She made a fire, brushed the hearth, and sat down upon the floor, trying hard to think—think! But she could not get very far. Round and round the one fact her thoughts whirled. The man she loved, the man she had trusted, had wronged her in the deadliest way. He had killed something in her, something that had made her happy and good. She did not want to remember anything now; she wanted to put herself beyond the reach of the look Norval had once given her, and of his later words—words which had made her trust him. Donelle grasped at the thought of St. Michael's with a yearning that hurt her. If little Sister Mary were there, she would understand. Donelle was sure the lost look in Sister Mary's eyes would make her understand. But St. Michael's was a long way off, and Donelle meant to place herself out of reach of more hurt before Norval could see her. Pride, love, shame, and then—desperation swept over the girl. Everything had failed her, everything, and all because her father had left her mother! That was why people dared to—to play with her.
And just then Tom Gavot came in, shaking the wet of a sudden shower from his fuzzy coat.
"Well!" he cried, looking at Donelle with startled eyes; "what's the matter?"
"Tom, I wonder if you would do—something for me? It's a big thing, and you'd just have to trust me more than any man ever trusted a girl before." A feverish colour flamed in Donelle's cheeks.
The light flickered in Gavot's eyes, his lips twitched as he looked at her.
"I guess you know there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Donelle," he said, coming close and standing over her protectingly.
"It—it isn't fair to you, Tom, but I'll live my whole life making it up to you. And you know I can keep my word."
"What is it, Donelle?"
"Tom, I want you to—to marry me. Marry me, now, this very afternoon!"
"My God!" murmured Tom and sat down, leaning forward over his clasped hands.