"How long?" the question was weighted with longing.
"Until there is no more need," said Tom. Then he threw caution to the winds. "My father has told me!" he breathed hard, "he told me! Are you, a girl like—like you, going to let the mad words of a drunken man turn you back?"
For an instant Donelle faltered. Could there be a mistake? She had not thought of that.
"If what he said, Tom Gavot, was true, I had to turn back. The words were true, were they not?"
Tom longed to lie, longed to set her free from the horror that he saw filled her, but he was too wise and just.
"Suppose they were, suppose they were! Suppose Mam'selle did have the blackest wrong done her that a man can do a woman; hasn't she paid for it by her life and goodness?"
"Yes, Tom, she has!"
Hope had gone from the girlish face, but purpose and strength were there.
"And that is why I came back to her. For a moment, Tom Gavot, I stood on your road, the road you played with and mended. I wanted to run up and over the hill. I wanted to turn my back on the awful thing I had heard, but I couldn't, Tom, I couldn't. I would have seemed too mean to be on your road. I believe something died in me as I stood, but when I could think once more, I didn't suffer except for Mamsey. I'm so thankful I feel this way. I want to make up to her—for—for my father. He left her, but I never will. Why once, Tom, I asked her about my father, it was long ago, and she said he was a good father. And then I asked her about—about my mother, and she kept still. She let me think my mother was—not good; she would not hurt my father! But oh! if I can only keep her from knowing that I know. If I could only make her think I came back to her simply because I wanted her! I do not want her to think the truth! That would kill her, I know. She is so proud. So fine. I want to make her happy in my own way."
"She shall think that, if I can help!" said Tom.