"I remember!" was what she kept repeating. "How strange, Mamsey, but I see it clear and true after all these years."
"And now, forget it, Donelle. The vision was given to you from God. It has done its work. We must forget the past." And for years it was never talked of between them.
"But, Mamsey——"
"Not another word, Donelle. We must eat and then talk of Tom."
It was after eight when, the work indoors and out finished, Jo and Donelle talked of Tom Gavot. By that time Donelle was quiet and strangely at peace.
"All night, Mamsey, while Nick and I were in his cabin," she said, "he was out in the rain! I crept to the window many times and always he was there walking about or sitting by a little fire that he made in a dry spot to warm his poor, wet body. Mamsey, he told me to put the bar across the door, and I wanted to, but I did not." Donelle's eyes shone. "Somehow I felt safer with the bar off. And then, when it was morning, Tom was gone."
"He will come again!" breathed Jo, her breast heaving. "And what then will you do with him, child?"
"I do not know, Mamsey."
"He has done the greatest thing for you that it is possible for man to do."
"Yes, I know, I know. But, Mamsey," the agony of deadly hurt shook Donelle's voice, "Mamsey, for a little time I want, I must stay with you. And we must never speak of the other! You kept still when, when my father——"