Alton had been with her a week when Marcel Longville, embodying the sentiments of the village, came deprecatingly into Jo’s kitchen and sat dolefully down on a hard yellow chair. She sniffed critically. Marcel was a judge of cooking, but no artist. She cooked of necessity, not for pleasure. Jo revelled in ingredients and had visions of results. "Crullers and chicken!" said Marcel. "You certainly do tickle the stomach, Mam’selle." "He pays well and steady," Jo answered, attending strictly to business. "And such a relisher I’ve never seen. Not even among your best payers, Marcel. They always ate and thought afterward if they wanted to, or had to; mine thinks while he eats. I’ve watched him pause a full minute over a mouthful, getting the flavour." "That’s flattering to a woman, certainly," Marcel sighed. Then: "Father Mantelle says your boarder is handsome, Mam’selle, and young." "Tastes differ," Jo basted her chicken with steady hand; "he’s terrible brown and lean. As to age, he wasn’t born yesterday." "What’s he doing here, Jo?" "Eating and sleeping, mostly eating. He wanders some, too. He’s partial to woods." "Hasn’t he any excuse for being here?" "Marcel, does any one have to have an excuse for being in Point of Pines? What’s the matter with the place?" "The Captain argues that he is a prospector." Marcel brought the word out carefully. "What’s that?" Mam’selle dipped out her crullers from the deep fat. "Sensing about timber or land, or something that someone secret wants to buy, and has sent him to spy on." "Well, I don’t believe the Captain has shot the right bird," Jo laughed significantly, "the Captain isn’t always a good shot. My boarder is a painter." "A painter? What does he think he can get to do here? We leave our houses to nature." "He’s going to fix up the wood-cabin." Jo spoke indifferently, but her colour rose. The wood-cabin was Langley’s deserted house. Years ago she had bought it, for a song, and then left it alone. "He goes there every day. I shouldn’t wonder if he was going to paint that. It will take gallons, for the knotholes will just drink paint." "Mam’selle," here Marcel panted a bit, "you don’t fear for Donelle?" Jo stood still, wiped her hands on her checked apron, and stared at Marcel. "Why should I?" she asked. "Jo, a strange man and Donelle growing wonderful pretty, and——" Still Jo stared. "Mam’selle, the men have fixed the world for themselves; you know that. They have even fixed the women. Some are to labour and bend under their loads until they break, then the scrap heap! Others, the pretty ones, are to be taken or bought as the case may be. And young girls innocent and longing do not count the cost. Oh! Mam’selle, have you thought of Donelle?" Poor Marcel’s eyes were tear-filled. Jo looked dazed and helpless. Presently she said, with that slow fierceness people dreaded: