tom murmured, thinking of his roads. "You know I like to lie out of doors nights. I like the sky over me and a fire at my feet. Do you remember," he laughed shyly, "the night before I went away; how Mam’selle made believe to be asleep while we talked?" "Yes," Donelle’s eyes were dreamy; "dear Mamsey, how she has made believe all her life."