"Sometime, dear man, sometime I'll bring the fiddle to the wood-cabin. Sometime after I get strings. The strings, some of them, have snapped."
Late that evening, quite late, nine o'clock surely, Law and Jo stood near the hearth where the embers still glowed.
"Where are the children?" Law asked as if all the mad happenings of the day were bagatelles.
"Out on the road, the road!" Jo's face quivered. "The moonlight is wonderful, the road is as clear as day." She was thinking of Tom Gavot while her great heart ached with pity of it all.
"Queer ideas that young Gavot had about roads," Law said musingly, "Jim has told me."
"Poor boy, he got precious little for himself out of life," Jo flung back.
The bitterness lay deep in Mam'selle's heart. Almost her love for Donelle, her joy in her, were darkened by what seemed to Jo to be forgetfulness. That was unforgivable in her eyes.
"I wonder!" Law said gently; he was learning to understand the woman beside him.
"If this were all of the road, you might feel the way you do. But it's a mighty little part of it, Mam'selle. To most of us is given short sight, to a few, long. I would wager all I have that young Gavot always saw over the hilltop."
"That's a good thing to say and feel, Mr. Law." Jo tried to control her brows, failed, and let Law look full in her splendid eyes.