"Yes, Mr. Richard Alton." Donelle made a courtesy.
"And you'll bring the fiddle?"
"Of course."
"And Donelle, before you, dear child, I beg the pardon and forgiveness of Tom Gavot."
"I wish he could know that you are what you are," Donelle's eyes saddened.
"He shall, child. That, I swear. Next to Mam'selle," here, almost unconsciously Norval raised his cap, "next to Mam'selle, Tom Gavot shall know. Come, little girl, here's home!"
And together they went up to Jo's house. It was marvellous how they managed the great thing that had happened. Never outwardly did it overcome them.
The winter grew still and hard, the people shrank into their houses. There were trodden paths, like spokes of a wheel, leading from most of the houses to the hub, which was Dan's Place; there were more or less broken paths reaching to the river, where, under the ice, fish were obtainable.
Tom Gavot just at that time was called to duty and left his father with money enough to keep him silent; and food and fuel enough to keep him safe.
Jo, with a growing content and happiness, cooked for her boarder, revelled in his society during the long evenings, and was perfectly oblivious of the stupendous thing that was going on under her very eyes.