"I'll remember that, Tom, when the curé asks for help this winter. And, Tom, how goes life?"
The boy's clear, dark eyes looked troubled. "I want to get away, Mam'selle Jo. I can never make anything of myself here. Sometimes," the boy smiled grimly, "sometimes I find myself—longing to forget everything in——"
"No, Tom, not the tavern! Remember what I've always told you, boy, of the night your mother went. She said you paid for all she had suffered! Tom, when you get down and things look black, just remember and keep on being worth what she went through. It was worse than anything you'll ever be called upon to bear."
The boy's eyes dimmed.
"I'm holding close," he said grimly. "Holding close to—I don't know what."
"That's it, Tom, we don't know what; but it's something, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mam'selle."
"Now listen, Tom. How old are you? Let me see——"
"Sixteen, Mam'selle."
"To be sure. And you study hard at the school, the curé has told me. And you mend the roads in the summer with the men?"