And so through the afternoon, alone and driven to bay, Donelle suffered. The sun went down, leaving its benediction on the wonderful river which glistened and throbbed as it swelled with the high, full tide, but there was no peace for Donelle. A shame she could not understand overcame her. Her unawakened sex battled with the grim spectre.
Then memory helped the girl and she became a woman as she sat alone in the still room; a woman so pure and simple that Jo was saved.
How great poor Jo's love must have been, always! How little she had asked, how bravely she had borne her punishment!
The care and devotion of the long nights, when Donelle was so ill, returned like dreams and haunted the girl. That was the beginning of Jo, and this was the end? But was it?
It was all in her, Donelle's, hands, to decide. She could keep still! She could take her life, make it beautiful, and by and by she could come back to Mamsey. Then she would say, "This I have done for you! But I could not do it then! I could not give up then," Donelle murmured.
Then the present held the girl, drove away the temptation. There was the little, lonely white house under the hill at Point of Pines and Mamsey who that morning had said:
"Child, I'm gladder than you know to be able to give you your chance."
Her chance!
Just then a maid tapped at the door and gave her a message.
Mrs. Lindsay would be detained for dinner and would not be home until late.