"And you think I’m not?" Something in the voice startled her, she looked at him. "You said you painted houses and barns and——" "People sometimes and trees. I spoke the truth, but you think I’m no painter?" "Why, I’ve been—I’ve been thinking I was dreaming until just now. See these woods," she was gazing at the unfinished thing on the easel, "They are my woods. I know the very paths, they are back of the lumber cutting. See! is there a face, somewhere in the dark, a face back of those silver birches, is there?" Norval, with the Joan of Arc conception in mind, had painted those woods while Donelle’s face had haunted him. "Can you see a face?" he asked. He was close to the girl now, so close that her young body touched him. "Is it only a fancy?" "Look again, Donelle. Whose face?" "I—I do not know!" But she did know, and she looked mutely at him. "Donelle, why did you come here?" "I promised I was going to—to play for you." "Then, in God’s name, do it! See, go over there by the window." Norval had folded his arms over his breast. He was afraid of himself, of the madness that Katherine and Dan’s Place had evolved. "Play, and I’ll finish this thing." "I can play best if I move about." "Move, then, but fiddle!" "You are sure you want me? I can come again. You are strange, I should not have stolen in, but once I had seen—I couldn’t get away." "Donelle, you are to stay. Do you hear? For your sake and mine you are to stay. Now, then." He turned his back on her, flung off his coat, and fell to work. Donelle tuned her violin, tucked it under her chin, and slowly walking to and fro, she played and played until the hunger in her heart grew satisfied. Like a little pale ghost she passed up and down the rude room, smiling and happy. After half an hour Norval looked at her; he was haggard, but quite himself. Then Donelle turned and, nodding over her bow, said: "It’s all right, the joy of it has come back and—— Oh! I see the face among the trees. What a beautiful picture! It’s like a wood with a heart and soul; it’s alive like Tom Gavot’s road. Now we must go home, Mr. Richard Alton. We’re tired, you and I. "Home?" Norval laughed. "Home?" "Yes, to Mamsey. I always am so glad of Mamsey when I’m tired." "Donelle, I meant to stay here to-night." "But instead, you are coming with me!" Donelle put out her hand, "Come!" Norval raised the hand to his lips. "You little, white wood-spirit," he said, "they did not teach you to play, they only let you free. Donelle, are you a spirit?" "No," and now the yellow eyes sought and held his, "I’m a—woman, Mr. Richard Alton." *CHAPTER XV* *THE LOOK* And Donelle began to know what love was. Know it as passionate, daring natures know it. She thought of her father, of Mamsey, in a new light. She grew to understand her supposed mother with a tragic realization and she shuddered when she reflected upon her father.