Jeffrey, remembering these things, and suddenly understanding many things that had been hidden from him, was very humble as he wondered what he could say to Ruth.
At the outskirts of the little unpainted village he met Cynthe.
“Where is she?” he asked without preface.
Cynthe looked at him curiously, a long, searching look, and was amazed at the change she saw.
Here was not the heady, thoughtless boy to whom she had talked the other day. Here was a man, a thinking man, a man who had suffered and had learned some things out of unknown places of his heart.
I hurt him, she thought. Maybe I said too much. But I am not sorry. Non.
“The last house,” she answered, “by the crook of the lake there. She will be glad,” she remarked simply, and turned on her way.
Jeffrey rode on, thanking the little French girl heartily for the word that she had thought to add. It was a warrant, it seemed, of forgiveness––and of all things.
Old Robbideau Laclair and his crippled wife Philomena sat in the sun by the side of the house watching Ruth, who with strong brown arms bare above the elbow was working away contentedly in their little patch of garden. They nudged each other as Jeffrey rode up and left his horse, but they made no sign to Ruth.