They found Jo sitting in the living room, knitting, knitting. Every nerve was strained, but outwardly she was calm as ever.
"Well, child," she said as they entered, "you look worn to the death. You need not talk now unless you want to." She rose and went to Donelle.
"I want to, Mamsey. I want to."
"And you want Marcel to stay?" Jo spoke only to the girl. No one entered the sacred precincts of her deepest love when Donelle needed her.
"Yes, I want her, too, Mamsey, because she is your friend and mine."
Marcel blinked her tears back and sat down. Jo went back to her chair and Donelle dropped beside her and quietly told her pitiful story; both women sat like dead figures while they listened.
"You see, Mamsey, there was no other way, I had to do something quick. But," and here she smiled dimly, "there must have been some reason for what happened. Maybe the love was so big it caught him and would not let him go. I do not know, but just as you have kept still about my father after he left you, so I am going to keep still about my man. Tom knows, you, and now Marcel Longville, know. No one else matters, shall ever matter!"
But Jo was rousing herself. Her deep eyes flamed, she forgot Marcel, she leaned over the girl at her feet.
"How did you know your father left me?" she whispered.
"Pierre Gavot told me!"