"No, Tom."
"I'm glad. I'd hate to have a lot of strangers staring at you."
"Tom, you're scrouchy. Let me play for you."
And, while she played, growing more rapt and absorbed as she did so, Tom took his drawing board to the window and bent over his blueprints. Gradually the look of doubt and irritation left his face, a flood of happiness swept over him. He began to see roads. Always roads. He wanted to go to Quebec in the spring and tell his firm about something he had discovered lately; and it was on Mam'selle Morey's land, too. If there were a road back among the hills over which to haul that which he had found, haul it by a short cut to the railroad, by and by Mam'selle and Donelle would not have to take objectionable strangers into their home and——
Donelle played on unheedingly, but Tom started as a knock fell on the door!
"I will not open it!" he thought savagely. "Let him think what he damn pleases."
The tune ran glidingly on.
"You like this tune, Tom?" Donelle was far away from the still cabin.
"Yes, I like it, Donelle, but play something louder, faster."
"Well, then, how about this?" and with a laugh Donelle swung into a new theme.