"Nick," she whispered, "Nick, come here!"
The dog came close, licked the hand reaching out to him in the darkness, then lay down close to the bed.
For an hour Donelle listened, waited, then she began to suffer. But she made no moan and always no matter how she thrashed the matter over, she saw St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks. It seemed like home after a hard journey; her home, the place where she belonged. The only place to which she had a right to go.
CHAPTER XVIII
TOM GAVOT SETTLES THE MATTER
The rain had detained Norval. He had watched the sunrise on the river and he had caught as much of it as his soul could take in. He had eaten a hasty lunch at noon and then became absorbed by the beauty of the gray mists that were rising, where, but a little time before, the glory had controlled everything. He painted until mid-afternoon, then a raindrop caused him to glance up.
"Hello!" he said, and scrambled for his belongings. In a few minutes he was on his way back, but to protect his sketches, he had to pause every now and then, when the downpour was heaviest.
He had meant to go right to Jo's and get dry clothing, but by skirting the road he could reach the cabin en route, leave his paints and canvases, and the rest did not matter. It was after five when he came in sight of his cabin.
"By all that's holy," he said, and laughed, "that little rascal is there, she's made a fire. Of course this is all wrong, she mustn't—— But to think she has no fear!" Somehow this elated Norval considerably. He hastened on, meaning to get Donelle and start out at once for Mam'selle's, as it was growing very dark.
He opened the door with an amused smile on his face, then he fell back.