"Tell me everything." The words were stern.
"Why, Mamsey, there isn't much to tell—except—that I'm here."
"How did you get here?"
"I—I walked. I walked all night."
"And Mrs. Lindsay, she knows?"
"Oh! no, Mamsey, she was away, but I left a note. I had to come Mamsey, I had to. You see," brightly, piteously, "I—I couldn't play my fiddle. It would not be played. When I got to thinking of how it would be out where I was going, I just couldn't! The pretty dresses and the—the excitement made me forget for a little time, but all of a sudden I saw how it was going to be. Then I tried to play, and I couldn't! Then I knew that I must stay, because more than anything, Mamsey, I wanted—you!"
"This is sheer nonsense!" said Jo, but her voice shook, and the hand lying against Donelle's cheek trembled.
"You mad child! Why, Donelle, don't you see you are running away from your life?"
"It will have to find me here, then, Mamsey. Don't send me away. I would hate it as I would have hated St. Michael's if you had sent me back there. You see, Mamsey, when I run away I always run to what is really mine. Don't you see?"
"Are you sick, child?"