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."