Then she tried on her few dresses, one after the other, and chose a heavy dark blue one. Jo had woven the material, it was very fine and warm.
"I think I will take my fiddle and go up to the wood-cabin," thought Donelle, and then her face grew bright and rose-touched.
But instead, Donelle went to Tom Gavot's hut.
Once outside the house, she simply could not go to the wood-cabin. She knew Alton was there, he painted constantly when he was not tramping the sunny forests or sitting with Jo and Donelle, reading in the smothering heat of the overworked stove.
"Some time when he is away, then I'll go."
But oh! how she wanted to go. The very thought of Alton made her thrill. Sometimes she saw him looking at her, when Jo was bent over her loom or needles, and the look always called something out of Donelle; something that went straight to Alton and never returned!
On that winter day, a still white day, Donelle carried her violin under her long fur coat; she must play to somebody, and Jo had gone to the distant town for the day.
The door of Tom's hut was closed, but a curl of smoke rose from the chimney so Donelle knocked rather formally.
Tom's step sounded inside, he took down the bar which secured the door and flung it open. His eyes were dark and his brow scowling.
"Why, Tom," laughed Donelle, "who are you locking and barring out? Maybe you do not want company?"