Tom held the weeping woman close.
"Aunt Marcel," he asked quietly, "if they, the children, were here, instead of on the hill, would you bid them stay?"
"That's it, Tom, I couldn't, and that's why I thank God He's taken the choice from me."
Tom kissed her reverently with a mighty tenderness.
"Aunt Marcel," he went on, "when I'm over there I shall think of you and of the children on the hill. I'll try and do my best for you and them. I may fail, but I'll try."
And at last Tom went up the road to Mam'selle and Donelle. They saw him coming and met him on the way. Jo's head was bent; her breast heaving. A terrible fear and bitterness made her face hard and almost cruel.
All night she had been recalling Tom's pitiful youth. And now this renunciation! But on Donelle's face shone the glory of the day.
Quietly, firmly she took Tom's hands and lifted her eyes.
"Oh! but you are splendid," she whispered. "I thought perhaps you might feel you ought to stay back for me! But, Tom, everything is all right and safe! Always you are going to grow bigger, nearer, until you make me forget everything else. Why, Tom now, now I would go with you on your road, if I could! You must believe that, dear."
Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill of life, adventure, and youth shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because he was going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never could have meant had he remained. He saw that his renunciation had awakened her sympathy and admiration, but he saw that love lay dead in her eyes.