"Why, you see, lately I’ve known that I must be like my father more than like, like Mamsey. She learned and stayed and paid, he ran away. Oh, Tom, it’s good to be able to say this to you, out here under the trees, alone. It has been choking me for days and days. You see, Tom, a big feeling comes up in me that wants and wants. And, always, too, there is another feeling. I do not want to pay, as Mamsey did. It would be easier to run and hide! But, Tom, I’m not going to, I’m not! I’m going to pay for my father!" "What ails you, Donelle? Has any one been talking?" Tom still held her, his hungry heart yearned to draw her close, but he held her at arm’s length. "No, it is only—thoughts that have been talking. I just cannot settle down by Mamsey, and know I’m to stay here without that running away feeling. Then I say: ’I don’t care, I want to go and I’ll go,’ and then—why, I cannot, Tom, for I know I must pay for my father." "Go where?" "Go, Tom, where my fiddle would take me. Go where people do not know; go and learn things, and then if any one did find out—pay!" Poor Tom was weary almost to the breaking point. Nights in rough camps, days of wood tramping had worn upon him, the fire of which Donelle knew nothing sent the blood racing through his veins. Her touch on his arm made him tremble. "See here, Donelle," he said; "would you come along my road with me? Would you, could you, learn enough—that way?" But Donelle smiled her vague smile, "I think I must have my own road, Tom. The trouble is I cannot see my road as you see roads. I only feel my feet aching. But, Tom, surely you must have seen life a little in Quebec, tell me: could a great big strong love keep on loving even if it knew about me and Mamsey?" "Yes." The word was more like a groan. "Even if it had to keep Mamsey from knowing that we know?" "Yes." "Why, Tom, dear Tom, you make me feel wonderful. You always do, you big, safe Tom. I just knew how it would be; that is why I had to come and meet you." She rubbed her cheek against the rough sleeve of his jacket. "I think your mother would just worship you, Tom." Then Gavot laughed, laughed his honest laugh, and picked up his pack. "Donelle," he said presently, "you ought to make your music again. You have no right not to." "You, you really mean that, Tom?" "Yes, I do." "Well, I think I’ll get the fiddle out some day, soon, and come to your cabin. While you draw your roads on your paper, I’ll see if the tunes will come back." But Donelle did not speak of Richard Alton. The autumn lingered in Point of Pines; even the gold and red clung to the trees to add to the delusion that winter was far off. The mid-days were warm, and only now and then did the frost nip. Norval kept saying to himself, as he lay on that wonderful bed in Jo Morey’s upper chamber, "I must go back!" But he made no move southward. The quiet of the woods, the lure of the river held him, and then he began to ask why he _should_ go back?