Donelle paused to whistle Nick back, the dog was after something in the bushes.
"You're very queer," she said at last eyeing Tom furtively. "Now I think about dogs and cats and birds as real, but I never thought about a road being real."
Donelle was looking at the ground as if it were something alive upon which she had stepped inadvertently.
"Tell me more about roads," she said.
"There isn't much, I've never told any one before—they would laugh."
"I will not laugh." And indeed Donelle was very serious.
"It began when I was a little chap. I didn't have much to play with and a boy has to have something. I used to wonder where the road went and when I was only five I got to the top of the hill and looked beyond. My father walloped me for running away. I wasn't really running away, but of course he wouldn't have understood, and my mother was frightened. I didn't go again for a long time. I was always a bit of a coward and I remembered the whipping."
"I don't believe you are a coward, Tom Gavot."
"I am, a little. You see, I hate to be hurt, I sort of—dread it, but once I make the start, I forget and go on like everyone else."
"I think that's being braver than most people. If you are afraid and still do things, that's not cowardly." Donelle spoke loyally and Tom gave her a long side glance of gratitude.