"And that boy took my girl believing what the world thinks is the worst?" Jo's voice suddenly softened, her eyes dimmed. There was no reply to this. Marcel was crying softly, persistently, her face covered by her poor, wrinkled hands. The priest's white face shone in the shadowy room.
Then Jo laughed and lifted Donelle up.
"Child, you have seen the worst and the best in man. We still have Tom Gavot and he will keep all harm from you." Then she turned to Marcel. "Margot would have been proud of Tom, could she have known," she said. Marcel groped her way across the room. Her eyes were hidden, her sobs choked her.
"Mam'selle," she faltered, "Mam'selle Jo!"
Then the two women clung together. Father Mantelle watched them. What he thought no one could know, but a radiance overspread his face.
"Mam'selle Morey," he said quietly at last, "you have opened my eyes. God's peace be with you."
Then, as if leaving a sacred place, he turned and went out into the early evening.
Marcel soon followed, but she was not crying when she went. Donelle had kissed her, Jo had held her hands and smiled into her eyes. Marcel had received her blessing from them.
Then, when they were alone, Jo lighted the lamp and piled wood in the stove.
"And now we will eat, child," she said. Donelle was still dazed, trembling.