Flamsted Quarries

 BY MARY E. WALLER

Author of "The Wood Carver of Lympus, " "The Daughter of the Rich, " "TheLittle Citizen, " etc. 

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONSBY G. PATRICK NELSON

A. L. BURT COMPANYPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

_Copyright, 1910_, BY MARY E. WALLERPublished September, 1910

Reprinted, September, 1910; November, 1910; December, 1910

TO THOSE WHO TOIL

[Illustration: "She sang straight on, verse after verse without pause"]

Contents

THE BATTERY IN LIEU OF A PREFACE

PART FIRST, A CHILD FROM THE VAUDEVILLE

PART SECOND, HOME SOIL

PART THIRD, IN THE STREAM

PART FOURTH, OBLIVION

PART FIFTH, SHED NUMBER TWO

THE LAST WORD

Illustrations

"She sang straight on, verse after verse without pause"

"Those present loved in after years to recall this scene"

"What a picture she made leaning caressingly against the charmed andpatient Bess"

"'Unworthy--unworthy!' was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt beforeAileen"

FLAMSTED QUARRIES

 "_Abysmal deeps repose Beneath the stout ship's keel whereon we glide; And if a diver plunge far down within Those depths and to the surface safe return, His smile, if so it chance he smile again, Outweighs in worth all gold. _"

The Battery in Lieu of a Preface

A few years ago, at the very tip of that narrow rocky strip of land thathas been well named "the Tongue that laps the Commerce of the World, "the million-teeming Island of Manhattan, there was daily presented ascene in the life-drama of our land that held in itself, as in solution, a great national ideal. The old heroic "Epic of the Nations" was stillvisible to the naked eye, and masquerading here among us of the thennineteenth century in the guise of the arrival of the immigrant ship. 

The scenic setting is in this instance incomparably fine. As we lean onthe coping of the sea wall at the end of the green-swarded Battery, inthe flush of a May sunset that, on the right, throws the Highlands ofthe Navesink into dark purple relief and lights the waters of Harbor, River, and Sound into a softly swelling roseate flood, we may fix oureyes on the approach to The Narrows and watch the incoming shipping ofthe world: the fruit-laden steamer from the Bermudas, the black EastIndiaman heavy with teakwood and spices, the lumberman's barge awashbehind the tow, the old three-masted schooner, low in the water, herdecks loaded with granite from the far-away quarries of Maine. We maysee, if we linger, the swift approach of a curiously foreshortenedocean steamship, her smokestack belching blackness, and the sloweron-coming of a Norwegian bark, her sails catching the sunset light andgleaming opaline against the clear blue of the southern horizon. Theselast are the immigrant ships. 

An hour later in old Castle Garden the North and South of Europe clasphands on the very threshold of America. Four thousand feet are plantedon the soil of the New World. Four thousand hands are knocking at itsportals. Two thousand hearts are beating high with hope at prospect ofthe New, or palpitating with terror at contact with the Strange. 

A thousand tragedies, a thousand comedies are here enacted before ourvery eyes: hopes, fears, tears, laughter, shrieks, groans, wailings, exultant cries, welcoming words, silent all-expressing hand-clasp, embrace, despairing wide-eyed search, hopeless isolation, thebefriended, the friendless, the home-welcomed, the homeless--allcommingled. 

But an official routine soon sorts, separates, pairs, locates; speaks inNorwegian, speaks in Neapolitan. An hour passes; the dusk falls; thedoors are opened; the two thousand, ticketed, labelled, are to enterupon the new life. The confusing chatter grows less and less. A childwails, and is hushed in soft Italian--a Neapolitan lullaby--by itsmother as she sits on a convenient bench and for the first time givesher little one the breast in a strange land. An old Norwegian, perhaps alineal descendant of our Viking visitors some thousand years ago, makeshis way to the door, bent beneath a sack-load of bedding; his right handholds his old wife's left. They are the last to leave. 

The dusk has fallen. To the sea wall again for air after the thousandsof garlic-reeking breaths in old Castle Garden. The sea is dark. Theheavens are deep indigo; against them flashes the Liberty beacon; withinthem are set the Eternal Lights. Upon the waters of the harbor theillumined cabin windows of a multitude of river craft throw quiveringrays along the slow glassy swell. 

For a moment on River, and Harbor, and Sound, there is silence. Butbehind us we hear the subdued roar and beat of the metropolis, a soundcomparable to naught else on earth or in heaven: the mighty systole anddyastole of a city's heart, and the tramp, tramp of a million homewardbound toilers--the marching tune of Civilization's hosts, to which thefeet of the newly arrived immigrants are already keeping time, for theyhave crossed the threshold of old Castle Garden and entered the NewWorld. 

PART FIRST

A Child from the Vaudeville

I

The performance in itself was crude and commonplace, but thedemonstration in regard to it was unusual. Although this scene had beenenacted both afternoon and evening for the past six weeks, the audienceat the Vaudeville was showing its appreciation by an intent silence. 

The curtain had risen upon a street scene in the metropolis at night. Snow was falling, dimming the gas jets at the corner and half-veiling, half-disclosing the imposing entrance-porch of a marble church. Thedoors were closed; the edifice dark. As the eyes of the onlookers becameaccustomed to the half-lights, they were aware of a huddle of clothesagainst the iron railing that outlined the curve of the three broadentrance-steps. As vision grew keener the form of a child wasdiscernible, a little match girl who was lighting one by one a fewmatches and shielding the flame with both hands from the draught. Suddenly she looked up and around. The rose window above the porch wassoftly illumined; the light it emitted transfused the thickly fallingsnow. Low organ tones became audible, although distant and muffled. 

The child rose; came down the centre of the stage to the loweredfootlights and looked about her, first at the orchestra, then aroundand up at the darkened house that was looking intently at her--a smallill-clad human, a spiritual entity, the only reality in this artificialsetting. She grasped her package of matches in both hands; listened amoment as if to catch the low organ tones, then began to sing. 

She sang as a bird sings, every part of her in motion: throat, eyes, head, body. The voice was clear, loud, full, strident, at times, on thehigher notes from over-exertion, but always childishly appealing. Thegallery leaned to catch every word of "The Holy City. "

She sang straight on, verse after verse without pause. There was nomodulation, no phrasing, no interpretation; it was merely a steadyfortissimo outpouring of a remarkable volume of tone for so small aninstrument. And the full power of it was, to all appearance, sentupwards with intent to the gallery. In any case, the gallery took thesong unto itself, and as the last words, "_Hosanna for evermore_" rangupward, there was audible from above a long-drawn universal "Ah!" ofsatisfaction. 

It was followed by a half minute of silence that was expressive oflatent enthusiasm. The child was still waiting at the footlights, evidently for the expected applause from the higher latitudes. And thegallery responded--how heartily, those who were present have neverforgotten: roar upon roar, call upon call, round after round ofapplause, cries of approbation couched in choice Bowery slang, a genuinestampede that shook the spectators in their seats. It was anirresistible, insatiable, unappeasable, overwhelming clamor for more. The infection of enthusiasm was communicated to floors, balconies, boxes; they answered, as it were, antiphonally. Faces were seen peekingfrom the wings; hands were visible there, clapping frantically. In themidst of the tumultuous uproar the little girl smiled brightly and ranoff the stage. 

The lights were turned on. A drop-scene fell; the stage was transformed, for, in the middle distance, swelling green hills rose against a softblue sky seen between trees in the foreground. Sunshine lay on thelandscape, enhancing the haze in the distance and throwing up the hillsmore prominently against it. The cries and uproar continued. 

Meanwhile, in the common dressing-room beyond the wings, there was beingenacted a scene which if slightly less tumultuous in expression wasconsiderably more dangerous in quality. A quick word went the round ofthe stars' private rooms; it penetrated to the sanctum of the Japanesewrestlers; it came to the ear of the manager himself: "The LittlePatti's struck!" It sounded ominous, and, thereupon, the Vaudevilleflocked to the dressing-room door to see--what? Merely a child in atantrum, a heap of rags on the floor, a little girl in white petticoatsstamping, dancing, pulling away from an old Italian woman who was tryingto robe her and exhorting, imploring, threatening the child in almostone and the same breath. 

The manager rushed to the rescue for the house was losing its head. Heseized the child by the arm. "What's the matter here, Aileen?"

"I ain't goin' ter dance a coon ter-night--not ter-night!" she crieddefiantly and in intense excitement; "he's in the box again, an' I'mgoin' to give him the Sunday-night song, like as I did before when hegive me the flowers, so now!"

Nonna Lisa, the old Italian, slipped the white dress deftly over themutinous head, so muffling the half-shriek. The manager laughed. "Hurryup then--on with you!" The child sprang away with a bound. "I've seenthis too many times before, " he added; "it's an attack of 'the lastnight's nerves. '--Hark!"

The tumult was drowning the last notes of the orchestral intermezzo, asthe little girl, clad now wholly in white, ran in upon the stage andcoming again down the centre raised her hand as if to command silence. With the gallery to see was to obey; the floor and balconies havingsubsided the applause from above died away. 

The child, standing in the full glare of the footlights with the sunnyskyey spaces and overlapping blue hills behind her, half-faced thebrilliant house as, without accompaniment, she began to sing:

 "There is a green hill far away Without a city wall. "

The childish voice sustained the simple melody perfectly, and it wasevident when the little girl began the second verse that she was singingwholly to please herself and some one in a proscenium box. Before theclose of the first stanza the gallery experienced a turn, the audienceas a whole a sensation. Night after night the gallery gods had made it apoint to be present at that hour of the continuous performance when theLittle Patti--such was the name on the poster--sang either her famousIrish song "Oh, the praties they are small", or "The Holy City", andfollowed them by a coon dance the like of which was not to be seenelsewhere in New York; for into it the child threw such an abandonmentof enthusiasm that she carried herself and her audience to the verge ofextravagance--the one in action, the other in expression. 

And now this!

A woman sobbed outright at the close of the second verse. The galleryheard--it hated hysterics--and considered whether it should look uponitself as cheated and protest, or submit quietly to being coerced intoapproval. The scales had not yet turned, when someone far aloft drew along breath in order to force it out between closed teeth, and this insign of disapproval. That one breath was, in truth, indrawn, but whetheror no there was ever an outlet for the same remained a question with theaudience. A woollen cap was deftly and unexpectedly thrust between themalevolent lips and several pair of hands held it there until the littlesinger left the stage. 

What appeal, if any, that childish voice, dwelling melodiously on thesimple words, made to the audience as a whole, cannot be stated becauseunknown; but that it appealed powerfully by force of suggestion, by thepower of imagination, by the law of association, by the startlingcontrast between the sentiment expressed and the environment of thatexpression, to three, at least, among the many present is a certainty. 

There is such a thing in our national life--a constant process, althoughoften unrecognized--as social anastomosis: the intercommunication bybranch of every vein and veinlet of the politico-social body, andthereby the coming into touch of lives apparently alien. As a result wehave a revelation of new experiences; we find ourselves in subjection tonew influences of before unknown personalities; we perceive theopening-up of new channels of communication between individual andindividual as such. We comprehend that through it a great moral law isbrought into operation both in the individual and the national life. Andin recognition of this natural, though oft hidden process, the fact thatto three men in that audience--men whose life-lines, to all appearance, were divergent, whose aims and purposes were antipodal--the simple songmade powerful appeal, and by means of that appeal they came in afterlife to comprehend something of the workings of this great natural law, need cause no wonderment, no cavilling at the so-called prerogative offiction. The laws of Art are the laws of Life, read smaller on theobverse. 

The child was singing the last stanza in so profound a silence that thefine snapping of an over-charged electric wire was distinctly heard:

 "Oh, dearly, dearly has he loved And we must love him too, And trust in his redeeming blood, And try his works to do. "

The little girl waited at the footlights for--something. She had doneher best for an encore and the silence troubled her. She lookedinquiringly towards the box. There was a movement of the curtains at theback; a messenger boy came in with flowers; a gentleman leaned over therailing and motioned to the child. She ran forward, holding up the skirtof her dress to catch the roses that were dropped into it. She smiledand said something. The tension in the audience gave a little; there wasa low murmur of approval which increased to a buzz of conversation; theconductor raised his baton and the child with a courtesy ran off thestage. But there was no applause. 

During the musical intermezzo that followed, the lower proscenium boxwas vacated and in the first balcony one among a crowd of students roseand made his way up the aisle. 

"Lien's keller, Champ?" said a friend at the exit, putting a hand on hisshoulder; "I'm with you. "

"Not to-night. " He shook off the detaining hand and kept on his way. Theother stared after him, whistled low to himself and went down the aisleto the vacant seat. 

At the main entrance of the theatre there was an incoming crowd. It wasnot late, only nine. The drawing-card at this hour was a famous Parisiansinger of an Elysée _café chantant_. The young fellow stepped aside, beyond the ticket-office railing, to let the first force of theinrushing human stream exhaust itself before attempting egress forhimself. In doing so he jostled rather roughly two men who wereevidently of like mind with him in their desire to avoid the press. Helifted his hat in apology, and recognized one of them as the occupant ofthe proscenium box, the gentleman who had given the roses to the littlesinger. The other, although in citizen's dress, he saw by the tonsurewas a priest. 

The sight of such a one in that garb and that environment, diverted forthe moment Champney Googe's thoughts from the child and her song. Hescanned the erect figure of the man who, after immediate and courteousrecognition of the other's apology, became oblivious, apparently, of hispresence and intent upon the passing throng. 

The crowd thinned gradually; the priest passed out under the arch ofcolored electric lights; the gentleman of the box, observing the look onthe student's face, smiled worldly-wisely to himself as he, too, wentdown the crimson-carpeted incline. Champney Googe's still beardless liphad curled slightly as if his thought were a sneer. 

II

The priest, after leaving the theatre, walked rapidly down Broadway pastthe marble church, that had been shown on the stage, and still straighton for two miles at the same rapid gait, past the quiet churchyards ofSt. Paul's and Trinity into the comparative silence of Battery Park andacross to the sea wall. There he leaned for half an hour, reliving inmemory not only the years since his seven-year old feet had crossed thisthreshold of the New World, but recalling something of his still earlierchildhood in his native France. The child's song had been an excitant tothe memory in recalling those first years in Auvergne. 

 "There is a green hill far away Without a city wall. "

How clearly he saw that! and his peasant father and mother as laborerson or about it, and himself, a six-year old, tending the goats on thatsame green hill or minding the geese in the meadows at its foot. 

All this he saw as he gazed blankly at the dark waters of the bay, sawclearly as if visioned in crystal. But of subsequent movings andwanderings there was a blurred reflection only, till the visionmomentarily brightened, the outlines defined themselves again as he sawhis tired drowsy self put to bed in a tiny room that was filled with thefragrance of newly baked bread. He remembered the awakening in thatsmall room over a bread-filled shop; it belonged to a distantgreat-uncle baker on the mother's side, a personage in the familybecause in trade. He could remember the time spent in that same shop andthe brick-walled, brick-floored, brick-ovened room behind it. Herecalled having stood for hours, it might have been days, he could notremember--for then Time was forever and its passing of no moment--beforethe deep ovens with a tiny blue-eyed slip of a girl. _P'tite Truite_, Little Trout, they called her, the great-uncle baker's one grandchild. 

And the shop--he remembered that, so light and bright and sweet andclean, with people coming and going--men and women and children--and thecrisp yard-long loaves carried away in shallow baskets on many a fineNorman head in the old seaport of Dieppe. And always the Little Troutwas by his side, even when the great-uncle placed him in one of the hugeflat-bottomed bread baskets and drew the two up and down in front of theshop. Then all was dim again; so dim that except for the lap andbackward sucking of the waters against the sea wall, whereon he leaned, he had scarcely recalled a ship at the old pier of Dieppe, and theLittle Trout standing beside her grandfather on the stringer, frantically waving her hand as the ship left her moorings and the prownosed the first heavy channel sea that washed against the bulkhead andhalf-drowned her wailing cry:

"Jean--mon Jean!"

The rest was a blank until he landed here almost on this very spot inold Castle Garden and, holding hard by his father's hand, was bidden tolook up at the flag flying from the pole at the top of the queer roundbuilding--a brave sight even for his young eyes: all the red and whiteand blue straining in the freshening wind with an energy of motion thatmade the boy dance in sympathetic joy at his father's side--

And what next?

Again a confusion of journeyings, and afterwards quiet settlement in ared brick box of a house in a mill town on the Merrimac. He could stillhear the clang of the mill-gates, the ringing of the bells, the hum andwhir and roar of a hundred thousand spindles, the clacking crash of theponderous shifting frames. He could still see with the inner eye thehundreds of windows blazing in the reflected fires of the western sun, or twinkling with numberless lights that cast their long reflections onthe black waters of the canal. There on the bank, at the entrance to thefootbridge, the boy was wont to take his stand regularly at six o'clockof a winter's day, and wait for the hoisting of the mill-gates and thecoming of his father and mother with the throng of toilers. 

So he saw himself--himself as an identity emerging at last from theconfusion of time and place and circumstance; for there followed thepublic school, the joys of rivalry, the eager outrush for the boy's EverNew, the glory of scrimmage and school-boy sports, the battle royal forthe little Auvergnat when taunted with the epithet "Johnny Frog" by thebelligerent youth, American born, and the victorious outcome for the"foreigner"; the Auvergne blood was up, and the temperament volcaniclike his native soil where subterranean heats evidence themselves inhot, out-welling waters. And afterwards, at home, there werecongratulations and comfortings, plus applications of vinegar and brownbutcher's paper to the severely smitten nose of this champion of his newAmericanhood. But at school and in the street, henceforth there was duerespect and a general atmosphere of "let bygones be bygones. "

Ah, but the pride of his mother in her boy's progress! the joy over thefirst English-French letter that went to the great-uncle baker; theconstant toil of both parents that the savings might be sufficient toeducate their one child--that the son might have what the parentslacked. Already the mother had begun to speak of the priesthood: shemight yet see her son Jean a priest, a bishop, and archbishop. Who couldtell? America is America, and opportunities infinite--a cardinal, perhaps, and the gift of a red hat from the Pope, and robes and laces!There was no end to her ambitious dreaming. 

But across the day-dreams fell the shadow of hard times: the shuttingdown of the mills, the father's desperate illness in a workless winter, his death in the early spring, followed shortly by that of the worn-outand ill-nourished mother--and for the twelve-year-old boy theabomination of desolation, and world and life seen dimly through tears. Dim, too, from the like cause, that strange passage across the ocean toDieppe--his mother's uncle having sent for him to return--a weight as oflead in his stomach, a fiery throbbing in his young heart, a sickeningcraving for some expression of human love. The boyish tendrils, althoughtouched in truth by spring frosts, were outreaching still for someobject upon which to fasten; yet he shrank from human touch and sympathyon that voyage in the steerage lest in his grief and loneliness hescream aloud. 

Dieppe again, and the Little Trout with her grandfather awaiting him onthe pier; the Little Trout's arms about his neck in loving welcome, theboy's heart full to bursting and his eyelids reddened in his supremeeffort to keep back tears. Dependent, an orphan, and destined for thepriesthood--those were his life lines for the next ten years. And theend? Revolt, rebellion, partial crime, acquittal under the law, butcondemnation before the tribunal of his conscience and his God. 

There followed the longing to expiate, to expiate in that America wherehe was not known but where he belonged, where his parents' dust mingledwith the soil; to flee to the Church as to a sanctuary of refuge, to bepriest through expiation. And this he had been for years while workingamong the Canadian rivermen, among the lumbermen of Maine, sharing theirlives, their toil, their joys and sorrows, the common inheritance of theHuman. For years subsequent to his Canadian mission, and after hisnaturalization as an American citizen, he worked in town and city, amonghigh and low, rich and poor, recognizing in his catholicity of outlookbut one human plane: that which may be tested by the spirit level ofhuman needs. Now, at last, he was priest by conviction, by innerconsecration. 

He stood erect; drew a long full breath; squared his shoulders andlooked around him. He noticed for the first time that a Staten Islandferryboat had moved into the slip near him; that several passengers werelingering to look at him; that a policeman was pacing behind him, hiseye alert--and he smiled to himself, for he read their thought. He couldnot blame them for looking. He had fancied himself alone with the seaand the night and his thoughts; had lost himself to his presentsurroundings in the memory of those years; he had suffered again the oldagony of passion, shame, guilt, while the events of that pregnant, preparatory period in France, etched deep with acid burnings into hisinmost consciousness, were passing during that half hour in reviewbefore his inner vision. Small wonder he was attracting attention!

He bared his head. A new moon was sinking to the Highlands of theNavesink. The May night was mild, the sea breeze drawing in with gentlevigor. He looked northwards up the Hudson, and southwards to the Libertybeacon, and eastwards to the Sound. "God bless our Land" he murmured;then, covering his head, bowed courteously to the policeman and took hisway across the Park to the up-town elevated station. 

Yes, at last he dared assert it: he was priest by consecration; soul, heart, mind, body dedicate to the service of God through Humanity. Thatservice led him always in human ways. A few nights ago he saw theposter: "The Little Patti". A child then? Thought bridged the abyss ofocean to the Little Trout. Some rescue work for him here, possibly;hence his presence in the theatre. 

III

That the priest's effort to rescue the child from the artificial life ofthe stage had been in a measure successful, was confirmed by thepresence, six months later, of the little girl in the yard of the OrphanAsylum on ----nd Street. 

On an exceptionally dreary afternoon in November, had any one cared tolook over the high board fence that bounds three sides of the Asylumyard, he might have seen an amazing sight and heard a still more amazingchorus:

 "Little Sally Waters Sitting in the sun, Weeping and crying for a young man; Rise, Sally, rise, Sally, Wipe away your tears, Sally; Turn to the east And turn to the west, And turn to the one that you love best!"

Higher and higher the voices of the three hundred orphans shrilled inunison as the owners thereof danced frantically around a small solitaryfigure in the middle of the ring of girls assembled in the yard on----nd Street. Her coarse blue denim apron was thrown over her head; herface was bowed into her hands that rested on her knees. It was a pictureof woe. 

The last few words "you love best" rose to a shriek of exhortation. Inthe expectant silence that followed, "Sally" rose, pirouetted in afashion worthy of a ballet dancer, then, with head down, fists clenched, arms tight at her sides, she made a sudden dash to break through theencircling wall of girls. She succeeded in making a breach by knockingthe legs of three of the tallest out from under them; but two or moredozen arms, octopus-like, caught and held her. For a few minutes chaosreigned: legs, arms, hands, fingers, aprons, heads, stockings, hair, shoes of three hundred orphans were seemingly inextricably entangled. Abell clanged. The three hundred disentangled themselves with marvellousrapidity and, settling aprons, smoothing hair, pulling up stockings anddown petticoats, they formed in a long double line. While waiting forthe bell to ring the second warning, they stamped their feet, blew upontheir cold fingers, and freely exercised their tongues. 

"Yer dassn't try that again!" said the mate in line with theobstreperous "Sally" who had so scorned the invitation of the hundredsof girls to "turn to the one that she loved best". 

"I dass ter!" was the defiant reply accompanied by the protrusion of along thin tongue. 

"Yer dassn't either!"

"I dass t'either!"

"Git out!" The first speaker nudged the other's ribs with her sharpelbow. 

"Slap yer face for two cents!" shrieked the insulted "Sally", the LittlePatti of the Vaudeville, and proceeded to carry out her threat. Whereupon Freckles, as she was known in the Asylum, set up a howl thatwas heard all along the line and turned upon her antagonist tooth andnail. At that moment the bell clanged a second time. A hush fell uponthe multitude, broken only by a suppressed shriek that came from thevicinity of Freckles. A snicker ran down the line. The penalty forbreaking silence after the second bell was "no supper", and not one ofthe three hundred cared to incur that--least of all Flibbertigibbet, the"Sally" of the game, who had forfeited her dinner, because she had beencaught squabbling at morning prayers, and was now carrying about withher an empty stomach that was at bottom of her ugly mood. 

"One, two--one, two. " The monitor counted; the girls fell into step, allbut Flibbertigibbet--the Asylum nickname for the "Little Patti"--whocontrived to keep out just enough to tread solidly with hobnailed shoeon the toes of the long-suffering Freckles. It was unbearable, especially the last time when a heel was set squarely upon Freckles'latest bunion. 

"Ou, ou--oh, au--wau!" Freckles moaned, limping. 

"Number 207 report for disorder, " said the monitor. 

Flibbertigibbet giggled. Number 207 stepped out of the line and burstinto uncontrollable sobbing; for she was hungry, oh, so hungry! And thematron had chalked on the blackboard "hot corn-cakes and molasses forFriday". It was the one great treat of the week. The girl behindFlibbertigibbet hissed in her ear:

"Yer jest pizen mean; dirt ain't in it. "

A back kick worthy of a pack mule took effect upon the whisperer's shin. Flibbertigibbet moved on unmolested, underwent inspection at theentrance, and passed with the rest into the long basement room which wasused for meals. 

Freckles stood sniffing disconsolately by the door as the girls filedin. She was meditating revenge, and advanced a foot in hope that, unseen, she might trip her tormentor as she passed her. What, then, washer amazement to see Flibbertigibbet shuffle along deliberately a littlesideways in order to strike the extended foot! This man[oe]uvre sheaccomplished successfully and fell, not forward, but sideways out ofline and upon Freckles. Freckles pushed her off with a vengeance, butnot before she heard a gleeful whisper in her ear:

"Dry up--watch out--I'll save yer some!"

That was all; but to Freckles it was a revelation. The children filedbetween the long rows of wooden benches, that served for seats, and thetables. They remained standing until the sister in charge gave thesignal to be seated. When the three hundred sat down as one, with a thudof something more than fifteen tons' weight, there broke loose a Babelof tongues--English as it is spoken in the mouths of children of manynationalities. 

It was then that Freckles began to "watch out. "

Flibbertigibbet sat rigid on the bench, her eyes turned neither to rightnor left but staring straight at the pile of smoking corn-meal cakestrickling molasses on her tin plate. She was counting: "One, two, three, four, five, " and the prospect of more; for on treat nights, whichoccurred once a week, there was no stinting with corn-meal cakes, hulledcorn, apple sauce with fried bread or whatever else might be providedfor the three hundred orphans at the Asylum on ----nd Street, in thegreat city of New York. 

Freckles grew nervous as she watched. What _was_ Flibbertigibbet doing?Her fingers were busy untying the piece of red mohair tape with whichher heavy braid was fastened in a neat loop. She put it around herapron, tying it fast; then, blousing the blue denim in front to a pouchlike a fashion-plate shirt waist, she said in an undertone to herneighbor on the right:

"Gee--look! Ain't I got the style?"

"I ain't a-goin' ter look at yer, yer so pizen mean--dirt ain't in it, "said 206 contemptuously, and sat sideways at such an angle that shecould eat her cakes without seeing the eyesore next her. 

"Stop crowdin'!" was the next command from the bloused bit of "style" toher neighbor on the left. Her sharp elbow emphasized her words and wasfollowed by a solid thigh-to-thigh pressure that was felt for the lengthof at least five girls down the bench. The neighbor on the left foundshe could not withstand the continued pressure. She raised her hand. 

"What is the trouble with 205?" The voice from the head of the table wasone of controlled impatience. 

"Please 'um--"; but she spoke no further word, for the pressure wasremoved so suddenly that she lost her balance and careened with suchforce towards her torment of a neighbor that the latter was fain to puther both arms about her to hold her up. This she did so effectually that205 actually gasped for breath. 

"I'll pinch yer black an' blue if yer tell!" whispered Flibbertigibbet, relaxing her hold and in turn raising her hand. 

"What's wanting now, 208?"

"A second helpin', please 'um. "

The tin round was passed up to the nickel-plated receptacle, thatresembled a small bathtub with a cover, and piled anew. Flibbertigibbetviewed its return with satisfaction, and Freckles, who had been watchingevery move of this by-play, suddenly doubled up from her plasteredposition against the wall. She saw Flibbertigibbet drop the cakes quickas a flash into the low neck of her apron, and at that very minute theywere reposing in the paunch of the blouse and held there by the mohairgirdle. Thereafter a truce was proclaimed in the immediate vicinity of208. Her neighbors, right and left, their backs twisted towards thetease, ate their portions in fear and trembling. After a while 208'shand went up again. This time it waved mechanically back and forth as ifthe owner were pumping bucketfuls of water. 

"What is it now, 208?" The voice at the head of the table put thequestion with a note of exasperation in it. 

"Please 'um, another helpin'. "

The sister's lips set themselves close. "Pass up 208's plate, " she said. The empty plate, licked clean of molasses on the sly, went up the lineand returned laden with three "bloomin' beauties" as 208 murmuredserenely to herself. She ate one with keen relish, then eyed theremaining two askance and critically. Freckles grew anxious. What next?Contrary to all rules 208's head, after slowly drooping little bylittle, lower and lower, dropped finally with a dull thud on the edge ofthe table and a force that tipped the plate towards her. Frecklesdoubled up again; she had seen through the man[oe]uvre: the threeremaining cakes slid gently into the open half--low apron neck and weresafely lodged with the other four. 

"Number 208 sit up properly or leave the table. "

The sister spoke peremptorily, for this special One Three-hundredth washer daily, almost hourly, thorn in the flesh. The table stopped eatingto listen. There was a low moan for answer, but the head was notlifted. Number 206 took this opportunity to give her a dig in the ribs, and Number 205 crowded her in turn. To their amazement there was noresponse. 

"Number 208 answer at once. "

"Oh, please, 'um, I've got an awful pain--oo--au--. " The sound was lowbut piercing. 

"You may leave the table, 208, and go up to the dormitory. "

208 rose with apparent effort. Her hands were clasped over the regionwhere hot corn-meal cakes are said to lie heavily at times. Her face wasscrewed into an expression indicative of excruciating inner torment. Asshe made her way, moaning softly, to the farther door that opened intothe cheerless corridor, there was audible a suppressed but decidedgiggle. It proceeded from Freckles. The monitor warned her, but, unheeding, the little girl giggled again. 

A ripple of laughter started down the three tables, but was quicklysuppressed. 

"Number 207, " said the much-tried and long-suffering sister, "you havebroken the rule when under discipline. Go up to the dormitory and don'tcome down again to-night. " This was precisely what Freckles wanted. Shecontinued to sniff, however, as she left the room with seeminglyreluctant steps. Once the door had closed upon her, she flew up the twolong flights of stairs after Flibbertigibbet whom she found at thelavatory in the upper dormitory, cleansing the inside of her apron frommolasses. 

Oh, but those cakes were good, eaten on the broad window sill where thetwo children curled themselves to play at their favorite game of "makingbelieve about the Marchioness"!

"But it's hot they be!" Freckles' utterance was thick owing to a largemouthful of cake with which she was occupied. 

"I kept 'em so squeezin' 'em against my stommick. "

"Where the pain was?"

"M-m, " her chum answered abstractedly. Her face was flattened againstthe window in order to see what was going on below, for the electricarc-light at the corner made the street visible for the distance of ablock. 

"I've dropped a crumb, " said Freckles ruefully. 

"Pick it up then, or yer'll catch it--Oh, my!"

"Wot?" said Freckles who was on her hands and knees beneath the windowsearching for the crumb that might betray them if found by one of thesisters. 

"Git up here quick if yer want to see--it's the Marchioness an' anotherkid. Come on!" she cried excitedly, pulling at Freckles' long arm. Thetwo little girls knelt on the broad sill, and with faces pressed closeto the window-pane gazed and whispered and longed until the electriclights were turned on in the dormitory and the noise of approaching feetwarned them that it was bedtime. 

Across the street from the Asylum, but facing the Avenue, was a greathouse of stone, made stately by a large courtyard closed by wrought-irongates. On the side street looking to the Asylum, the windows in thesecond story had carved stone balconies; these were filled with brightblossoms in their season and in winter with living green. There wasplenty of room behind the balcony flower-boxes for a white Angora cat totake her constitutional. When Flibbertigibbet entered the Asylum inJune, the cat and the flowers were the first objects outside its wallsto attract her attention and that of her chum, Freckles. It was notoften that Freckles and her mate were given, or could obtain, the chanceto watch the balcony, for there were so many things to do, something forevery hour in the day: dishes to wash, beds to make, corridors to sweep, towels and stockings to launder, lessons to learn, sewing and catechism. But one day Flibbertigibbet--so Sister Angelica called the little girlfrom her first coming to the Asylum, and the name clung to her--was sentto the infirmary in the upper story because of a slight illness; whilethere she made the discovery of the "Marchioness. " She called her thatbecause she deemed it the most appropriate name, and why "appropriate"it behooves to tell. 

Behind the garbage-house, in the corner of the yard near the railroadtracks, there was a fine place to talk over secrets and grievances. Moreover, there was a knothole in the high wooden fence that inclosedthe lower portion of the yard. When Flibbertigibbet put her eye to thisaperture, it fitted so nicely that she could see up and down the streetfully two rods each way. Generally that eye could range from butcher'sboy to postman, or 'old clothes' man; but one day, having found anopportunity, she placed her visual organ as usual to the hole--andlooked into another queer member that was apparently glued to the otherside! But she was not daunted, oh, no!

"Git out!" she commanded briefly. 

"I ain't in. " The Eye snickered. 

"I'll poke my finger into yer!" she threatened further. 

"I'll bite your banana off, " growled the Eye. 

"Yer a cross-eyed Dago. "

"You're another--you Biddy!" The Eye was positively insulting; it winkedat her. 

Flibbertigibbet was getting worsted. She stamped her foot and kicked thefence. The Eye laughed at her, then suddenly vanished; andFlibbertigibbet saw a handsome-faced Italian lad sauntering up thestreet, hands in his pockets, and singing--oh, how he sang! The littlegirl forgot her rage in listening to the song, the words of whichreminded her of dear Nonna Lisa and her own joys of a four weeks'vagabondage spent in the old Italian's company. All this she confessedto Freckles; and the two, under one pretence or another, managed to makedaily visits to the garbage house knothole. 

That hole was every bit as good as a surprise party to them. The Eye wasseen there but once more, when it informed the other Eye that itbelonged to Luigi Poggi, Nonna Lisa's one grandson; that it was off inChicago with a vaudeville troupe while the other Eye had been with NonnaLisa. But instead of the Eye there appeared a stick of candy twisted ina paper and thrust through; at another time some fresh dates, strung ona long string, were found dangling on the inner side of the fence--theknothole having provided the point of entrance for each date; once asmall bunch of wild flowers graced it on the yard side. Again, for threemonths, the hole served for a circulating library. A whole story foundlodgement there, a chapter at a time, torn from a paper-covered novel. Flibbertigibbet carried them around with her pinned inside of her bluedenim apron, and read them to Freckles whenever she was sure of notbeing caught. Luigi was their one boy on earth. 

_The Marchioness of Isola Bella_, that was the name of the story; and ifFlibbertigibbet and Freckles on their narrow cots in the bare upperdormitory of the Orphan Asylum on ----nd Street, did not dream ofsapphire lakes and snow-crowned mountains, of marble palaces andturtledoves, of lovely ladies and lordly men, of serenades and guitarsand ropes of pearl, it was not the fault either of Luigi Poggi or the_Marchioness of Isola Bella_. But at times the story-book marchionessseemed very far away, and it was a happy thought of Flibbertigibbet's toname the little lady in the great house after her; for, once, watchingat twilight from the cold window seat in the dormitory, the two orphanchildren saw her ladyship dressed for a party, the maid having forgottento lower the shades. 

Freckles and Flibbertigibbet dared scarcely breathe; it was so muchbetter than the _Marchioness of Isola Bella_, for this one was real andalive--oh, yes, very much alive! She danced about the room, running fromthe maid when she tried to catch her, and when the door opened and atall man came in with arms opened wide, the real Marchioness did justwhat the story-book marchioness did on the last page to her lover: gaveone leap into the outstretched arms of the father-lover. 

While the two children opposite were looking with all their eyes at thisunexpected _dénouement_, the maid drew the shades, and Freckles andFlibbertigibbet were left to stare at each other in the dark and cold. Flibbertigibbet nodded and whispered:

"That takes the cake. The _Marchioness of Isola Bella_ ain't in it!"

Freckles squeezed her hand. Thereafter, although the girls appreciatedthe various favors of the knothole, their entire and passionateallegiance was given to the real Marchioness across the way. 

IV

One day, it was just after Thanksgiving, the Marchioness discovered heropposite neighbors. It was warm and sunny, a summer day that had strayedfrom its place in the Year's procession. The maid was putting the Angoracat out on the balcony among the dwarf evergreens. The Marchioness wastrying to help her when, happening to look across the street, she sawthe two faces at the opposite window. She stared for a moment, thentaking the cat from the window sill held her up for the two little girlsto see. Flibbertigibbet and her mate nodded vigorously and smiled, making motions with their hands as if stroking the fur. 

The Marchioness dropped the cat and waved her hand to them; the maiddrew her back from the window; the two girls saw her ladyship twitchaway from the detaining hand and stamp her foot. 

"Gee!" said Flibbertigibbet under her breath, "she's just like us. "

"Oh, wot's she up ter now?" Freckles whispered. 

Truly, any sane person would have asked that question. The Marchioness, having gained her point, was standing on the window seat by the openwindow, which was protected by an iron grating, and making curiousmotions with her fingers and hands. 

"Is she a luny?" Freckles asked in an awed voice. 

Flibbertigibbet was gazing fixedly at this apparition and made no reply. After watching this pantomime a few minutes, she spoke slowly:

"She's one of the dumb uns; I've seen 'em. "

The Marchioness was now making frantic gestures towards the top of theirwindow. She was laughing too. 

"She's a lively one if she is a dumber, " said Freckles approvingly. Flibbertigibbet jumped to her feet and likewise stood on the windowsill. 

"Gee! She wants us to git the window open at the top. Here--pull!" Thetwo children hung their combined weight by the tips of their fingersfrom the upper sash, and the great window opened slowly a few inches;then it stuck fast. But they both heard the gleeful voice of theiropposite neighbor and welcomed the sound. 

"I'm talking to you--it's the only way I can--the deaf and dumb--"

The maid lifted her down, struggling, from the window seat, and theyheard the childish voice scolding in a tongue unknown to them. 

Flibbertigibbet set immediately about earning the right to learn thedeaf-and-dumb alphabet; she hung out all monitor Number Twelve'swashing--dish towels, stockings, handkerchiefs--every other day for twoweeks in the bitter December weather. She knew that this special monitorhad a small brother in the Asylum for Deaf Mutes; this girl taught herthe strange language in compensation for the child's time and labor. Itwas mostly "give and take" in the Asylum. 

"That child has been angelic lately; I don't know what's going tohappen. " Long-suffering Sister Agatha heaved a sigh of relief. 

"Oh, there is a storm brewing you may be sure; this calm is unnatural, "Sister Angelica replied, smiling at sight of the little figure in theyard dancing in the midst of an admiring circle of blue-nosed girls. "Ibelieve they would rather stand and watch her than to run about and getwarm. She is as much fun for them as a circus, and she learns soquickly! Have you noticed her voice in chapel lately?"

"Yes, I have"; said Sister Agatha grumpily, "and I confess I can't bearto hear her sing like an angel when she is such a little fiend. "

Sister Angelica smiled. "Oh, I'm sure she'll come out all right; there'snothing vicious about her, and she's a loyal little soul, you can't denythat. "

"Yes, to those she loves, " Sister Agatha answered with some bitterness. She knew she was no favorite with the subject under discussion. "See hernow! I shouldn't think she would have a whole bone left in her body. "

They were playing "Snap-the-whip". Flibbertigibbet was the snapper for aline of twenty or more girls. As she swung the circle her legs flew sofast they fairly twinkled, and her hops and skips were a marvel toonlookers. But she landed right side up at last, although breathless, her long braid unloosened, hair tossing on the wind, cheeks red asAmerican beauty roses, and gray eyes black with excitement of the game. Then the bell rang its warning, the children formed in line and marchedin to lessons. 

The two weeks in December in which Flibbertigibbet had given herself tothe acquisition of the new language, proved long for the Marchioness. Every day she watched at the window for the reappearance of the twochildren at the bare upper window opposite; but thus far in vain. However, on the second Saturday after their first across-street meeting, she saw to her great joy the two little girls curled up on the windowsill and frantically waving to attract her attention. The Marchionessnodded and smiled, clapped her hands, and mounted upon her own broadwindow seat in order to have an unobstructed view over the iron grating. 

"She sees us, she sees us!" Freckles cried excitedly, but under herbreath; "now let's begin. "

Flibbertigibbet chose one of the panes that was cleaner than the othersand putting her two hands close to it began operations. The Marchionessfairly hopped up and down with delight when she saw the familiar symbolsof the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, and immediately set her own small whitehands to work on her first sentence:

"Go slow. "

Flibbertigibbet nodded emphatically; the conversation was begun againand continued for half an hour. It was in truth a labor as well as awork of love. The spelling in both cases was far from perfect and, attimes, puzzling to both parties; but little by little they became usedto each other's erratic symbols together with the queer things for whichthey stood, and no conversation throughout the length and breadth of NewYork--yes, even of our United States--was ever more enjoyed than bythese three girls. Flibbertigibbet and the Marchioness did thefinger-talking, and Freckles helped with the interpretation. In thefollowing translation of this first important exchange of socialcourtesies, the extremely peculiar spelling, and wild combinations ofvowels in particular, are omitted: but the questions and answers aregiven exactly as they were constructed by the opposite neighbors. 

"Go slow. " This as a word of warning from the Marchioness. 

"You bet. "

"Isn't this fun?"

"Beats the band. "

"What is your name?"

Flibbertigibbet and her chum looked at each other; should it be nicknameor real name? As they were at present in society and much on theirdignity they decided to give their real names. 

"Aileen Armagh. " Thereupon Flibbertigibbet beat upon her breast toindicate first person singular possessive. The Marchioness stared at herfor a minute, then spelled rather quickly:

"It's lovely. We call you something else. "

"Who's we?"

"Aunt Ruth and I. "

"What do you call me?"

"Flibbertigibbet. "

"Git off!" cried Flibbertigibbet, recklessly shoving Freckles on to thefloor. "Gee, how'd she know!" And thereupon she jumped to her feet and, having the broad window sill to herself, started upon a ratherrestricted coon dance in order to prove to her opposite neighbor thatthe nickname belonged to her by good right. Oh, but it was fun for theMarchioness! She clapped her hands to show her approval and catching upthe skirt of her dainty white frock, slowly raised one leg at a rightangle to her body and stood so for a moment, to the intense admirationof the other girls. 

"That's what they call me here, " said Flibbertigibbet when they got downto conversation again. 

"What is hers?" asked the Marchioness, pointing to Freckles. 

"Margaret O'Dowd, but we call her Freckles. "

How the Marchioness laughed! So hard, indeed, that she apparentlytumbled off the seat, for she disappeared entirely for several minutes, much to the girls' amazement as well as chagrin. 

"It's like she broke somethin', " whimpered Freckles; "a bone yerknow--her nose fallin' that way when she went over forrard. "

"She ain't chany, I tell yer; she's jest Injy rubber, " saidFlibbertigibbet scornfully but with a note of anxiety in her voice. Atthis critical moment the Marchioness reappeared and jumped upon theseat. She had a curious affair in her hand; after placing it to hereyes, she signalled her answer:

"I can see them. "

"See what?"

"The freckles. "

"Wot's she givin' us?" Freckles asked in a perplexed voice. 

"She's all right, " said Flibbertigibbet with the confidence of superiorknowledge; "it's a tel'scope; yer can see the moon through, an' yerfreckles look to her as big as pie-plates. "

Freckles crossed herself; it sounded like witches and it had a queerlook. 

"Ask her wot's her name, " she suggested. 

"What's your name?" Flibbertigibbet repeated on her fingers. 

"Alice Maud Mary Van Ostend. "

"Gee whiz, ain't that a corker!" Flibbertigibbet exclaimed delightedly. "How old are you?" She proceeded thus with her personal investigationprompted thereto by Freckles. 

"Most ten;--you?"

"Most twelve. "

"And Freckles?" The Marchioness laughed as she spelled the name. 

"Eleven. "

"Ask her if she's an orphant, " said Freckles. 

"Are you an orphan, Freckles says. "

"Half, " came the answer. "What are you?"

"Whole, " was the reply. "Which is your half?"

"I have only papa--I'll introduce him to you sometime when--"

This explanation took fully five minutes to decipher, and while theywere at work upon it the maid came up behind the Marchioness and, without so much as saying "By your leave", took her down struggling fromthe window seat and drew the shades. Whereupon Flibbertigibbet rose inher wrath, shook her fist at the insulting personage, and vowedvengeance upon her in her own forceful language:

"You're an old cat, and I'll rub your fur the wrong way till the sparksfly. "

At this awful threat Freckles looked alarmed, and suddenly realized thatshe was shivering, the result of sitting so long against the coldwindow. "Come on down, " she pleaded with the enraged Flibbertigibbet;and by dint of coaxing and the promise of a green woollen watch-chain, which she had patiently woven, and so carefully, with four pins and anempty spool till it looked like a green worm, she succeeded in gettingher away from the dormitory window. 

V

If the _Marchioness of Isola Bella_ had filled many of Flibbertigibbet'sdreams during the last six months, the real Alice Maud Mary Van Ostendnow filled all her waking hours. Her sole thought was to contriveopportunities for more of this fascinating conversation, and she andFreckles practised daily on the sly in order to say more, and quickly, to the real Marchioness across the way. 

By good luck they were given a half-hour for themselves just beforeChristmas, in reward for the conscientious manner in which they madebeds, washed dishes, and recited their lessons for an entire week. WhenSister Angelica, laying her hand on Flibbertigibbet's shoulder, hadasked her what favor she wanted for the good work of that week, thelittle girl answered promptly enough that she would like to sit withFreckles in the dormitory window and look out on the street, for maybethere might be a hurdy-gurdy with a monkey passing through. 

"Not this cold day, I'm sure, " said Sister Angelica, smiling at therequest; "for no monkey could be out in this weather unless he had anextra fur coat and a hot water bottle for his toes. Yes, you may go butdon't stay too long in the cold. "

But what if the Marchioness were to fail to make her appearance! Theycould not bear to think of this, and amused themselves for a littlewhile by blowing upon the cold panes and writing their names and theMarchioness' in the vapor. But, at last--oh, at last, there she was! Thefingers began to talk almost before they knew it. In some respects itproved to be a remarkable conversation, for it touched upon many andvarious topics, all of which proved of equal interest to the partiesconcerned. They lost no time in setting about the exchange of theirviews. 

"I'm going to a party, " the Marchioness announced, smoothing her gown. 

"What time?"

"Five o'clock, but I'm all ready. I am going to dance a minuet. "

This was a poser; but Flibbertigibbet did not wish to be outdone, although there was no party for her in prospect. 

"I can dance too, " she signalled. 

"I know you can--lovely; that's why I told you. "

"I wish I could see you dance the minute. "

The Marchioness did not answer at once. Finally she spelled "Wait aminute, " jumped down from the broad sill and disappeared. In a shorttime she was back again. 

"I'm going to dance for you. Look downstairs--when it is dark--andyou'll see the drawing-room lighted--I'll dance near the windows. "

The two girls clapped their hands and Flibbertigibbet jumped up and downon the window sill to express her delight. 

"When do you have to go to bed?" was the next pointed question fromAlice Maud Mary. 

"A quarter to eight. "

"Who puts you in?"

This was another poser for even Flibbertigibbet's quick wits. 

"Wot does she mane?" Freckles demanded anxiously. 

"I dunno; anyhow, I'll tell her the sisters. "

"The sisters, " was the word that went across the street. 

"Oh, how nice! Do you say your prayers to them too?"

Freckles groaned. "Wot yer goin' to tell her now?"

"Shut up now till yer hear me, an' cross yerself, for I mane it. " Suchwas the warning from her mate. 

"No; I say them to another lady--Our Lady. "

"Oh gracious!" Freckles cried out under her breath and began to snicker. 

"What lady?" The Marchioness looked astonished but intensely interested. 

"The Holy Virgin. I'll bet she don't know nothin' 'bout Her, " saidFlibbertigibbet in a triumphant aside to Freckles. The Marchioness' eyesopened wider upon the two children across the way. 

"That is the mother of Our Lord, isn't it?" she said in her dumb way. The two children nodded; no words seemed to come readily just then, forAlice Maud Mary had given them a surprise. They crossed themselves. 

"I never thought of saying my prayers to His mother before, but I shallnow. He always had a mother, hadn't he?"

Flibbertigibbet could think of nothing to say in answer, but she did thenext best thing: she drew her rosary from under her dress waist and heldit up to the Marchioness who nodded understandingly and began to fumbleat her neck. In a moment she brought forth a tiny gold chain with alittle gold cross hanging from it. She held it up and dangled it beforethe four astonished eyes opposite. 

"Gee! Yer can't git ahead of _her_, an' I ain't goin' to try. She's justa darlint. " Flibbertigibbet's heart was very full and tender at thatmoment; but she giggled at the next question. 

"Do you know any boys?"

One finger was visible at the dormitory window. The Marchioness laughedand after telling them she knew ever so many began to count on herfingers for the benefit of her opposite neighbors. 

"One, two, three, four, five, " she began on her right hand--

"I don't believe her, " said Freckles with a suspicious sniff. 

Flibbertigibbet turned fiercely upon her. "I'd believe her if she saidshe knew a thousand, so now, Margaret O'Dowd, an' yer hold yer tongue!"she cried; but in reprimanding Freckles for her want of faith she lostcount of the boys. 

"I must go now, " said the Marchioness; "but when the drawing-roomdownstairs is lighted, you look in--there'll be one boy there to dancewith me. Be sure you look. " Suddenly the Marchioness made a sign thatboth girls understood, although it was an extra one and the veryprettiest of all in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet of the affections: sheput her fingers to her lips and blew them a kiss. 

"Ain't she a darlint!" murmured Flibbertigibbet, tossing the same signacross the street. When the Marchioness had left the window, the twogirls spent the remaining minutes of their reward in planning how bestto see the dance upon which they had set their hearts. They thought ofall the places available, but were sure they would not be permitted tooccupy them. At last Flibbertigibbet decided boldly, on the strength ofa good conscience throughout one whole week, to ask at headquarters. 

"I'm goin' straight to Sister Angelica an' ask her to let us go into thechapel; it's the only place. Yer can see from the little windy in thecubby-hole where the priest gits into his other clothes. "

Freckles looked awestruck. "She'll never let yer go in there. "

Her mate snapped her fingers in reply, and catching Freckles' hand racedher down the long dormitory, down the two long flights of stairs to theschoolroom where Sister Angelica was giving a lesson to the youngergirls. 

"Well, Flibbertigibbet, what is it now?" said the sister smiling intothe eager face at her elbow. When Sister Angelica called her by hernickname instead of by the Asylum number, Flibbertigibbet knew she wasin high favor. She nudged Freckles and replied:

"I want to whisper to you. "

Sister Angelica bent down; before she knew it the little girl's armswere about her neck and the child was telling her about the dance at thestone house across the way. The sister smiled as she listened to therush of eager words, but she was so glad to find this madcap telling heropenly her heart's one desire, that she did what she had never donebefore in all her life of beautiful child-consecrated work: she said"Yes, and I will go with you. Wait for me outside the chapel door athalf-past four. "

Flibbertigibbet squeezed her around the neck with such grateful vigorthat the blood rushed to poor Sister Angelica's head. She was willing, however, to be a martyr in such a good cause. The little girl walkedquietly to the door, but when it had closed upon her she executed aseries of somersaults worthy of the Madison Square Garden acrobats. "What'd I tell yer, what'd I tell yer!" she exclaimed, pirouetting andsomersaulting till the slower-moving Freckles was a trifle dizzy. 

Within a quarter of an hour the three were snugly ensconced in thewindow niche of the "cubby-hole, " so Flibbertigibbet termed therobing-room closet, and looking with all their eyes across the street. They were directly opposite what Sister Angelica said must be thedrawing-room and on a level with it. As they looked, one moment thewindows were dark, in the next they were filled with soft yet brilliantlights. The lace draperies were parted and the children could see downthe length of the room. 

There she was! Hopping and skipping by the side of her father-lover anddrawing him to the central window. Behind them came the lovely younglady and the Boy! The two were holding hands and swinging them freely asthey laughed and chatted together. 

"That's the Boy!" cried Flibbertigibbet, wild with excitement. 

"And that must be the Aunt Ruth she told about--oh, ain't she justlovely!" cried Freckles. 

"Watch out now, an' yer'll see the minute!" said Flibbertigibbet, squeezing Sister Angelica's hand; Sister Angelica squeezed back, butkept silence. She was learning many things before unknown to her. Thefour came to the middle window and looked out, up, and all around. Butalthough the two children waved their hands wildly to attract theirattention, the good people opposite failed to see them because thelittle window suffered eclipse in the shadow of the large electricarc-light's green cap. 

"She's goin' to begin!" cried Flibbertigibbet, clapping her hands. 

The young lady sat down at the piano and began to play. WhetherFlibbertigibbet expected a variation of a "coon dance" or an Irish jigcannot be stated with certainty, but that she was surprised is a fact;so surprised, indeed, that for full two minutes she forgot to talk. Tothe slow music, for such it was--Flibbertigibbet beat time with herfingers on the pane to the step--the Marchioness and the Boy, pointingtheir daintily slippered feet, moved up and down, back and forth, swinging, turning, courtesying, bowing over the parquet floor with suchchildishly stately yet charming grace that their rhythmic motions wereas a song without words. 

The father-lover stood with his back to the mantel and applauded afteran especially well executed flourish or courtesy; Aunt Ruth looked overher shoulder, smiling, her hands wandering slowly over the keys. Atlast, the final flourish, the final courtesy. The Marchioness' dressfairly swept the floor, and the Boy bowed so low that--well, Flibbertigibbet never could tell how it happened, but she had a warmplace in her heart for that boy ever after--he quietly and methodicallystood head downwards on his two hands, his white silk stockings andpatent leathers kicking in the air. 

The Marchioness was laughing so hard that she sat down in a regular"cheese" on the floor; the father-lover was clapping his hands like mad;the lady swung round on the piano stool and shook her forefinger at theBoy who suddenly came right side up at last, hand on his heart, andbowed with great dignity to the little girl on the floor. Then he, too, laughed and cut another caper just as a solemn-faced butler came in withwraps and furs. But by no means did he remain solemn long! How could hewith the Boy prancing about him, and the Marchioness playing at"Catch-me-if-you-can" with her father-lover, and the lady slipping andsliding over the floor to catch the Boy who was always on the other sideof the would-be solemn butler? Why, he actually swung round in a circleby holding on to that butler's dignified coat-tails!

Nor were they the only ones who laughed. Across the way in one of theOrphan Asylum windows, Sister Angelica and the children laughed too, inspirit joining in the fun, and when the butler came to the window todraw the shades there were three long "Ah's, " both of intensedisappointment and supreme satisfaction. 

"Watch out, now, " said Flibbertigibbet excitedly on the way down intothe basement for supper and dishwashing, for it was their turn thisweek, "an' yer'll see me dance yer a minute in the yard ter-morrow. "

"Yer can't dance it alone, " replied doubting Freckles; "yer've got tohave a boy. "

"I don't want one; I'll take you, Freckles, for a boy. " Clumsy Frecklesblushed with delight beneath her many beauty-spots at such promise ofunwonted graciousness on the part of her chum, and wondered what hadcome over Flibbertigibbet lately. 

 * * * * *

A few hours afterwards when they went up to bed, they whispered togetheragain concerning the dance, and begged Sister Angelica to let them havejust one peep from the dormitory window at their house of delight--arequest she was glad to grant. They opened one of the inside blinds alittle way, and exclaimed at the sight. It was snowing. The childrenoh'ed and ah'ed under their breath, for a snowstorm at Christmas time inthe great city is the child's true joy. At their opposite neighbor's afaint light was visible in the balcony room; the wet soft flakes hadalready ridged the balustrade, powdered the dwarf evergreens, topped thecap of the electric arc-light and laid upon the concrete a coverlet ofpurest white. 

The long bare dormitory filled with the children--the fatherless andmotherless children we have always with us. Soon each narrow cot heldits asylum number; the many heads, golden, brown, or black, busied allof them with childhood's queer unanchored thoughts, were pillowed insafety for another night. 

And without the snow continued to fall upon the great city. It gracedwith equal delicacy the cathedral's marble spires and the forest ofpointed firs which made the numberless Christmas booths that surroundedold Washington Market. It covered impartially, and with as pure a white, the myriad city roofs that sheltered saint and sinner, whether among therich or the poor, among the cherished or castaways. It fell as thicklyupon the gravestones in Trinity's ancient churchyard as upon the freshlyturned earth in a corner of the paupers' burying ground; and it set uponblack corruption wherever it was in evidence the seal of a transientstainlessness. 

VI

"Really, I am discouraged about that child, " said Sister Agatha justafter Easter. She was standing at one of the schoolroom windows thatoverlooked the yard; she spoke as if thoroughly vexed. 

"What is it now--208 again?" Sister Angelica looked up from the copybookshe was correcting. 

"Oh, yes, of course; it's always 208. "

"Oh, she doesn't mean anything; it's only her high spirits; they musthave some vent. "

"It's been her ruin being on the stage even for those few weeks, andever since the Van Ostends began to make of her and have her over forthat Christmas luncheon and the Sunday nights, the child is neither tohave nor to hold. What with her 'make believing' and her 'acting' sheupsets the girls generally. She ought to be set to good steady work; thefirst chance I get I'll put her to it. I only wish some one would adopther--"

"I heard Father Honoré--"

"Look at her now!" exclaimed Sister Agatha interrupting her. 

Sister Angelica joined her at the window. They could not only see buthear all that was going on below. With the garbage house as astage-setting and background to the performance, Flibbertigibbet wascourtesying low to her audience; the skirt of her scant gingham dresswas held in her two hands up and out to its full extent. The orphanscrouched on the pavement in a triple semi-circle in front of her. 

"All this rigmarole comes of the theatre, " said Sister Agatha grimly. 

"Well, where's the harm? She is only living it all over again and givingthe others a little pleasure at the same time. Dear knows, they havelittle enough, poor things. "

Sister Agatha made no reply; she was listening intently to 208's orders. The little girl had risen from her low courtesy and was haranguing theassembled hundreds:

"Now watch out, all of yer, an' when I do the minute yer can clap yerhands if yer like it; an' if yer want some more, yer must clap enough tosplit yer gloves if yer had any on, an' then I'll give yer the coondance; an' then if yer like _that_, yer can play yer gloves are bustedwith clappin' an' stomp yer feet--"

"But we can't, " Freckles entered her prosaic protest, "'cause we'resquattin'. "

"Well, get up then, yer'll have to; an' then if you stomp awful, an'holler 'On-ko--on-ko!'--that's what they say at the thayertre--I'll giveyer somethin' else--"

"Wot?" demanded 206 suspiciously. 

"Don't yer wish I'd tell!" said 208, and began the minuet. 

It was marvellous how she imitated every graceful movement, every turnand twist and bow, every courtesy to the imaginary partner--Freckles hadfailed her entirely in this role--whose imaginary hand she held claspedhigh above her head; her clumsy shoes slid over the flagging as if ithad been a waxed floor under dainty slippers. There was an outburst ofapplause; such an outburst that had the audience really worn gloves, every seam, even if French and handsewed, must have cracked under thehealthy pressure. 

208 beamed and, throwing back her head, suddenly flung herself into thecoon dance which, in its way, was as wild and erratic as the minuet hadbeen stately and methodical. Wilder and wilder grew her gyrations--head, feet, legs, shoulders, hair, hands, arms, were in seemingly perpetualmotion. The audience grew wildly excited. They jumped up, shouting"On-ko--on-ko!" and accompanied their shouts with the stamping of feet. A dexterous somersault on the dancer's part ended the performance; hercheeks were flushed with exercise and excitement, her black mane wasloosened and tossed about her shoulders. The audience lost their headsand even 206 joined in the prolonged roar:

"On-ko, 208--on-ko-o-o-oor! On-ko, Flibbertigibbet--some more--somemore!"

"It's perfectly disgraceful, " muttered Sister Agatha, and made amovement to leave the window; but Sister Angelica laid a gentlydetaining hand on her arm. 

"No, Agatha, not that, " she said earnestly; "you'll see that they willwork all the better for this fun--Hark!"

There was a sudden and deep silence. 208 was evidently ready with herencore, a surprise to all but the performer. She shook back the hairfrom her face, raised her eyes, crossed her two hands upon her chest, waited a few seconds until a swift passenger train on the track behindthe fence had smothered its roar in the tunnel depths, then began tosing "The Holy City. " Even Sister Agatha felt the tears spring as shelistened. A switch engine letting off steam drowned the last words, andthere was no applause. Flibbertigibbet looked about her inquiringly; butthe girls were silent. Such singing appeared to them out of theordinary--and so unlike 208! It took them a moment to recover from theirsurprise; they gathered in groups to whisper together concerning theperformance. 

Meanwhile Flibbertigibbet was waiting expectantly. Where was the wellearned applause? And she had reserved the best for the last! Ungratefulones! Her friends in the stone house always praised her when she did herbest, --but these girls--

She stamped her foot, then dashed through the broken ranks, making facesas she ran, and crying out in disgust and anger:

"Catch me givin' yer any more on-kos, yer stingy things!" and with thatshe ran into the basement followed by Freckles who was intent uponappeasing her. 

The two sisters, pacing the dim corridor together after chapel thatevening, spoke again of their little wilding. 

"I didn't finish what I was going to tell you about 208, " said SisterAngelica. "I heard the Sister Superior tell Father Honoré when he washere the other day that Mr. Van Ostend had been to see her in regard tothe child. It seems he has found a place for her in the country withsome of his relations, as I understand it. He said his interest in herhad been roused when he heard her for the first time on the stage, andthat when he found Flibbertigibbet was the little acquaintance hisdaughter had made, he determined to further the child's interests so faras a home is concerned. "

"Then there is a prospect of her going, " Sister Agatha drew a breath ofrelief. "Did you hear what Father Honoré said?"

"Very little; but I noticed he looked pleased, and I heard him say, 'This is working out all right; I'll step across and see Mr. Van Ostendmyself. '--I shall miss her so!"

Sister Agatha made no reply. Together the two sisters continued to pacethe dim corridor, silent each with her thoughts; and, pacing thus, upand down, up and down, the slender, black-robed figures were soon lostin the increasing darkness and became mere neutral outlines as theypassed the high bare windows and entered their respective rooms. 

Even so, a few weeks later when Number 208 left the Orphan Asylum on----nd Street, they passed quietly out of the child's actual life andentered the fitfully lighted chambers of her childish memory wherein, attimes, they paced with noiseless footsteps as once in the barren hallsof her orphanage home. 

PART SECOND

Home Soil

I

A land of entrancing inner waters, our own marvellous Lake Country ofthe East, lies just behind those mountains of Maine that sink theirbases in the Atlantic and are fitly termed in Indian nomenclature_Waves-of-the-Sea_. Bight and bay indent this mountainous coast, inbeauty comparable, if less sublime yet more enticing, to the Norwegianfjords; within them are set the islands large and small whereon thesheep, sheltered by cedar coverts, crop the short thick turf that isnourished by mists from the Atlantic. Above bight and bay and islandtower the mountains. Their broad green flanks catch the earliest easternand the latest western lights. Their bare summits are lifted boldly intothe infinite blue that is reflected in the waters which lap theirfoundations. 

Flamsted lies at the outlet of Lake Mesantic, on the gentle northwardslope of these _Waves-of-the-Sea_, some eighteen miles inland fromPenobscot Bay. Until the last decade of the nineteenth century it wasunconnected with the coast by any railroad; but at that time a branchline from Hallsport on the Bay, encouraged by the opening of a smallgranite quarry in the Flamsted Hills, made its terminus at TheCorners--a sawmill settlement at the falls of the Rothel, a river thatruns rapidly to the sea after issuing from Lake Mesantic. A mile beyondthe station the village proper begins at its two-storied tavern, TheGreenbush. 

From the lower veranda of this hostelry, one may look down the shadedlength of the main street, dignified by many an old-fashioned house, toThe Bow, an irregular peninsula extending far into the lake andcontaining some two hundred acres. This estate is the ancestral home ofthe Champneys, known as Champ-au-Haut, in the vernacular "Champo. " AtThe Bow the highway turns suddenly, crosses a bridge over the Rothel andcurves with the curving pine-fringed shores of the lake along the baseof the mountain until it climbs the steep ascent that leads to Googe'sGore, the third division of the town of Flamsted. 

As in all New England towns, that are the possessors of "old families, "so in Flamsted;--its inhabitants are partisans. The result is, that ithas been for years as a house divided against itself, and heateddiscussion of the affairs of the Googes at the Gore and the Champneys atThe Bow has been from generation to generation an inherited interest. And from generation to generation, as the two families have ramified andintermarriages occurred more and more frequently, party spirit has runhigher and higher and bitter feelings been engendered. But never havethe factional differences been more pronounced and the lines ofseparation drawn with a sharper ploughshare in this mountain-rampartedNew England town, than during the five years subsequent to the openingof the Flamsted Quarries which brought in its train the railroad and theimmigrants. This event was looked upon by the inhabitants as theInvasion of the New. 

The interest of the first faction was centred in Champ-au-Haut and itspresent possessor, the widow of Louis Champney, old Judge Champney'sonly son. That of the second in the Googes, Aurora and her son Champney, the owners of Googe's Gore and its granite outcrop. 

The office room of The Greenbush has been for two generations theacknowledged gathering place of the representatives of the hostilecamps. On a cool evening in June, a few days after the departure ofseveral New York promoters, who had formed a syndicate to exploit thegranite treasure in The Gore and for that purpose been fully a week inFlamsted, a few of the natives dropped into the office to talk it over. 

When Octavius Buzzby, the factotum at Champ-au-Haut and twin of AugustusBuzzby, landlord of The Greenbush, entered the former bar-room of theold hostelry, he found the usual Saturday night frequenters. Among themwas Colonel Milton Caukins, tax collector and assistant deputy sheriffwho, never quite at ease in the presence of his long-tongued wife, expanded discursively so soon as he found himself in the office of TheGreenbush. He was in full flow when Octavius entered. 

"Hello, Tave, " he cried, extending his hand in easy condescension, "you're well come, for you're just in time to hear the latest; thedeal's on--an A. 1 sure thing this time. Aurora showed me the papersto-day. We're in for it now--government contracts, state houses, battlemonuments, graveyards; we've got 'em all, and things'll begin to hum inthis backwater hole, you bet!"

Octavius looked inquiringly at his brother. Augustus answered by raisinghis left eyebrow and placidly closing his right eye as a cautionarysignal to lie low and await developments. 

It was the Colonel's way to boom everything, and simply because he couldnot help it. It was not a matter of principle with him, it was an affairof temperament. He had boomed Flamsted for the last ten years--itsclimate, its situation, its scenery, its water power, its lake-shorelands as prospective sites for mansion summer cottages, and thetreasures of its unopened quarries. So incorrigible an optimist wasMilton Caukins that any slight degree of success, which might attend thepromotion of any one of his numerous schemes, caused an elation thatamounted to hilarity. On the other hand, the deadly blight ofnon-fulfilment, that annually attacked his most cherished hopes for thefuture development of his native town, failed in any wise to depresshim, or check the prodigal casting of his optimistic daily bread on theplacid social waters where, as the years multiplied, his enthusiasmsscarce made a ripple. 

"I see Mis' Googe yisterd'y, an' she said folks hed been down on her solong for sellin' thet pass'l of paster for the first quarry, thet shemight ez well go the hull figger an' git 'em down on her for the rest ofher days by sellin' the rest. By Andrew Jackson! she's got the grit fora woman--and the good looks too! She can hold her own for a figger withany gal in this town. I see the syndicaters a-castin' sheeps' eyes herways the day she took 'em over The Gore prospectin'; but, by A. J. ! theyhauled in their lookin's when she turned them great eyes of her'n theirways. --What's the figger for the hull piece? Does anybody know?"

It was Joel Quimber, the ancient pound-master, who spoke, and thesilence that followed proved that each man present was resenting thefact that he was not in a position to give the information desired. 

"I shall know as soon as they get it recorded, that is, if they don'ttrade for a dollar and if they ever do get it recorded. " The speaker wasElmer Wiggins, druggist and town clerk for the last quarter of acentury. He was pessimistically inclined, the tendency being fostered byhis dual vocation of selling drugs and registering the deaths theyoccasionally caused. 

Milton Caukins, or the Colonel, as he preferred to be called on accountof his youthful service in the state militia and his present connectionwith the historical society of The Rangers, took his cigar from his lipsand blew the smoke forcibly towards the ceiling before he spoke. 

"She's got enough now to put Champ through college. The first fortyacres she sold ten years ago will do that. "

"I ain't so sure of thet. " Joel Quimber's tone implied obstinateconviction that his modestly expressed doubt was a foregone conclusion. "Champ's a devil of a feller when it comes to puttin' through anything. He's a chip off the old block. He'll put through more 'n his mother cangit out if he gits in any thicker with them big guns--race hosses, steamyachts an' fancy fixin's. He could sink the hull Gore to the foundationsof Old Time in a few of them suppers I've heerd he gin arter the show. Iheerd he gin ten dollars a plate for the last one--some kind ofprimy-donny, I heerd. But Champ's game though. I heerd Mr. Van Ostendtalkin' 'bout him to one of the syndicaters--mebbe they're goin' to workhim in with them somehow; anyway, I guess Aurory don't begrutch him alittle spendin' money seein' how easy it come out of the old sheeppasters. Who'd 'a' thought a streak of granite could hev made sech astir!"

"It's a stir that'll sink this town in the mud. " Mr. Wiggins' voice waswhat might be called thorough-bass, and was apt to carry more weightwith his townspeople than his opinions, which latter were not alwaysacceptable to Colonel Caukins. "Look at it now! This town has never beenbonded; we're free from debt and a good balance on hand forimprovements. Now along comes three or four hundred immigrants to beginwith--trade following the flag, I suppose _you_ call it, Colonel, " (heinterpolated this with cutting sarcasm)--"a hodge-podge of Canucks, andDagos, and Polacks, and the Lord knows what--a darned set of foreigners, foreign to our laws, our ways, our religion; and behind 'em a lot of menthat would be called windbags if it wasn't for their money-bags. Andbetween 'em our noses are going to be held right down on the grindstone. I tell you we'll have to bond this town to support the schooling forthese foreign brats, and there's a baker's dozen of 'em every time; andthere'll be tooting and dancing and singing and playing on Sunday withtheir foreign gimcranks, --mandolin-banjos and what-all--"

"Good heavens, my dear fellow!" the Colonel broke in with an air ofimpatience, "can't you see that it's this very 'stir, ' as you term it, that is going to put this town into the front rank of the competingindustrial thousands of America?"

The Colonel, when annoyed at the quantity of cold water thrown upon hisredhot enthusiasm, was apt to increase the warmth of his patronizingaddress by an endearing term. 

"I see farther than the front ranks of your 'competing industrialthousands of America, ' Milton Caukins; I see clear over 'em to the verybrink, and I see a struggling wrestling mass of human beings slipping, sliding to the bottomless pit of national destitution, helped downwardsby just such darned boomers of what you call 'industrial efficiency' asyou are, Milton Caukins. " He paused for breath. 

Augustus Buzzby, who was ever a man of peace, tried to divert thisraging torrent of speech into other and personal channels. 

"I ain't nothin' 'gainst Mis' Googe as a woman, but she played me a meantrick when she sold that first quarry. It killed my trade as dead as adoor nail. You can't hire them highflyers to put themselves into a towntheir money's bankin' on to ruin in what you might call a summer-socialway. I found _that_ out 'fore they left this house last week. "

"Yes, and she's played a meaner one now. " Mr. Wiggins made the assertionwith asperity and looked at the same time directly at Octavius Buzzby. "I know all about their free dispensaries that'll draw trade away frommy very counter and take the bread and butter out of my mouth; and asfor the fees--there won't be a chance for recording a homestead site;there isn't any counting on such things, for they're a homeless lot, always moving from pillar to post with free pickings wherever theylocate over night, just like the gypsies that came through here lastSeptember. "

"It's kinder queer now, whichever way you've a mind to look at it, " JoelQuimber remarked meditatively. His eyes were cast up to the ceiling; hisfore-fingers and thumbs formed an acute triangle over the bridge of hisnose; the arms of his chair supported his elbows. "Queer thet it's allusthem upper tens an' emigrants thet keep a-movin' on, fust one place thent'other. Kinder looks ez if, arter all, there warn't no great realdifference when it comes to bein' restless. Take us home folks now, we're rooted in deep, an' I guess if we was to be uprooted kindersuddin', p'raps we'd hev more charity for the furriners. There's notellin'; I ain't no jedge of sech things, an' I'm an out-an-outAmerican. But mebbe my great-great-great-granther's father could hev'told ye somethin' wuth tellin'; he an' the Champneys was hounded out ofFrance, an' was glad 'nough to emigrate, though they called itrefugeein' an' pioneerin' in them days. "

Augustus Buzzby laid his hand affectionately on the old man's shoulder. "You're a son of the soil, Joel; I stand corrected. I guess the less anyof us true blue Americans say 'bout flinging stones at furriners thesafer 'twill be for all on us. "

But Mr. Wiggins continued his diatribe: "There ain't no denying it, thefirst people in town are down on the whole thing. Didn't the rector tellme this very day that 'twas like ploughing up the face of nature for thesake of sowing the seeds of political and social destruction--his verywords--in this place of peace and happy homes? He don't blame Mrs. Champney for feeling as she does 'bout Aurora Googe. He said it was ashame that just as soon as Mrs. Champney had begun to sell off her lakeshore lands so as her city relatives could build near her, Mrs. Googemust start up and balk all her plans by selling two hundred acres of oldsheep pasture for the big quarry. "

"Humph!" It was the first sound that Octavius Buzzby had uttered sincehis entrance and general greeting. Hearing it his brother lookedwarningly in his direction, for he feared that the factional difference, which had come to the surface to breathe in his own and Elmer Wiggins'remarks, might find over-heated expression in the mouth of his twin ifonce Tave's ire should be aroused. But his brother gave no heed and, much to Augustus' relief, went off at a tangent. 

"I heard old Judge Champney talk on these things a good many times inhis lifetime, an' he was wise, wiser'n any man here. " He allowed himselfthis one thrust at Mr. Wiggins and the Colonel. "He used to say: 'Tavy, it's all in the natural course of things, and it's got to strike us heresometime; not in my time, but in my boy's. No man of us can say he ownsGod's earth, an' set up barriers an' fences, an' sometimes breastworks, an' holler "hands off" to every man that peeks over the wall, "this hereis mine or that is ours!" because 't isn't in the natural order ofthings, and what isn't in the natural order isn't going to be, Tavy. 'That's what the old Judge said to me more'n once. "

"He was right, Tavy, he was right, " said Quimber eagerly and earnestly. "I can't argify, an' I can't convince; but I know he was right. I'velived most a generation longer'n any man here, an' I've seen a thing ortwo an' marked the way of nater jest like the Jedge. I've stood therewhere the Rothel comes down from The Gore in its spring freshet, rarin', tearin' down, bearin' stones an' rocks along with its current till itstrikes the lowlands; then a racin' along, catchin' up turf an' mud an'sand, an' foamin' yaller an' brown acrost the medders, leavin' mud aquarter of an inch thick on the lowlands; and then a-rushin' into thelake ez if 't would turn the bottom upside down--an' jest look whathappens! Stid of kickin' up a row all along the banks it jest ain'tnowhere when you look for it! Only the lake riled for a few furlongs offshore an' kinder humpin' up in the middle. An' arter a day or two yecome back an' look agin, an' where's the rile? All settled to thebottom, an' the lake as clear as a looking-glass. An' then ye look atthe medders an' ye see thet, barrin' a big boulder or two an' some stunsthet an ox-team can cart off, an' some gullyin' out long the highroad, they ain't been hurt a mite. An' then come 'long 'bout the fust of July, an' ye go out an' stan' there and look for the silt--an' what d' ye see?Why, jest thet ye're knee deep in clover an' timothy thet hez growedthet high an' lush jest on account of thet very silt!

"Thet's the way 't is with nateral things; an' thet's what the old Jedgemeant. This furrin flood's a-comin'; an' we've got to stan' some scaresan' think mebbe The Gore dam'll bust, an' the boulders lay round toothick for the land, an' the mud'll spile our medders, an' the lake showrily so's the cattle won't drink--an' we'll find out thet in this greatfree home of our'n, thet's lent us for a while, thet there's room 'noughfor all, an', in the end--not in my time, but in your'n--our Land, likethe medders, is goin' to be the better for it. "

"Well put, well put, Quimber, " said the Colonel who had been showingsigns of restlessness under the unusual and protracted eloquence of theold pound-master. "We're making the experiment that every other nationhas had to make some time or other. Take old Rome, now--what was itstarted the decay, eh?"

As no one present dared to cope with the decline of so large a subject, the Colonel had the floor. He looked at each man in turn; then waved thehand that held his cigar airily towards the ceiling. "Just inbreeding, sir, inbreeding. That's what did it. We Americans, are profiting by theexperience of the centuries and are going to take in fresh blood just asfast as it can attain to an arterial circulation in the body politic, sir; an arterial circulation, I say--" the Colonel was apt to roll afine phrase more than once under his tongue when the sound thereofpleased him, --"and in the course of nature--I agree perfectly with thelate Judge Champney and our friend, Quimber--there may be, during theprocess, a surcharge of blood to the head or stomach of the body politicthat will cause a slight attack of governmental vertigo or nationalindigestion. But it will pass, gentlemen, it will pass; and I assure youthe health of the Republic will be kept at the normal, with nothing morethan passing attacks of racial hysteria which, however undignified theymay appear in the eyes of all right-minded citizens, must ever remainthe transient phenomena of a great nation in the making. "

The Colonel, having finished his peroration with another wave of hiscigar towards the ceiling, lowered his feet from their elevated positionon the counter, glanced anxiously at the clock, which indicated aquarter of nine, and remarked casually that, as Mrs. Caukins wasindisposed, he felt under obligations to be at home by half-past nine. 

Joel Quimber, whom such outbursts of eloquence on the Colonel's part inthe usual town-meeting left in a generally dazed condition of mind andpolitics, remarked that he heard the whistle of the evening train aboutfifteen minutes ago, and asked if Augustus were expecting any one up onit. 

"No, but the team's gone down to meet it just the same. Maybe there'llbe a runner or two; they pay 'bout as well as the big guns after all;and then there's a chance of one of the syndicaters coming in on me atany time now. --There's the team. "

He went out on the veranda. The men within the office listened withintensified interest, strengthened by that curiosity which is shown bythose in whose lives events do not crowd upon one another with suchoverwhelming force, that the susceptibility to fresh impressions isdulled. They heard the land-lord's cordial greeting, a confusion ofsounds incident upon new arrivals; then Augustus Buzzby came in, carrying bags and travelling shawl, and, following him, a tall man inthe garb of a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Close at his side wasa little girl. She was far from appearing shy or awkward in the presenceof strangers, nodding brightly to Octavius, who sat nearest the door, and smiling captivatingly upon Joel Quimber, whereupon he feltimmediately in his pockets for a peppermint which, to hisdisappointment, was not there. 

The Colonel sprang to his feet when the guests entered, and quicklydoffed his felt hat which was balancing in a seemingly untenableposition on the side of his head. The priest, who removed his on thethreshold, acknowledged the courtesy with a bow and a keen glance whichincluded all in the room; then he stepped to the desk on the counter toenter his name in the ponderous leather-backed registry which Augustusopened for him. The little girl stood beside him, watching his everymovement. 

The Flamstedites saw before them a man in the prime of life, possiblyforty-five. He was fully six feet in height, noticeably erect, with anerectness that gave something of the martial to his carriage, spare butmuscular, shoulders high and square set, and above them a face deeplypock-marked, the features large but regular, the forehead broad andbulging rather prominently above the eyes. The eyes they could not see;but the voice made itself heard, and felt, while he was writing. The menpresent unconsciously welcomed it as a personality. 

"Can you tell me if Mrs. Louis Champney lives near here?" he said, addressing his host. 

"Yes, sir; just about a mile down the street at The Bow. "

"Oh, please, yer Riverence, write mine too, " said the child who, bystanding on tiptoe at the high counter, had managed to follow everystroke of the pen. 

The priest looked at the landlord with a frankly interrogatory smile. 

"To be sure, to be sure. Ain't you my guest as long as you're in myhome?" Augustus replied with such whole-souled heartiness that the childbeamed upon him and boldly held out her hand for the pen. 

"Let me write it, " she said decidedly, as if used to having her way. Colonel Caukins sprang to place a high three-legged stool for the littleregistree, and was about to lift her on, but the child, laughing aloud, managed to seat herself without his assistance, and forthwith gave herundivided attention to the entering of her name. 

Those present loved in after years to recall this scene: the old bar, the three-legged stool, the little girl perched on top, one foot twistedover the round--so busily intent upon making a fine signature that a tipof her tongue was visible held tightly against her left cheek--thecoarse straw hat, the clean but cheap blue dress, the heavy shoes thatemphasized the delicacy of her ankles and figure; and above her theleaning priest, smiling gravely with fatherly indulgence upon thisfirstling of his flock in Flamsted. 

[Illustration: "Those present loved in after years to recall thisscene"]

The child looked up for approval when she had finished and shaken, withan air of intense satisfaction, a considerable quantity of sand over thefresh ink. Evidently the look in the priest's eyes was reward enough, for, although he spoke no word, the little girl laughed merrily and inthe next moment hopped down rather unexpectedly from her high place andbusied herself with taking a survey of the office and its occupants. 

The priest took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Augustus, saying as he did so:

"This is Mr. Buzzby, I know; and here is a letter from Mr. Van Ostend inregard to this little girl. Her arrival is premature; but the matron ofthe institution, where she has been, wished to take advantage of mycoming to Flamsted to place her in my care. Mr. Van Ostend would like tohave her remain here with you for a few days if Mrs. Champney is notprepared to receive her just now. "

There was a general movement of surprise among the men in the office, and all eyes, with a question-mark visible in them, were turned towardsOctavius Buzzby. Upon him, the simple announcement had the effect of ashock; he felt the need of air, and slipped out to the veranda, but notbefore he received another bright smile from the little girl. He waitedoutside until he saw Augustus show the newcomers upstairs; then here-entered the office and went to the register which was the speculativefocus of interest for all the others. Octavius read:

 June 18, 1889--FR. JOHN FRANCIS HONORÉ, NEW YORK. AILEEN ARMAGH, ORPHAN ASYLUM, NEW YORK CITY. 

The Colonel was in a state of effervescing hilarity. He rubbed his handsenergetically, slapped Octavius on the back, and exclaimed in highfeather:

"How's this for the first drops of the deluge, eh, Tave?"

Octavius made no reply. He waited, as usual, for the evening's mail. Thecarrier handed him a telegram from New York for Mrs. Champney. It hadjust come up on the train from Hallsport. He wondered what connectionits coming might have with the unexpected arrival of this orphan child?

II

On his way home Octavius Buzzby found himself wondering, as he hadwondered many times before on occasion, how he could checkmate thislatest and most unexpected move on the part of the mistress ofChamp-au-Haut. His mind was perturbed and he realized, while making aneffort to concentrate his attention on ways and means, that he had beengiving much of his mental strength during the last twenty years to thesearch for ulterior motives on the part of Mrs. Louis Champney, a womanof sixty now, a Googe by birth (the Googes, through some genealogicalnecromancy, traced their descent from Sir Ferdinando Gorges. The namealone, not the blood, had, according to family tradition, sufferedcorruption with time), and the widow of Louis Champney, the late JudgeChampney's only son. 

The Champneys had a double strain of French blood in their veins, Bretonand Flemish; the latter furnished the collateral branch of the VanOstends. This intermixture, flowing in the veins of men and women whowere Americans by the birthright of more than two centuries' enjoymentof our country's institutions, had produced for several generations asfine a strain of brains and breeding as America can show. 

Louis Champney, the last of the line in direct descent, was looked uponfrom his boyhood up as the culmination of these centuries' flowering. When, at forty, he died without having fulfilled in any wise the greatexpectations of his townspeople and relations, the interest of thecommunity, as well as of the family, centred in the prospects of LouisChampney Googe, his namesake, and nephew on his wife's side. Here, again, numerous family interests as well as communal speculations weredisappointed. The Champney estate was left entire to the widow, AlmedaGooge Champney, to dispose of as she might deem fit. Her powers ofadministratrix were untrammelled save in one respect: Octavius Buzzbywas to remain in his position as factotum on the Champney estate andadviser for its interests. 

It was at this juncture, when Louis Champney died without rememberinghis nephew-in-law by so much as a book from his library and the boy wasten years old, that a crisis was discovered to be imminent in thefortunes of the Googe-Champney families, the many ramifications of whichwere intricately interwoven in the communal life of Flamsted. Thiscrisis had not been averted; for Aurora Googe, the sister-in-law of Mrs. Champney and mother of young Champney, sold a part of her land in TheGore for the first granite quarry, and in so doing changed for all timethe character and fortunes of the town of Flamsted. 

For many years Octavius Buzzby had championed openly and in secret thecause of Aurora Googe and her only son. To-night, while walking slowlyhomewards, he was pondering what attitude of mind he must assume, beforehe could deal adequately with the momentous event which had beenforeshadowed from the moment he learned from the priest's lips that Mr. Van Ostend was implicated in the coming of this orphan child. Herecalled that little Alice Van Ostend prattled much about this samechild during the week she had spent recently with her father atChamp-au-Haut. 

Was the mistress of Champ-au-Haut going to adopt her?

Almeda Champney had never wanted the blessing of a child, and, contraryto her young husband's wishes--he was her junior by twelve years--shehad had her way. Her nature was so absorbingly tenacious of whateverheld her narrow interests, that a child at Champ-au-Haut would havebroken, in a measure, her domination of her weaker-willed husband, because it would have centred in itself his love and ambition to "keepup the name. " That now, eleven years after Louis Champney's death, sheshould contemplate the introduction into her perfectly ordered householdof a child, an alien, was a revelation of appalling moment to Octavius. He scouted the idea that she would enter the house as an assistant. Nonewas needed; and, moreover, those small hands could accomplish little inthe next ten years. She meant to adopt her then! An alien was to inheritthe Champney property! Octavius actually shivered at the thought. 

Was it, could it be an act of spite against Aurora Googe? Was it a finalanswer to any expectations of her nephew, Champney Googe, her husband'snamesake and favorite? Was this little alien waif to be made a catspawfor her revenge? She was capable of such a thing, was Almeda Champney. _He_ knew her; none better! Had not her will, thus far in her life, benteverything with which it had come in contact; crushed whatever hadopposed it; broken irrevocably whosoever for a while had successfullyresisted it?

His thin lips drew to a straight line. All his manhood's strength ofdesire for fair play, a desire he had been fated to see unfulfilledduring the last twenty years, rose in rebellion to champion the cause ofthe little newcomer who smiled on him so brightly in the office of TheGreenbush. Nor did he falter in his resolution when he presented himselfat the library door with the telegram in his hand. 

"Come in, Octavius; was there any mail?"

"Only a telegram from New York. " He handed it to her. 

She opened and read it; then laid it on the table. She removed hereyeglasses, for she had grown far-sighted with advancing years, in orderto look at the back of the small man who was leaving the room. If he hadseen the smile that accompanied the action, he might well have falteredin his resolution to champion any righteous cause on earth. 

"Wait a moment, Octavius. "

"Now it's coming!" he thought and faced her again; he was bracinghimself mentally to meet the announcement. 

"Did you see the junk man at The Corners to-day about those shinglenails?"

In the second of hesitation before replying, he had time inwardly tocurse her. She was always letting him down in this way. It was a trickof hers when, to use his own expression, she had "something up hersleeve. "

"Yes; but he won't take them off our hands. "

"Why not?" She spoke sharply as was her way when she suspected anythwarting of her will or desire. 

"He says he won't give you your price for they ain't worth it. Theyain't particular good for old iron anyway; most on 'em's rusty andcrooked. You know they've been on the old coach house for good thirtyyears, and the Judge used to say--"

"What will he give?"

"A quarter of a cent a pound. "

"How many pounds are there?"

"Fifty-two. "

"Fifty-two--hm-m; he sha'n't have them. They're worth a half a cent apound if they're worth anything. You can store them in the workshop tillsomebody comes along that does want them, and will pay. " He turned againto leave her. 

"Just a moment, Octavius. " Once more he came back over the threshold. 

"Were there any arrivals at The Greenbush to-night?"

"I judged so from the register. "

"Did you happen to see a girl there?"

"I saw a child, a little girl, smallish and thin; a priest was withher. "

"A priest?" Mrs. Champney looked nonplussed for a moment and put on herglasses to cover her surprise. "Did you learn her name, the girl's?"

"It was in the register, Aileen Armagh, from an orphan asylum in NewYork. "

"Then she's the one, " she said in a musing tone but without the leastexpression of interest. She removed her glasses. Octavius took a stepbackwards. "A moment more, Octavius. I may as well speak of it now; I amonly anticipating by a week or two, at the most, what, in any case, Ishould have told you. While Mr. Van Ostend was here, he enlisted mysympathy in this girl to such an extent that I decided to keep her for afew months on trial before making any permanent arrangement in regard toher. I want to judge of her capability to assist Ann and Hannah in thehousework; Hannah is getting on in years. What do you think of her? Howdid she impress you? Now that I have decided to give her a trial, youmay speak freely. You know I am guided many times by your judgment insuch matters. "

Octavius Buzzby could have ground his teeth in impotent rage at thisspeech which, to his accustomed ears, rang false from beginning to end, yet was cloaked in terms intended to convey a compliment to himself. But, instead, he smiled the equivocal smile with which many a speech oflike tenor had been greeted, and replied with marked earnestness:

"I wouldn't advise you, Mrs. Champney, to count on much assistance froma slip of a thing like that. She's small, and don't look more 'n nine, and--"

"She's over twelve, " Mrs. Champney spoke decidedly; "and a girl oftwelve ought to be able to help Ann and Hannah in some of their work. "

"Well, I ain't no judge of children as there's never been any of lateyears at Champo. " He knew his speech was barbed. Mrs. Champney carefullyadjusted her glasses to the thin bridge of her straight white nose. "Andif there had been, I shouldn't want to say what they could do or whatthey couldn't at that age. Take Romanzo, now, he's old enough to work ifyou watch him; and now he's here I don't deny but what you had therights of it 'bout my needing an assistant. He takes hold handy if youshow him how, and is willing and steady. But two on 'em--I don't know;"he shook his head dubiously; "a growing boy and girl to feed and trainand clothe--seems as if--" Octavius paused in the middle of hissentence. He knew his ground, or thought he knew it. 

"You said yourself she was small and thin, and I can give her workenough to offset her board. Of course, she will have to go to school, but the tuition is free; and if I pay school taxes, that are increasingevery year, I might as well have the benefit of them, if I can, in myown household. "

There seemed no refutation needed to meet such an argument, and Octaviusretreated another step towards the door. 

"A moment more, Octavius, " she said blandly, for she knew he was longingto rid her of his presence; "Mr. Emlie has been here this evening anddrawn up the deeds conveying my north shore property to the New Yorksyndicate. Mr. Van Ostend has conducted all the negotiations at thatend, and I have agreed to the erection of the granite sheds on thoseparticular sites and to the extension of a railroad for the quarriesaround the head of the lake to The Corners. The syndicate are to controlall the quarry interests, and Mr. Van Ostend says in a few years theywill assume vast proportions, entailing an outlay of at least threemillions. They say there is to be a large electric plant at The Corners, for the mill company have sold them the entire water power at thefalls. --I hope Aurora is satisfied with what she has accomplished in soshort a time. Champney, I suppose, comes home next month?"

Octavius merely nodded, and withdrew in haste lest his indignation getthe upper hand of his discretion. It behooved him to be discreet at thisjuncture; he must not injure Aurora Googe's cause, which he deemed asrighteous a one as ever the sun shone upon, by any injudicious word thatmight avow his partisanship. 

Mrs. Champney smiled again when she saw his precipitous retreat. She hadfreighted every word with ill will, and knew how to raise his silentresentment to the boiling point. She rose and stepped quickly into thehall. 

"Tavy, " she called after him as he was closing the door into the backpassage. He turned to look at her; she stood in the full light of thehall-lamp. "Just a moment before you go. Did you happen to hear who thepriest is who came with the girl?"

"His name was in the ledger. The Colonel said he was a father--FatherHonoré, I can't pronounce it, from New York. "

"Is he stopping at The Greenbush?"

"He's put up there for to-night anyway. "

"I think I must see this priest; perhaps he can give me more detailedinformation about the girl. That's all. "

She went back into the library, closing the door after her. Octaviusshut his; then, standing there in the dimly lighted passageway, herelieved himself by doubling both fists and shaking them vigorously atthe panels of that same door, the while he simulated, first with onefoot then with the other, a lively kick against the baseboard, mutteringbetween his set teeth:

"The devil if it's all, you devilly, divelly, screwy old--"

The door opened suddenly. Simultaneously with its opening Octavius hadsufficient presence of mind to blow out the light. He drew his breathshort and fumbled in his pocket for matches. 

"Why, Tavy, you here!" (How well she knew that the familiar name "Tavy"was the last turn of the thumbscrew for this factotum of the Champneys!She never applied it unless she knew he was thoroughly worsted in thegame between them. ) "I was coming to find you; I forgot to say that youmay go down to-morrow at nine and bring her up. I want to look herover. "

She closed the door. Octavius, without stopping to relight the lamp, hurried up to his room in the ell, fearful lest he be recalled a fifthtime--a test of his powers of mental endurance to which he dared notsubmit in his present perturbed state. 

Mrs. Champney walked swiftly down the broad main hall, that ran throughthe house, to the door opening on the north terrace whence there was anunobstructed view up the three miles' length of Lake Mesantic to theFlamsted Hills; and just there, through a deep depression in theirmidst, the Rothel, a rushing brook, makes its way to the calm waters attheir gates. At this point, where the hills separate like the openingsepals of a gigantic calyx, the rugged might of Katahdin heaves head andshoulder into the blue. 

The irregular margin of the lake is fringed with pines of magnificentgrowth. Here and there the shores rise into cliffs, seamed at the topand inset on the face with slim white lady birches, or jut far into thewaters as rocky promontories sparsely wooded with fir and balsam spruce. 

Mrs. Champney stepped out upon the terrace. Her accustomed eyes lookedupon this incomparable, native scene that was set in the full beauty ofmid-summer's moonlight. She advanced to the broad stone steps, thatdescend to the level of the lake, and, folding her arms, her handsresting lightly upon them, stood immovable, looking northwards to theFlamsted Hills--looking, but not seeing; for her thoughts were leapingupwards to The Gore and its undeveloped resources; to Aurora Googe andthe part she was playing in this transitional period of Flamsted's life;to the future years of industrial development and, in consequence, herown increasing revenues from the quarries. She had stipulated thatevening that a clause, which would secure to her the rights of a firststockholder, should be inserted in the articles of conveyance. 

The income of eight thousand from the estate, as willed to her, hadincreased under her management, aided by her ability to drive a sharpbargain and the penuriousness which, according to Octavius, was capableof "making a cent squeal", to twelve thousand. The sale of her northshore lands would increase it another five thousand. Within a few years, according to Mr. Van Ostend--and she trusted him--her dividends from herstock would net her several thousands more. She was calculating, as shestood there gazing northwards, unseeing, into the serene night and thehill-peace that lay within it, how she could invest this increment forthe coming years, and casting about in her mathematically inclined mindfor means to make the most of it in interest per cent. She felt sure thefuture would show satisfactory results. --And after?

That did not appeal to her. 

She unfolded her arms, and gathering her skirt in both hands went downthe steps and took her stand on the lowest. She was still lookingnorthwards. Her skirt slipped from her left hand which she raised halfmechanically to let a single magnificent jewel, that guarded the plaincirclet of gold on her fourth finger, flash in the moonlight. She heldit raised so for a moment, watching the play of light from the facets. Suddenly she clinched her delicate fist spasmodically; shook it forciblyupwards towards the supreme strength of those silent hills, which, incomparison with the human three score and ten, may well be termed"everlasting", and, muttering fiercely under her breath, "_You_ shallnever have a penny of it!", turned, went swiftly up the steps, andentered the house. 

III

Had the mistress of Champ-au-Haut stood on the terrace a few minuteslonger, she might have seen with those far-sighted eyes of hers a darkform passing quickly along the strip of highroad that showed whitebetween the last houses at The Bow. It was Father Honoré. He walkedrapidly along the highway that, skirting the base of the mountain, follows the large curve of the lake shore. Rapid as was the pace, thequickened eyes were seeing all about, around, above. In passing beneatha stretch of towering pines, he caught between their still indefinitefoliage the gleam of the lake waters. He stopped short for a full minuteto pommel his resonant chest; to breathe deep, deep breaths of the nightbalm. Then he proceeded on his way. 

That way led northwards along the lake shore; it skirted the talus thathad fallen from the cliff which rose three hundred feet above him. Heheard the sound of a rolling stone gathering in velocity among therubble. He halted in order to listen; to trace, if possible, its course. The dull monotone of its rumbling rattle started a train of thought:perhaps his foot, treading the highway lightly, had caused the sensitiveearth to tremble just sufficiently to jar the delicately poised stoneand send it from its resting place! He went on. Thoughts not to beuttered crowded to the forefront of consciousness as he neared the cleftin the Flamsted Hills, whence the Rothel makes known to every wayfarerthat it has come direct from the heart of The Gore, and brought with itthe secrets of its granite veins. 

The road grew steeper; the man's pace did not slacken, but the straightback was bent at an angle which showed the priest had been accustomed tomountain climbing. In the leafy half-light, which is neither dawn nortwilight, but that reverential effulgence which is made by moonlightsifting finely through midsummer foliage, the Rothel murmured over itsrocky bed; once, when in a deep pool its babble wholly ceased, an owlbroke the silence with his "witti-hoo-hoo-hoo". 

Still upwards he kept his way and his pace until he emerged into thefull moonlight of the heights. There he halted and looked about him. Hewas near the apex of The Gore. To the north, above the foreground of thesea of hilltops, loomed Katahdin. At his right, a pond, some five acresin extent, lay at the base of cliff-like rocks topped with a fewprimeval pines. Everywhere there were barren sheep pastures alternatingwith acres of stunted fir and hemlock, and in sheltered nooks, adjacentto these coverts, he could discern something which he judged to be stonesheepfolds. Just below him, on the opposite side of the road and theRothel, which was crossed by a broad bridging of log and plank, stood along low stone house, to the north of which a double row of firs hadbeen planted for a windbreak. Behind him, on a rise of ground a few rodsfrom the highway, was a large double house of brick with deep granitefoundations and white granite window caps. Two shafts of the same stonesupported the ample white-painted entrance porch. Ancestral elmsover-leafed the roof on the southern side. One light shone from an upperwindow. Beyond the elms, a rough road led still upwards to the heightsbehind the house. 

The priest retraced his steps; turned into this road, for which thelandlord of The Greenbush had given him minute instructions, andfollowed its rough way for an eighth of a mile; then a sudden turnaround a shoulder of the hill--and the beginning of the famous Flamstedgranite quarries lay before him, gleaming, sparkling in the moonlight--asnow-white, glistening patch on the barren hilltop. Near it were a fewhuts of turf and stone for the accommodation of the quarrymen. This wasall. But it was the scene, self-chosen, of this priest's future labors;and while he looked upon it, thoughts unutterable crowded fast, too fastfor the brain already stimulated by the time and environment. He turnedabout; retraced his steps at the same rapid pace; passed again up thehighroad to the head of The Gore, then around it, across a barrenpasture, and climbed the cliff-like rock that was crowned by the ancientpines. He stood there erect, his head thrown back, his forehead to theradiant heavens, his eyes fixed on the pale twinklings of the sevenstars in the northernmost constellation of the Bear--rapt, caught awayin spirit by the intensity of feeling engendered by the hour, the place. Then he knelt, bowing his head on a lichened rock, and unto his Maker, and the Maker of that humanity he had elected to serve, he consecratedhimself anew. 

Ten minutes afterwards, he was coming down The Gore on his way back toThe Greenbush. He heard the agitated ringing of a bell-wether; then thesoft huddling rush of a flock of sheep somewhere in the distance. Asheep dog barked sharply; a hound bayed in answer till the hills northof The Gore gave back a multiple echo; but the Rothel kept its secrets, and with inarticulate murmuring made haste to deposit them in the quietlake waters. 

IV

"But, mother--"

There was an intonation in the protest that hinted at some irritation. Champney Googe emptied his pipe on the grass and knocked it cleanagainst the porch rail before he continued. 

"Won't it make a lot of talk? Of course, I can see your side of it; it'shospitable and neighborly and all that, to give the priest his meals fora while, but, --" he hesitated, and his mother answered his thought. 

"A little talk more or less after all there has been about the quarrywon't do any harm, and I'm used to it. " She spoke with some bitterness. 

"It _has_ stirred up a hornet's nest about your ears, that's a fact. Howdoes Aunt Meda take this latest move? Meat-axey as usual? I didn't seeher when I went there yesterday; she's in Hallsport for two days onbusiness, so Tave says. "

His mother smiled. "I haven't seen her since the sale was concluded, butI hear she has strengthened the opposition in consequence. I get myinformation from Mrs. Caukins. "

At the mention of that name Champney laughed out. "Good authority, mother. I must run over and see her to-night. Well, we don't care, dowe? I mean about the feeling. Mother, I just wish you were a man for oneminute. "

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to go up to you, man fashion, grip your hand, slap youon the back, and shout 'By Jove, old man, you've made a deal that wouldturn the sunny side of Wall Street green with envy!' How did you do it, mother? And without a lawyer! I'll bet Emlie is mad because he didn'tget a chance to put his finger in your pie. "

"I was thinking of you, of your future, and how you have been used byAlmeda Champney; and that gave me the confidence, almost the push of aman--and I dealt with them as a man with men; but I felt unsexed indoing it. I've wondered what they think of me. "

"Think of you! I can tell you what one man thinks of you, and that's Mr. Van Ostend. I had a note from him at the time of the sale asking me tocome to his office, an affidavit was necessary, and I found he had hadeyes in his head for the most beautiful woman in the world--"

"Champney!"

"Fact; and, what's more, I got an invitation to his house on thestrength of his recognition of that fact. I dined with him there; hissister is a stunning girl. "

"I'm glad such homes are open to you; it is your right and--itcompensates. "

"For what, mother?"

"Oh, a good many things. How do they live?"

"The Van Ostends?"

"Yes. "

Champney Googe hugged his knees and rocked back and forth on the stepbefore he answered. His merry face seemed to lengthen in feature, toharden in line. His mother left her chair and sewing to sit down on thestep beside him. She looked up inquiringly. 

"Just as _I_ mean to live sometime, mother, "--his fresh young voice rangdetermined and almost hard; his mother's eyes kindled;--"in a way thatexpresses Life--as you and I understand it, and don't live it, mother;as you and I have conceived of it while up here among these sheeppastures. " He glanced inimically for a moment at the barren slopes abovethem. "I have you to thank for making me comprehend the difference. " Hecontinued the rocking movement for a while, his hands still clasping hisknees. Then he went on:

"As for his home on the Avenue, there isn't its like in the city, and asa storehouse of the best in art it hasn't its equal in the country; it'sjust perfect from picture gallery to billiard room. As for adjuncts, there's a shooting box and a _bona fide_ castle in the ScottishHighlands, a cottage at Bar Harbor with the accessory of a steam yacht, and a racing stud on a Long Island farm. As a financier he's great!"

He sat up straight, and freely used his fists, first on one knee then onthe other, to emphasize his words; "His right hand is on one great leverof interstate traffic, his left on the other of foreign trade, and twocontinents obey his manipulations. His eye exacts trained efficiencyfrom thousands; his word is a world event; Wall Street is his automaton. Oh, the power of it all! I can't wait to get out into the stream, mother! I'm only hugging the shore at present; that's what has made mekick against this last year in college; it has been lost time, for Iwant to get rich quick. "

His mother laid her hand on his knee. "No, Champney, it's not lost time;it's one of your assets as a gentleman. "

He looked up at her, his blue eyes smiling into her dark ones. 

"I can be a gentleman all right without that asset; you said fatherdidn't go. "

"No, but the man for whom you are named went, and he told me once acollege education was a 'gentleman's asset. ' That expression was his. "

"Well, I don't see that the asset did him much good. It didn't seem todiscount his liabilities in other ways. Queer, how Uncle Louis went toseed--I mean, didn't amount to anything along any business orprofessional line. Only last spring I met the father of a second-yearman who remembers Uncle Louis well, said he was a classmate of his. Hetold me he was banner man every time and no end popular; the othersdidn't have a show with him. "

His mother was silent. Champney, apparently unheeding herunresponsiveness, rose quickly, shook himself together, and suddenlyburst into a mighty laughter that is best comparable to theinextinguishable species of the blessed gods. He laughed in arpeggios, peal on peal, crescendo and diminuendo, until, finally, he flung himselfdown on the short turf and in his merriment rolled over and over. Hebrought himself right side up at last, tears in his eyes and a sigh ofsatisfying exhaustion on his lips. To his mother's laughing query:

"What is it now, Champney?" He shook his head as if words failed him;then he said huskily:

"It's Aunt Meda's _protégée_. Oh, Great Scott! She'll be the death byshock of some of the Champo people if she stays another three months. Ihear Aunt Meda has had her Waterloo. Tavy buttonholed me out in thecarriage house yesterday, and told me the whole thing--oh, but it'srich!" He chuckled again. "He got me to feel his vest; says he can lapit three inches already and she has only been here two weeks; and asfor Romanzo, he's neither to have nor to hold when the girl's insight--wits topsy-turvy, actually, oh, Lord!"--he rolled over again onthe grass--"what do you think, mother! She got Roman to scour downJim--you know, the white cart-horse, the Percheron--with Hannah'scleaning powder, and the girl helped him, and together they got one sidedone and then waited for it to dry to see how it worked. Result: Tavedead ashamed to drive him in the cart for fear some one will see theyellow-white calico-circus horse, that the two rapscallions have left onhis hands, and doesn't want Aunt Meda to know it for fear she'll turndown Roman. He says he's going to put Jim out to grass in the Colonel'sback sheep pasture, and when Aunt Meda comes home lie about suddenspavin or something. And the joke of it is Roman takes it all as a partof the play, and has owned up to Tave that, by mistake, he blacked AuntMeda's walking boots, before she went to Hallsport, with axle grease, while the girl was 'telling novels' to him! Tave said Roman told him sheknew a lot of the nobility, marchionesses and 'sich'; and now Romanstruts around cocksure, high and mighty as if he'd just been madeK. C. B. , and there's no getting any steady work out of him. You shouldhave seen Tave's face when he was telling me!"

His mother laughed. "I can imagine it; he's worried over this new moveof Almeda's. I confess it puzzles me. "

"Well, I'm off to see some of the fun--and the girl. Tave said he didn'texpect Aunt Meda before to-morrow night, and it's a good time for me torubber round the old place a little on my own hook;--and, mother, "--hestooped to her; Aurora Googe raised her still beautiful eyes to thefrank if somewhat hard blue ones that looked down into hers; a finecolor mounted into her cheeks, --"take the priest for his meals, for allme. It's an invasion, but, of course, I recognize that we're responsiblefor it on account of the quarry business. I suppose we shall have tomake some concessions to all classes till we get away from here for goodand all--then we'll have our fling, won't we, mother?"

He was off without waiting for a reply. Aurora Googe watched him out ofsight, then turned to her work, the flush still upon her cheeks. 

V

Champney leaned on the gate of the paddock at Champ-au-Haut and lookedabout him. The estate at The Bow had been familiar to him throughout hischildhood and boyhood. He had been over every foot of it, and at allseasons, with his Uncle Louis. He was realizing that it had never seemedmore beautiful to him than now, seen in the warm light of a July sunset. In the garden pleasance, that sloped to the lake, the roses and liliesplanted there a generation ago still bloomed and flourished, and in theelm-shaded paddock, on the gate of which he was leaning, filly and foalcould trace their pedigree to the sixth and seventh generation ofdeep-chested, clean-flanked ancestors. 

The young man comprehended in part only, the reason of his mother'sextreme bitterness towards Almeda Champney. His uncle had loved him; hadkept him with him much of the time, encouraging him in his boyish aimsand ambitions which his mother fostered--and Louis Champney waschildless, the last in direct descent of a long line of fineancestors--. 

Here his thought was checked; those ancestors were his, only in ageneration far removed; the Champney blood was in his mother's veins. But his father was Almeda Champney's only brother--why then, should nothis mother count on the estate being his in the end? He knew this tohave been her hope, although she had never expressed it. He had gainedan indefinite knowledge of it through old Joel Quimber and Elmer Wigginsand Mrs. Milton Caukins, a distant relative of his father's. To be sure, Louis Champney might have left him his hunting-piece, which as a boy hehad coveted, just for the sake of his name--

He stopped short in his speculations for he heard voices in the lane. The cows were entering it and coming up to the milking shed. The laneled up from the low-lying lake meadows, knee deep with timothy andclover, and was fenced on both sides from the apple orchards whicharched and overshadowed its entire length. The sturdy over-reachingboughs hung heavy with myriads of green balls. Now and then one droppednoiselessly on the thick turf in the lane, and a noble Holstein mother, ebony banded with ivory white, her swollen cream-colored bag anddark-blotched teats flushed through and through by the delicate rose ofa perfectly healthy skin, lowered her meek head and, snuffing largely, caught sideways as she passed at the enticing green round. 

At the end of this lane there swung into view a tall loose-jointedfigure which the low strong July sunshine threw into bold relief. It wasRomanzo Caukins, one of the Colonel's numerous family, a boy of sixteenwho had been bound out recently to the mistress of Champ-au-Haut uponagreement of bed, board, clothes, three terms of "schooling" yearly, andthe addition of thirty dollars to be paid annually to the Colonel. 

The payment of this amount, by express stipulation, was to be made atthe end of each year until Romanzo should come into his majority. Bythis arrangement, Mrs. Champney assured to herself the interest on theaforesaid thirty dollars, and congratulated herself on the fact thatsuch increment might be credited to Milton Caukins as a minus quantity. 

Champney leaped the bars and went down the lane to meet him. 

"Hello, Roman, how are you?"

The boy's honest blue eyes, that seemed always to be looking forward ina chronic state of expectancy for the unexpected, beamed with goodnessand goodwill. He wiped his hands on his overalls and clasped Champney's. 

"Hullo, Champ, when'd you come?"

"Only yesterday. I didn't see you about when I was here in theafternoon. How do you like your job?"

The youth made an uncouth but expressive sign towards the milk shed. "Sh--Tave'll hear you. He and I ain't been just on good terms lately;but 'tain't my fault, " he added doggedly. 

At that moment a clear childish voice called from somewhere below thelane:

"Romanzo--Romanzo!"

The boy started guiltily. "I've got to go, Champ; she wants me. "

Champney seized him with a strong hand by the suspenders. "Here, holdon! Who, you gump?"

"The girl--le' me go. " But Champney gripped him fast. 

"No, you don't, Roman; let her yell. "

"Ro--man--zo-o-o-o!" The range of this peremptory call was two octavesat least. 

"By gum--she's up to something, and Tave won't stand any morefooling--le' me go!" He writhed in the strong grasp. 

"I won't either. I haven't been half-back on our team for nothing; sostand still. " And Romanzo stood still, perforce. 

Another minute and Aileen came running up the lane. She was wearing thesame heavy shoes, the same dark blue cotton dress, half covered now witha gingham apron--Mrs. Champney had not deemed it expedient to furnish awardrobe until the probation period should have decided her for oragainst keeping the child. She was bareheaded, her face flushed with theheat and her violent exercise. She stopped short at a little distancefrom them so soon as she saw that Romanzo was not alone. She tossed backher braid and stamped her foot to emphasize her words:

"Why didn't yer come, Romanzo Caukins, when I cried ter yer!"

"'Coz I couldn't; he wouldn't let me. " He spoke anxiously, making signstowards the shed. But Aileen ignored them; ignored, also, the fact thatany one was present besides her slave. 

Champney answered for himself. He promptly bared his head and advancedto shake hands; but Aileen jerked hers behind her. 

"I'm Mr. Champney Googe, at your service. Who are you?"

The little girl was sizing him up before she accepted the advance;Champney could tell by the "East-side" look with which she favored him. 

"I'm Miss Aileen Armagh, and don't yer forget it!--at your service. " Shemimicked him so perfectly that Champney chuckled and Romanzo doubled upin silent glee. 

"I sha'n't be apt to, thank you. Come, let's shake hands, Miss AileenArmagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, for we've got to be friends if you're tostay here with my aunt. " He held out both hands. But the little girlkept her own obstinately behind her and backed away from him. 

"I can't. "

"Why not?"

"'Coz they're all stuck up with spruce gum and Octavius said nothingwould take it off but grease, and--" she turned suddenly upon Romanzo, blazing out upon him in her wrath--"I hollered ter yer so's yer couldget some for me from Hannah, and you was just dirt mean not to answerme. "

"Champ wouldn't let me go, " said Romanzo sulkily; "besides, I dassn'task Hannah, not since I used the harness cloth she gave to clean downJim. "

"Yer 'dassn't!' Fore I'd be a boy and say 'I dassn't!'" There wasinexpressible scorn in her voice. She turned to Champney, her eyesbrimming with mischief and flashing a challenge:

"And yer dassn't shake hands with me 'coz mine are all stuck up, sonow!"

Champney had not anticipated this _pronunciamento_, but he accepted thechallenge on the instant. "Dare not! You can't say that to me! Here, give me your hands. " Again he held out his shapely well-kept members, and Aileen with a merry laugh brought her grimy sticky little paws intoview and, without a word, laid them in Champney's palms. He held themclose, purposely, that they might adhere and provide him with some fun;then, breaking into his gay laugh he said:

"Clear out, Roman; Tave 'll be looking for the milk pails. As for you, Miss Aileen Armagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, you can't pull away from menow. So, come on, and we'll get Hannah to give us some lard and thenwe'll go down to the boat house where it is cool and cleanup. Come on!"

Holding her by both hands he raced her down the long lane, through thevegetable garden, all chassez, down the middle, swing yourpartner--Aileen wild with the fun--up the slate-laid kitchen walk to thekitchen door. His own laughter and the child's, happy, merry, care-free, rang out peal on peal till Ann and Hannah and Octavius paused in theirwork to listen, and wished that such music might have been heard oftenduring their long years of faithful service in childless Champ-au-Haut. 

"I hear you are acquainted with some of the nobility, marchionesses andso forth, " said Champney; the two were sitting in the shadow of the boathouse cleaning their fingers with the lard Hannah had provided. "Wheredid you make their acquaintance?"

Aileen paused in the act of sliding her greasy hands rapidly over andover in each other, an occupation which afforded her unmixed delight, tolook up at him in amazement. "How did yer know anything 'bout her?"

"Oh, I heard. "

"Did Romanzo Caukins tell yer?" she demanded, as usual on the defensive. 

"No, oh no; it was only hearsay. Do tell me about her. We don't have anyround here. "

Aileen giggled and resumed the rapid rotary motion of her still unwashedhands. "If I tell yer 'bout her, yer'll tell her I told yer. P'rapssometime, if yer ever go to New York, yer might see her; and shewouldn't like it. "

"How do you know but what I have seen her? I've just come from there. "

Aileen looked her surprise again. "That's queer, for I've just landedfrom New York meself. "

"So I understood; does the marchioness live there too?"

She shook her head. "I ain't going to tell yer; but I'll tell yer 'boutsome others I know. "

"That live in New York?"

"Wot yer giving me?" She laughed merrily; "they live where the Dagoslive, in Italy, yer know, and--"

"Italy? What are they doing over there?"

"--And--just yer wait till I'll tell yer--they live on an island in abe-ee-u-tiful lake, like this;" she looked approvingly at the liquidmirror that reflected in its rippleless depths the mountain shadow andsunset gold; "and they live in great marble houses, palaces, yer know, and flower gardens, and wear nothing but silks and velvet and pearls, ropes, --yer mind?--ropes of 'em; and the lords and ladies have concerts, yer know, better 'n in the thayertre--"

"What do you know about the theatre?" Champney was genuinely surprised;"I thought you came from an orphan asylum. "

"Yer did, did yer!" There was scorn in her voice. "Wot do I know 'boutthe thayertre?--Oh, but yer green!" She broke into another merry laughwhich, together with the patronage of her words and certain unsavorymemories of his own, nettled Champney more than he would have cared toacknowledge. 

"Better 'n the thayertre, " she repeated emphatically; "and the lordsserenade the ladies--Do yer know wot a serenade is?" She interruptedherself to ask the question with a strong doubt in the interrogation. 

"I've heard of 'em, " said Champney meekly; "but I don't think I've everseen one. "

"I'll tell yer 'bout 'em. The lords have guitars and go out in themoonlight and stand under the ladies' windys and play, and the ladiesmake believe they haven't heard; then they look up all round at the moonand sigh _awful_, --" she sighed in sympathy, --"and then the lords beginto sing and tell 'em they love 'em and can't live without a--a token. I'll bet yer don't know wot that is?"

"No, of course I don't; I'm not a lord, and I don't live in Italy. "

"Well, I'll tell yer. " Her tone was one of relenting indulgence for hisignorance. "Sometimes it's a bow that they make out of the ribbon theirdresses is trimmed with, and sometimes it's a flower, a rose, yer know;and the lord sings again--can yer sing?"

Her companion repressed a smile. "I can manage a tune or two at apinch. "

"And the lady comes out on the balcony and leans over--like this, yerknow;" she jumped up and leaned over the rail of the float, keeping herhands well in front of her to save her apron; "and she listens and keepslooking, and when he sings he's going to die because he loves her so, she throws the token down to him to let him know he mustn't die 'coz sheloves him too; and he catches it, the rose, yer know, and smells it andthen he kisses it and squeezes it against his heart--" she forgot hergreasy hands in the rapture of this imaginative flight, and pressed themtheatrically over her gingham apron beneath which her own little organwas pulsing quick with the excitement of this telling moment; "--andthen the moon shines just as bright as silver and--and she marries him. "

She drew a deep breath. During the recital she had lost herself in thepersonating of the favorite characters from her one novel. While shestood there looking out on the lake and the Flamsted Hills with eyesthat were still seeing the gardens and marble terraces of Isola Bella, Champney Googe had time to fix that picture on his mental retina and, recalling it in after years, knew that the impression was "more lastingthan bronze. "

She came rather suddenly to herself when she grew aware of her lardedhands pressed against her clean apron. 

"Oh, gracious, but I'll catch it!" she exclaimed ruefully. "Wot'll I donow? She said I'd got to keep it clean till she got back, and she'llfire me and--and I want to stay awful; it's just like the story, yerknow. " She raised her gray eyes appealingly to his, and he saw at oncethat her childish fear was real. He comforted her. 

"I'll tell you what: we'll go back to Hannah and she'll fix it for you;and if it's spoiled I'll go down and get some like it in the village andmy mother will make you a new one. So, cheer up, Miss Aileen Armaghand-don't-yer-forget-it! And to-morrow evening, if the moon is out, we'll have a serenade all by ourselves; what do you say to that?"

"D' yer mane it?" she demanded, half breathless in her earnestness. 

He nodded. 

Aileen clapped her hands and began to dance; then she stopped suddenlyto say: "I ain't going to dance for yer now; but I will sometime, " sheadded graciously. "I've got to go now and help Ann. What time are yercoming for the serenade?"

"I'll be here about eight; the moon will be out by then and we must havea moon. "

She started away on the run, beckoning to him with her unwashed hands:"Come on, then, till I show yer my windy. It's the little one over thedining-room. There ain't a balcony, but--see there! there's the top ofthe bay windy and I can lean out--why didn't yer tell me yer could playthe guitar?"

"Because I can't. "

"A harp, belike?"

"No; guess again. "

"Yer no good;--but yer'll come?"

"Shurre; an' more be token it's at eight 'o the clock Oi'll be under yerwindy. " He gave the accent with such Celtic gusto that the little girlwas captivated. 

"Ain't you a corker!" she said admiringly and, waving her hand again tohim, ran to the house. Champney followed more slowly to lay the casebefore Ann and Hannah. 

On his way homeward he found himself wondering if he had ever seen thechild before. As she leaned on the rail and looked out over the lake, acertain grace of attitude, which the coarse clothing failed to conceal, the rapt expression in the eyes, the _timbre_ of her voice, all awakeneda dim certainty that he had seen her before at some time and placedistinctly unusual; but where? He turned the search-light ofconcentrated thought upon his comings and goings and doings during thelast year and more. Where had he seen just such a child?

He looked up from the roadway, on which his eyes had been fixed whilehis absent thought was making back tracks over the last twelve months, and saw before him the high pastures of The Gore. In the long afterglowof the July sunset they enamelled the barren heights with a rich, yellowish green. In a flash it came to him: "The green hill far awaywithout a city wall"; the child singing on the vaudeville stage; thehush in the audience. He smiled to himself. He was experiencing thatsatisfaction which is common to all who have run down the quarry of along-hunted recollection. 

"She's the very one, " he said to himself; "I wonder if Aunt Medaknows. "

VI

That which proves momentous in our lives is rarely anticipated, seldomcalculated. Its factors are for the most part unknown quantities; if notprime in themselves they are, at least, prime to each other. It cannotbe measured in terms of time, for often it lies between two infinities. But the momentous decision, event, action, which reacts upon the life ofa man or woman and influences that life so long as it is lived here onearth, is on the surface sufficiently finite for us to say: It was onsuch a day I made my decision; to such and such an event I can look backas the cause of all that has followed. The How thereof remains traceableto our purblind eyes for a month, a term of years, one generation, possibly two; the Where and When can generally be defined; but the _Why_we ask blindly, and are rarely answered satisfactorily. 

Had young Googe been told, while he was walking homewards up The Gore, that his life line, like the antenna of the wireless, was even then therecipient and transmitter of multiple influences that had been, as itwere, latent in the storage batteries of a generation; that what he wasto be in the future was at this very hour in germ for development, hewould have scouted the idea. His young self-sufficiency would havelaughed the teller to scorn. He would have maintained as a man hismastership of his fate and fortunes, and whistled as carelessly as hewhistled now for the puppy, an Irish terrier which he had brought homewith him, for training, to come and meet him. 

And the puppy, whose name was Ragamuffin and called Rag for short, cameduly, unknowing, like his young master, to meet his fate. He wriggledbroad-side down the walk as a puppy will in his first joy till, overpowered by his emotions, he rolled over on his back at Champney'sfeet, the fringes of his four legs waving madly in air. 

"Champney, I'm waiting for you. " It was his mother calling from thedoor. He ran in through the kitchen, and hurried to make himselfpresentable for the table and their guest whom he saw on the frontporch. 

As he entered the dining-room, his mother introduced him: "FatherHonoré, my son, Champney. "

The two men shook hands, and Mrs. Googe took her seat. The priest bowedhis head momentarily to make the sign of the cross. Champney Googe shotone keen, amazed look in his direction. When that head was liftedChampney "opened fire, " so he termed it to himself. 

"I think I've seen you before, sir. " It was hard for him to give thetitle "Father. " "I got in your way, didn't I, at the theatre one eveningover a year ago?"

His mother looked at him in amazement and something of anxiety. Was herson in his prejudice forgetting himself?

"Indeed, I think it was the other way round, I was in your way, for Iremember thinking when you ran up against me 'that young fellow has beenhalf-back on a football team. '"

Champney laughed. There was no withstanding this man's voice and theveiled humor of his introductory remarks. 

"Did I hit hard? I didn't think for a moment that you would recognizeme; but I knew you as soon as mother introduced us. I see by your face, mother, that you need enlightening. It was only that I met FatherHonoré"--he brought that out with no hesitation--"at the entrance to oneof the New York theatres over a year ago, and in the crowd nearly ranhim down. No wonder, sir, you sized me up by the pressure as a footballfiend. That's rich!" His merry laugh reassured his mother; she turned toFather Honoré. 

"I don't know whether all my son's acquaintances are made at the theatreor not, but it is a coincidence that the other day he happened tomention the fact that the first time he saw Mr. Van Ostend he saw himthere. "

"It's my strong impression, Mrs. Googe, that Mr. Googe saw us both atthe same place, at the same time. Mr. Van Ostend spoke to me of your sonjust a few days before I left New York. "

"Did he?" Champney's eager blue eyes sought the priest's. "Do you knowhim well?"

"As we all know him through his place in the world of affairs. Personally I have met him only a few times. You may know, perhaps, thathe was instrumental in placing little Aileen Armagh, the orphanchild, --you know whom I mean?--at Mrs. Champney's, your aunt, Mrs. Googetells me. "

"I was just going to ask you if you would be willing to tell ussomething about her, " said Mrs. Googe. "I've not seen her, but from allI hear she is a most unusual child, most interesting--"

"Interesting, mother!" Champney interrupted her rather explosively;"she's unique, the only and ever Aileen Armagh. " He turned again toFather Honoré. "Do tell us about her; I've been so blockheaded Icouldn't put two and two together, but I'm beginning to see daylight atlast. I made her acquaintance this afternoon. That's why I was a littlelate, mother. "

How we tell, even the best of us, with reserves! Father Honoré told ofhis interest being roused, as well as his suspicions, by the wording ofthe poster, and of his determination to see for himself to what extentthe child was being exploited. But of the thought-lever, the "LittleTrout", that raised that interest, he made no mention; nor, indeed, wasit necessary. 

"You see there is a class of foreigners on the East side that receivecommissions for exploiting precocious children on the stage; they arevery clever in evading the law. The children themselves are helpless. Ihad looked up a good many cases before this because it was in my line ofwork, and in this particular one I found that the child had beenorphaned in Ireland almost from her birth; that an aunt, withoutrelatives, had emigrated with her only a few months before I saw her onthe stage, and the two had lived in an east side tenement with an oldItalian. The child's aunt, a young woman about twenty-eight, developedquick consumption during the winter and died in the care of the Italian, Nonna Lisa they call her. This woman cared for the little girl, andbegan to take her out with her early in March on the avenues and streetsof the upper west side. The old woman is an itinerant musician and playsthe guitar with real feeling--I've heard her--and, by the way, makes adecent little living of her own. She found that Aileen had a good voiceand could sing several Irish songs. She learned the accompaniments, andthe two led, so far as I can discover, a delightful life of vagabondagefor several weeks. It seems the old Italian has a grandson, Luigi, whosings in vaudeville with a travelling troop. He was in the west andsouth during the entire time that Aileen was with his grandmother; andthrough her letters he learned of the little girl's voice. He spoke ofthis to his manager, and he communicated with the manager of a Broadwayvaudeville--they are both in the vaudeville trust--and asked him toengage her, and retain her for the troop when they should start on theirannual autumn tour. But Nonna Lisa was shrewd. --It's wonderful, Mrs. Googe, how quickly they develop the sixth sense of cautious speculationafter landing! She made a contract for six weeks only, hoping to raiseher price in the autumn. So I found that the child was not beingexploited, except legitimately, by the old Italian who was caring forher and guarding her from all contamination. But, of course, that couldnot go on, and I had the little girl placed in the orphan asylum on----nd Street--" He interrupted himself to say half apologetically:

"I am prolix, I fear, but I am hoping you will be personally interestedin this child whose future life will, I trust, be spent here far awayfrom the metropolitan snares. I am sure she is worth your interest. "

"I know she is, " said Champney emphatically; "and the more we know ofher the better. You'll laugh at my experience when you have heard it;but first let us have the whole of yours. "

"You know, of course, where Mr. Van Ostend lives?" Champney nodded. "Didyou happen to notice the orphan asylum just opposite on ----nd Street?"

"No; I don't recall any building of that sort. "

He smiled. "Probably not; that is not in your line and we men are apt tosee only what is in the line of our working vision. It seems that Mr. Van Ostend has a little girl--"

"I know, that's the Alice I told you of, mother; did you see her whenshe was here last month?"

"No; I only met Mr. Van Ostend on business. You were saying--?" Sheaddressed Father Honoré. 

"His little daughter told him so much about two orphan children, withwhom she had managed to have a kind of across-street-and-windowacquaintance, that he proposed to her to have the children over forChristmas luncheon. The moment he saw Aileen, he recognized in her thechild on the vaudeville stage to whom he had given the flowers--Youremember that incident?"

"Don't I though!"

"--Because she had sung his wife's favorite hymn. He was thoroughlyinterested in the child after seeing her, so to say, at close range, andtook the first opportunity to speak with the Sister Superior in regardto finding for her a suitable and permanent home. The Sister Superiorreferred him to me. As you know, he came to Flamsted recently with thissame little daughter; and the child talked so much and told so manyamusing things about Aileen to Mrs. Champney, that Mr. Van Ostend saw atonce this was an opportunity to further his plans, although he confidedto me his surprise that his cousin, Mrs. Champney, should be willing tohave so immature a child, in her house. Directly on getting home, hetelephoned to me that he had found a home for her with a relation of hisin Flamsted. You may judge of my surprise and pleasure, for I hadreceived the appointment to this place and the work among the quarrymenonly a month before. This is how the little girl happened to come upwith me. I hear she is making friends. "

"She can't help making them, and a good deal more besides; for RomanzoCaukins, our neighbor's son, and Octavius Buzzby, my aunt's _chargéd'affaires_, are at the present time her abject slaves, " said Champney, rising from the table at a signal from his mother. "Let's go out on theporch, and I'll tell you of the fun I've had with her--poor Roman!" Heshook his head and chuckled. 

He stepped into the living-room as he passed through the hall andreached for his pipe in a rack above the mantel. "Do you smoke, " heasked half-hesitatingly, but with an excess of courtesy in his voice asif he were apologizing for asking such a question. 

"Sometimes; a pipe, if you please. " He held out his hand; Champneyhanded him a sweetbrier and a tobacco pouch. "You permit, Madam?" Hespoke with old world courtesy. Aurora Googe smiled permission. She sawwith satisfaction her son's puzzled look of inquiry as he noted theconnoisseurship with which Father Honoré handled his after-supper tools. 

Mrs. Milton Caukins, their neighbor in the stone house across the bridgeover the Rothel, stood for several minutes at her back door listening toChampney's continued arpeggios and wondered whose was the deep heartylaugh that answered them. In telling his afternoon's experienceChampney, also, had his reserves: of the coming serenade he said never aword to the priest. 

"He's O. K. And a man, mother, " was his comment on their guest, as hebade her good night. Aurora Googe answered him with a smile thatbetokened content, but she was wise enough not to commit herself inwords. Afterwards she sat long in her room, planning for her son'sfuture. The twenty thousand she had just received for the undevelopedquarry lands should serve to start him well in life. 

VII

On the following day, mother and son constituted themselves a committeeof ways and means as to the best investment of the money in furtheranceof Champney's interests. Her ambition was gratified in that she saw himanxious to take his place in the world of affairs, to "get on" and, ashe said, make his mark early in the world of finance. 

The fact that, during his college course, he had spent the five thousandreceived from the sale of the first quarry, plus the interest on thesame without accounting for a penny of it, seemed to his motherperfectly legitimate; for she had sold the land and laid by the amountpaid for it in order to put her son through college. Since he was twelveyears old she had brought him up in the knowledge that it was to be hisfor that purpose. From the time he came, through her generosity, intopossession of the property, she always replied to those who had thecourage to criticise her course in placing so large a sum at thedisposal of a youth:

"My son is a man. I realize I can suggest, but not dictate; moreover Ihave no desire to. "

She drew the line there, and rarely had any one dared to expostulatefurther with her. When they ventured it, Aurora Googe turned upon themthose dark eyes, in which at such times there burned a seeminglyunquenchable light of self-feeding defiance, and gave them tounderstand, with a repelling dignity of manner that bordered hard onhaughtiness, that what she and her son might or might not do was noone's concern but their own. This self-evident truth, when it struckhome to her well-wishers, made her no friends. Nor did she regret this. She had dwelt, as it were, apart, since her marriage and earlywidowhood--her husband had died seven months before Champney wasborn--on the old Googe estate at The Gore. But she was a good neighbor, as Mrs. Caukins could testify; paid her taxes promptly, and minded herflocks, the source of her limited income, until wool-raising in NewEngland became unprofitable. An opportunity was presented when her boywas ten years old to sell a portion of the barren sheep pastures for thefirst quarry. She counted herself fortunate in being able thus toprovide for Champney's four college years. 

In all the village, there were only three men, whom Aurora Googe namedfriend. These men, with the intimacy born of New England's community ofinterest, called her to her face by her Christian name; they wereOctavius Buzzby, old Joel Quimber, and Colonel Caukins. There had beenone other, Louis Champney, who during his lifetime promised to do muchfor her boy when he should have come of age; but as the promises werenever committed to black and white, they were, after his death, asthough they had never been. 

"If only Aunt Meda would fork over some of hers!" Champney exclaimedwith irritation. They were sitting on the porch after tea. "All I wantis a seat in the Stock Exchange--and the chance to start in. I believeif I had the money Mr. Van Ostend would help me to that. "

"You didn't say anything to him about your plans, did you?"

"Well, no; not exactly. But it isn't every fellow gets a chance to dineat such a man's table, and I thought the opportunity was too good to bewasted entirely. I let him know in a quiet way that I, like every otherfellow, was looking for a job. " Champney laughed aloud at the shockedlook on his mother's face. He knew her independence of thought andaction; it brooked no catering for favors. 

"You see, mother, men _have_ to do it, or go under. It's about onechance in ten thousand that a man gets what he wants, and it's downrightcriminal to throw away a good opportunity to get your foot on a round. Run the scaling ladder up or down, it doesn't much matter--there arehundreds of applicants for every round; and only one man can stand oneach--and climb, as I mean to. You don't get this point of view up here, mother, but you will when you see the development of these greatinterests. Then it will be each for himself and the devil gets thehindermost. Shouldn't I take every legitimate means to forge ahead? Youheard what the priest said about Mr. Van Ostend's mentioning me to him?Let me tell you such men don't waste one breath in mentioning anythingthat does not mean a big interest per cent, _not one breath_. Theycan't, literally, afford to; and I'm hoping, only hoping, you know--", he looked up at her from his favorite seat on the lowest step of thefront porch with a keen hard expectancy in his eyes that belied hiswords, "--that what he said to Father Honoré means something definite. Anyhow, we'll wait a while till we see how the syndicate takes hold ofthis quarry business before we decide on anything, won't we, mother?"

"I'm willing to wait as long as you like if you will only promise me onething. "

"What's that?" He rose and faced her; she saw that he was slightly onthe defensive. 

"That you will never, _never_, in any circumstances, apply to your AuntAlmeda for funds, no matter how much you may want them. I couldn't bearthat!"

She spoke passionately in earnest, with such depth of feeling that shedid not realize her son was not giving her the promise when he saidabruptly, the somewhat hard blue eyes looking straight into hers:

"Mother, why are you so hard on Aunt Meda? She's a stingy old screw, Iknow, and led Uncle Louis round by the nose, so everybody says; but whyare you so down on her?"

He was insistent, and his insistence was the one trait in his characterwhich his mother had found hardest to deal with from his babyhood; fromit, however, if it should develop happily into perseverance, she hopedthe most. This trait he inherited from his father, Warren Googe, but inthe latter it had deteriorated into obstinacy. She always feared for herself-control when she met it in her son, and just now she was under theinfluence of a powerful emotion that helped her to lose it. 

"Because, " she made answer, again passionately but the earnestness hadgiven place to anger, "I am a woman and have borne from her what nowoman bears and forgets, or forgives! Are you any the wiser now?" shedemanded. "It is all that I shall tell you; so don't insist. "

The two continued to look into each other's eyes, and something, itcould hardly be called inimical, rather an aloofness from the tie ofblood, was visible to each in the other's steadfast gaze. Aurora Googeshivered. Her eyes fell before the younger ones. 

"Don't Champney! Don't let's get upon this subject again; I can't bearit. "

"But, mother, " he protested, "you mentioned it first. "

"It was what you said about Almeda's furnishing you with money thatstarted it. Don't say anything more about it; only promise me, won'tyou?"

She raised her eyes again to his, but this time in appeal. At forty-oneAurora Googe was still a very beautiful woman, and her appeal, madegently as if in apology for her former vehemence, rendered that beautypotent with her son's manhood. 

"Let me think it over, mother, before I promise. " He answered her asgently. "It's a hard thing to exact of a man, and I don't hold much withpromises. What did Uncle Louis' amount to?"

The blood surged into his mother's face, and tears, rare ones, for shewas not a weak woman neither was she a sentimental one, filled her eyes. Her son came up the steps and kissed her. They were seldom demonstrativeto this extent save in his home-comings and leave-takings. He changedthe subject abruptly. 

"I'm going down to the village now. You know I have the serenade on myprogram, at eight. Afterwards I'll run down to The Greenbush for themail and to see my old cronies. I haven't had a chance yet. " He began towhistle for the puppy, but cut himself short, laughing. "I was going totake Rag, but he won't fit in with the serenade. Keep him tied up whileI'm gone, please. Anything you want from the village, mother?"

"No, not to-night. "

"Don't sit up for me; I may be late. Joel is long-winded and the Colonelis booming The Gore for all it is worth and more too; I want to hear thefun. Good night. "

VIII

The afterglow of sunset was long. The dilated moon, rising from thewaters of the Bay, shone pale at first; but as it climbed the shoulderof the mountain _Wave-of-the-Sea_ and its light fell upon the farthermargin of the lake, its clear disk was pure argent. 

Champney looked his approval. It was the kind of night he had beenhoping for. He walked leisurely down the road from The Gore for thenight was warm. It was already past eight, but he lingered, purposely, afew minutes longer on the lake shore until the moonlight should widen onthe waters. Then he went on to the grounds. 

He entered by the lane and crossed the lawn to an arching rose-ladentrellis near the bay window; beneath it was a wooden bench. He looked upat the window. The blinds were closed. So far as he could see there wasno light in all the great house. Behind the rose trellis was a group ofstately Norway spruce; he could see the sheen of their foliage in themoonlight. He took his banjo out of its case and sat down on the bench, smiling to himself, for he was thoroughly enjoying, with that enjoymentof youth, health, and vitality which belongs to twenty-one, this rusticadventure. He touched the strings lightly with preliminary thrumming. Itwas a toss-up between "Annie Rooney" and "Oft in the stilly night. " Hedecided for the latter. Raising his eyes to the closed blinds, behindwhich he knew the witch was hiding, he began the accompaniment. The soft_thrum-thrum_, vibrating through the melody, found an echo in thewhirring wings of all that ephemeral insect life which is abroad on sucha night. The prelude was almost at an end when he saw the blinds beginto separate. Champney continued to gaze steadily upwards. A thin barearm was thrust forth; the blinds opened wide; in the dark window spacehe saw Aileen, listening intently and gazing fixedly at the moon as ifits every beam were dropping liquid music. 

He began to sing. His voice was clear, fine, and high, a useful firsttenor for two winters in the Glee Club. When he finished Aileen deignedto look down upon him, but she made no motion of recognition. He roseand took his stand directly beneath the window. 

"I say, Miss Aileen Armagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, that isn't playingfair! Where's my token?"

There was a giggle for answer; then, leaning as far out as she dared, both hands stemmed on the window ledge, the child began to sing. Full, free, joyously light-hearted, she sent forth the rollicking Irish melodyand the merry sentiment that was strung upon it; evidently it had beenadapted to her, for the words had suffered a slight change:

 "Och! laughin' roses are my lips, Forget-me-nots my ee, It's many a lad they're drivin' mad; Shall they not so wi' ye? Heigho! the morning dew! Heigho! the rose and rue! Follow me, my bonny lad, For I'll not follow you. 

 "Wi' heart in mout', in hope and doubt, My lovers come and go: My smiles receive, my smiles deceive; Shall they not serve you so? Heigho! the morning dew! Heigho! the rose and rue! Follow me, my bonny lad, For I'll not follow you. "

It was a delight to hear her. 

"There now, I'll give yer my token. Hold out yer hands!"

Champney, hugging his banjo under one arm, made a cup of his hands. Carefully measuring the distance, she dropped one rosebud into them. 

"Put it on yer heart now, " was the next command from above. He obeyedwith exaggerated gesture, to the great delight of the serenadee. "Andyer goin' to keep it?"

"Forever and a day. " Champney made this assertion with ahyper-sentimental inflection of voice, and, lifting the flower to hisnose, drew in his breath--

"Confound you, you little fiend--" he sneezed rather than spoke. 

The sneeze was answered by a peal of laughter from above and afifteen-year-old's cracked "Haw-haw-haw" from the region of the Norwayspruces. Every succeeding sneeze met with a like response--roars oflaughter on the one hand and peal upon peal on the other. Even thekitchen door began to give signs of life, for Hannah and Ann made theirappearance. 

The strong white pepper, which Romanzo managed to procure from Hannah, had been cunningly secreted by Aileen between the imbricate petals, andthen tied, in a manner invisible at night, with a fine thread of pinksilk begged from Ann. It was now acting and re-acting on the lining ofthe serenader's olfactory organ in a manner to threaten finaldecapitation. Champney was still young enough to resent being made asubject of such practical joking by a little girl; but he was alsosufficiently wise to acknowledge to himself that he had been worstedand, in the end, to put a good face on it. It is true he would havepreferred that Romanzo Caukins had not been witness to his defeat. 

The sneezing and laughter gradually subsided. He sat down again on thebench and taking up his banjo prepared, with somewhat elaborate effort, to put it into its case. He said nothing. 

"Say!" came in a sobered voice from above; "are yer mad with me?"

Ignoring both question and questioner, he took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and forehead and, returning it to his pocket, heaved asigh of apparent exhaustion. 

"I say, Mr. Champney Googe, are yer mad with me?"

To Champney's delight, he heard an added note of anxiety. He bowed hishead lower over the banjo case and in silence renewed his simulatedstruggle to slip that instrument into it. 

"Champney! Are yer _rale_ mad with me?" There was no mistaking theearnestness of this appeal. He made no answer, but chuckled inwardly atthe audacity of the address. 

"Champ!" she stamped her foot to emphasize her demand; "if yer don'ttell me yer ain't mad with me, I'll lave yer for good and all--so now!"

"I don't know that I'm mad with you, " he spoke at last in an aggrieved, a subdued tone; "I simply didn't think you could play me such a meantrick when I was in earnest, dead earnest. "

"Did yer mane it?"

"Why, of course I did! You don't suppose a man walks three miles in ahot night to serenade a girl just to get an ounce of pepper in his noseby way of thanks, do you?"

"I thought yer didn't mane it; Romanzo said yer was laughing at me fortelling yer 'bout the lords and ladies a-making love with theirguitars. " The voice indicated some dejection of spirits. 

"He did, did he! I'll settle with Romanzo later. " He heard a softbrushing of branches in the region of the Norway spruces and knew thatthe youth was in retreat. "And I'll settle it with you, too, Miss AileenArmagh-and-don't-you-forget-it, in a way that'll make you remember thetag end of your name for one while!"

This threat evidently had its effect. 

"Wot yer going to do?"

He heard her draw her breath sharply. 

"Come down here and I'll tell you. "

"I can't. She might catch me. She told me I'd got to stay in my roomafter eight, and she's coming home ter-night. Wot yer going to do?"

Champney laughed outright. "Don't you wish you might know, AileenArmagh!" He took his banjo in one hand, lifted his cap with the otherand, standing so, bareheaded in the moonlight, sang with all thesimulated passion and pathos of which he was capable one of the few lovesongs that belong to the world, "Kathleen Mavoureen"; but he took painsto substitute "Aileen" for "Kathleen. " Even Ann and Hannah, listeningfrom the kitchen porch, began to feel sentimentally inclined when theclear voice rendered with tender pathos the last lines:

 "Oh! why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Oh! why art thou silent, Aileen Mavoureen?"

Without so much as another glance at the little figure in the window, heran across the lawn and up the lane to the highroad. 

IX

On his way to The Greenbush he overtook Joel Quimber, and withoutwarning linked his arm close in the old man's. At the sudden contactJoel started. 

"Uncle Jo, old chap, how are you? This seems like home to see youround. "

"Lord bless me, Champ, how you come on a feller! Here, stan' still tillI get a good look at ye;--growed, growed out of all notion. Why, Ihain't seen ye for good two year. You warn't to home last summer?"

"Only for a week; I was off on a yachting cruise most of the time. Mother said you were up on the Bay then at your grandniece's--prettygirl. I remember you had her down here one Christmas. "

The old man made no definite answer, but cackled softly to himself:"Yachting cruise, eh? And you remember a pretty girl, eh?" He nudged himwith a sharpened elbow and whispered mysteriously: "Devil of a feller, Champ! I've heerd tell, I've heerd tell--chip of the old block, eh?" Henudged him knowingly again. 

"Oh, we're all devils more or less, we men, Uncle Jo; now, honor bright, aren't we?"

"You've hit it, Champ; more or less--more or less. I heerd you wasa-goin' it strong: primy donny suppers an' ortermobillies--"

"Now, Uncle Jo, you know there's no use believing all you hear, but youcan't plunge a country raised boy into a whirlpool like New York forfour years and not expect him to strike out and swim with the rest. You've got to, Uncle Jo, or you're nobody. You'd go under. "

"Like 'nough you would, Champ; I can't say, fer I hain't ben thar. Guesstwixt you an' me an' the post, I won't hev ter go thar sence Aurory'ssold the land fer the quarries. I hear it talked thet it'll bring halfNew York right inter old Flamsted; I dunno, I dunno--you 'member 'boutthe new wine in the old bottles, Champ?--highflyers, emigrants, Dagosand Polacks--Come ter think, Mis' Champney's got one on 'em now. Hev youseen her, Champ?"

Champney's hearty laugh rang out with no uncertain sound. "Seen her! Ishould say so. She's worth any 'primy donny', as you call them, thatever drew a good silver dollar out of my pockets. Oh, it's too good tokeep! I must tell you; but you'll keep mum, Uncle Jo?"

"Mum's the word, ef yer say so, Champ. " They turned from The Greenbushand arm in arm paced slowly up the street again. From time to time, forthe next ten minutes, Augustus Buzzby and the Colonel in the tavernoffice heard from up street such unwonted sounds of hilarity and so longcontinued, that Augustus looked apprehensively at the Colonel who wasbecoming visibly uneasy lest he fail to place the joke. 

When the two appeared at the office door they bore unmistakable signs ofhaving enjoyed themselves hugely. Augustus Buzzby gave them his warmestwelcome and seated Uncle Joel in his deepest office chair, providing himat the same time with a pipe and some cut leaf. The Colonel was in hisglory. With one arm thrown affectionately around young Googe's neck, heexpatiated on the joy of the community as a whole in again welcomingits own. 

"Champney, my dear boy, --you still permit me the freedom of oldfriendship?--this town is already looking to you as to its futuredeliverer; I may say, as to a Moses who will lead us into the industrialCanaan which is even now, thanks to my friend, your honored mother, beckoning to us with its promise of abundant plenty. Never, in mywildest dreams, my dear boy, have I thought to see such a consummationof my long-cherished hopes. "

It was always one of Champney's prime youthful joys to urge the Colonel, by judiciously applied excitants, to a greater flowering of eloquence;so, now, as an inducement he wrung his neighbor's hand and thanked himwarmly for his timely recognition of the new Flamsted about to be. 

"Now, " he said, "the thing is for all of us to fall into line and forgeahead, Colonel. If we don't, we'll be left behind; and in these times tolag is to take to the backwoods. "

"Right you are, my dear fellow; deterioration can only set in when themembers of a community, like ours, fail to present a solid front to thedisintegrating forces of a supine civilization which--"

"At it again, Milton Caukins!" It was Mr. Wiggins who, entering theoffice, interrupted the flow, --"dammed the torrent", he was wont to say. He extended a hand to young Googe. "Glad to see you, Champney. I hearthere is a prospect of your remaining with us. Quimber tells us he heardsomething to the effect that a position might be offered you by thesyndicate. "

"It's the first I've heard of it. How did you hear, Uncle Jo?" Heturned upon the old man with a keen alertness which, taken in connectionwith the Colonel's oratory, was both disconcerting and confusing. 

"How'd I hear? Le' me see; Champ, what was we just talking 'bout up thestreet, eh?"

"Oh, never mind that now, " he answered impatiently; "let's hear what youheard. I'm the interested party just now. " But the old man looked onlythe more disturbed and was not to be hurried. 

"'Bout that little girl--" he began, but was unceremoniously cut shortby Champney. 

"Oh, damn the girl, just for once, Uncle Jo. What I want to know is, howyou came to hear anything about me in connection with the quarrysyndicate. "

The old man persisted: "I'm a-tryin' to get a-holt of that man's namethat got her up here--"

"Van Ostend, " Champney suggested; "is that the name you want?"

"That's him, Van Ostend; that's the one. He an' the rest was hevin' ameetin' right here in this office 'fore they went to the train, an' Iwas settin' outside the winder an' heerd one on 'em say: 'Thet Mis'Googe's a stunner; what's her son like, does any one know?' An' I heerdMr. Van Ostend say: 'She's very unusual; if her son has half herexecutive ability'--them's his very words--'we might work him in withus. It would be good business policy to interest, through him, the landitself in its own output, so to speak, besides being something of acourtesy to Mis' Googe. I've met him twice. ' Then they fell todiscussin' the lay of The Gore and the water power at The Corners. "

"Bully for you, Uncle Jo!" Champney slapped the rounded shoulders withsuch appreciative heartiness that the old man's pipe threatened to beshaken from between his toothless gums. "You have heard the very thingI've been hoping for. Tave never let on that he knew anything about it. "

"He didn't, only what I told him. " Old Quimber cackled weakly. "I guessTave's got his hands too full at Champo to remember what's told him;what with the little girl an' Romanzo--no offence, Colonel. " He lookedapologetically at the Colonel who waved his hand with an airiness thatdisposed at once of the idea of any feeling on his part in regard tofamily revelations. "I heerd tell thet the little girl hed turned hishead an' Tave couldn't git nothin' in the way of work out of him. "

"In that case I must look into the matter. " The Colonel spoke with sterngravity. "Both Mrs. Caukins and I would deplore any undue influence thatmight be brought to bear upon any son of ours at so critical a period ofhis career. "

Mr. Wiggins laughed; but the laugh was only a disguised sneer. "Perhapsyou'll come to your senses, Colonel, when you've got an immigrant for adaughter-in-law. Own up, now, you didn't think your 'competingindustrial thousands' might be increased by some half-Irishgrandchildren, now did you?"

Champney listened for the Colonel's answer with a suspended hope that hemight give Elmer Wiggins "one, " as he said to himself. He still owed thelatter gentleman a grudge because in the past he had been, as it were, the fountain head of all in his youthful misery in supplying ampleportions of the never-to-be-forgotten oil of the castor bean and driedsenna leaves. He felt at the present time, moreover, that he wasinimical to his mother and her interests. And Milton Caukins was hisfriend and hers, past, present, and future; of this he was sure. 

The Colonel took time to light his cigar before replying; then, wavingit towards the ceiling, he said pleasantly:

"My young friend here, Champney, to whom we are looking to restore thepristine vigor of a fast vanishing line of noble ancestors, is both aGooge _and_ a Champney. _His_ ancestors counted themselves honored inmaking alliances with foreigners--immigrants to our all-welcomingshores; 'a rose', Mr. Wiggins, 'by any other name'; I need not quote. "His chest swelled; he interrupted himself to puff vigorously at hiscigar before continuing: "My son, sir, is on the spindle side of thehouse a _Googe_, and a _Googe_, sir, has the blood of the Champneys andthe Lord knows of how many noble _immigrants_" (the last word wasemphasized by a fleeting glance of withering scorn at the small-headedWiggins) "in his veins which, fortunately, cannot be said of you, sir. If, at any time in the distant future, my son should see fit to allyhimself with a scion of the noble and long-suffering Hibernian race, Iassure you"--his voice was increasing in dimensions--"both Mrs. Caukinsand myself would feel honored, sir, yes, honored in the breach!"

After this wholly unexpected ending to his peroration, he lowered hisfeet from their accustomed rest on the counter of the former bar and, ignoring Mr. Wiggins, remarked to Augustus that it was time for themail. Augustus, glad to welcome any diversion of the Colonel's and Mr. Wiggins's asperities, said the train was on time and the mail would bethere in a few minutes. 

"Tave's gone down to meet Mis' Champney, " he added turning to Champney. "She's been in Hallsport for two days. I presume you ain't seen her. "

"Not yet. If you can give me my mail first I can drive up toChamp-au-Haut with her to-night. There's the mail-wagon. "

"To be sure, to be sure, Champney; and you might take out Mis'Champney's; Tave can't leave the hosses. "

"All right. " He went out on the veranda to see if the Champ-au-Hautcarriage was in sight. A moment later, when it drove up, he was at thedoor to open it. 

"Here I am, Aunt Meda. Will this hold two and all those bundles?"

"Why, Champney, you here? Come in. " She made room for him on the ampleseat; he sprang in, and bent to kiss her before sitting down beside her. 

"Now, I call this luck. This is as good as a confessional, small anddark, and 'fess I've got to, Aunt Meda, or there'll be trouble forsomebody at Campo. "

Had the space not been so "small and dark" he might have seen the faceof the woman beside him quiver painfully at the sound of his cheeryyoung voice and, when he kissed her, flush to her temples. 

"What devilry now, Champney?"

"It's a girl, of course, Aunt Meda--your girl, " he added laughing. 

"So you've found her out, have you, you young rogue? Well, what do youthink of her?"

"I think you'll have a whole vaudeville show at Champ-au-Haut for therest of your days--and gratis. "

"I've been coming to that conclusion myself, " said Mrs. Champney, smiling in turn at the recollection of some of her experiences duringthe past three weeks. "She amuses me, and I've concluded to keep her. I'm going to have her with me a good part of the time. I've seen enoughsince she has been with me to convince me that my people will amount tonothing so long as she is with them. " There was an edge to her words thesharpness of which was felt by Octavius on the front seat. 

"I can't blame them; I couldn't. Why Tave here is threatened alreadywith a quick decline--sheer worry of mind, isn't it Tave?" Octaviusnodded shortly; "And as for Romanzo there's no telling where he willend; even Ann and Hannah are infected. "

"What do you mean, Champney?" She was laughing now. 

"Just wait till I run in and get the mail for us both, and I'll tellyou; it's my confession. "

He sprang out, ran up the steps and disappeared for a moment. Hereappeared thrusting some letters into his pocket. Evidently he had notlooked at them. He handed the other letters and papers to Octavius, andso soon as the carriage was on the way to The Bow he regaled his auntwith his evening's experience under the bay window. 

"Serves you right, " was her only comment; but her laugh told him sheenjoyed the episode. He went into the house upon her invitation and satwith her till nearly eleven, giving an account of himself--at least allthe account he cared to give which was intrinsically different from thatwhich he gave his mother. Mrs. Champney was what he had once describedto his mother as "a worldly woman with the rind on, " and when he waswith her, he involuntarily showed that side of his nature which was bestcalculated to make an impression on the "rind. " He grew more worldlyhimself, and she rejoiced in what she saw. 

X

While walking homewards up The Gore, he was wondering why his mother hadshown such strength of feeling when he expressed the wish that his auntwould help him financially to further his plans. He knew the two womennever had but little intercourse; but with him it was different. He wasa man, the living representative of two families, and who had a betterright than he to some of his Aunt Meda's money? A right of blood, although on the Champney side distant and collateral. He knew that thecommunity as a whole, especially now that his mother had become a factorin its new industrial life, was looking to him, as once they had lookedto his Uncle Louis, to "make good" with his inheritance of race. To thisend his mother had equipped him with his university training. Whyshouldn't his aunt be willing to help him? She liked him, that is, sheliked to talk with him. Sometimes, it is true, it occurred to him thathis room was better than his company; this was especially noticeable inhis young days when he was much with his aunt's husband whom he called"Uncle Louis. " Since his death he had never ceased to visit her atChamp-au-Haut--too much was at stake, for he was the rightful heir toher property at least, if not Louis Champney's. She, as well as hisfather, had inherited twenty thousand from the estate in The Gore. Hisfather, so he was told, had squandered his patrimony some two yearsbefore his death. His aunt, on the contrary, had already doubled hers;and with skilful manipulation forty thousand in these days might bequadrupled easily. It was wise, whatever might happen, to keep on theright side of Aunt Meda; and as for giving that promise to his mother heneither could nor would. His mind was made up on this point when hereached The Gore. He told himself he dared not. Who could say what unmetnecessity might handicap him at some critical time?--this was hisjustification. 

In the midst of his wonderings, he suddenly remembered the evening'smail. He took it out and struck a match to look at the hand-writing. Among several letters from New York, he recognized one as having Mr. VanOstend's address on the reverse of the envelope. He tore it open; struckanother match and, the letter being type-written, hastily read itthrough with the aid of a third and fourth pocket-lucifer; read it in atumult of expectancy, and finished it with an intense and irritatingsense of disappointment. He vehemently voiced his vexation: "Oh, damn itall!"

He did not take the trouble to return the letter to its cover, but keptflirting it in his hand as he strode indignantly up the hill, his armsswinging like a young windmill's. When he came in sight of the house, helooked up at his mother's bedroom window. Her light was still burning;despite his admonition she was waiting for him as usual. He must tellher before he slept. 

"Champney!" she called, when she heard him in the hall. 

"Yes, mother; may I come up?"

"Of course. " She opened wide her bedroom door and stood there, waitingfor him, the lamp in her hand. Her beauty was enhanced by theloose-flowing cotton wrapper of pale pink. Her dark heavy hair wasbraided for the night and coiled again and again, crown fashion, on herhead. 

"Aunt Meda never could hold a candle to mother!" was ChampneyGooge's thought on entering. The two sat down for the usualbefore-turning-in-chat. 

He was so full of his subject that it overflowed at once in abruptspeech. 

"Mother, I've had a letter from Mr. Van Ostend--"

"Oh, Champney!" There was the joy of anticipation in her voice. 

"Now, mother, don't--don't expect anything, " he pleaded, "for you'll beno end cut up over the whole thing. Now, listen. " He read the letter;the tone of his voice indicated both disgust and indignation. 

"Now, look at that!" He burst forth eruptively when he had finished. "Here we've been banking on an offer for some position in the syndicate, at least, something that would help clear the road to Wall Street whereI should be able to strike out for myself without being dependent on anyone--I didn't mince matters that day of the dinner when I told him whatI wanted, either! And here I get an offer to go to Europe for five yearsand study banking systems and the Lord knows what in London, Paris, andBerlin, and act as a sort of super in his branch offices. Great Scott!Does he think a man is going to waste five years of his life in Europeat a time when twenty-four hours here at home might make a man! He's adonkey if he thinks that, and I'd have given him credit for more commonsense--"

"Now, Champney, stop right where you are. Don't boil over so. " Sherepressed a smile. "Let's talk business and look at matters as theystand. "

"I can't;" he said doggedly; "I can't talk business without a businessbasis, and this here, "--he shook the letter much as Rag shook aslipper, --"it's just slop! What am I going to do over there, I'd like toknow?" he demanded fiercely; whereupon his mother took the letter fromhis hand and, without heeding his grumbling, read it carefully twice. 

"Now, look here, Champney, " she said firmly; "you must use some reason. I admit this isn't what you wanted or I expected, but it's something;many would think it everything. Didn't you tell me only yesterday thatin these times a man is fortunate to get his foot on any round of theladder--"

"Well, if I did, I didn't mean the rung of a banking house fire-escapeover in Europe. " He interrupted her, speaking sulkily. Then of a suddenhe laughed out. "Go on, mother, I'm a chump. " His mother smiled andcontinued the broken sentence:

"--And that ten thousand fail where one succeeds in getting even afoothold--to climb, as you want to?"

"But how can I climb? That's the point. Why, I shall be twenty-six infive years--if I live, " he added lugubriously. 

His mother laughed outright. The splendid specimen of health, vitality, and strength before her was in too marked contrast to his words. 

"Well, I don't care, " he muttered, but joining heartily in her laugh;"I've heard of fellows like me going into a decline just out of purehomesickness over there. "

"I don't think you will be homesick for Flamsted; I saw no traces ofthat malady while you were in New York. On the contrary, I thought youaccepted every opportunity to stay away. "

"New York is different, " he replied, a little shamefaced in the presenceof the truth he had just heard. "But, mother, you would be alone here. "

"I'm used to it, Champney;" she spoke as it were perfunctorily; "and Iam ambitious to see you succeed as you wish to. I want to see you in aposition which will fulfil both your hopes and mine; but neither you norI can choose the means, not yet; we haven't the money. For my part, Ithink you should accept this offer; it's one in ten thousand. Work yourway up during these five years into Mr. Van Ostend's confidence, and Iam sure, _sure_, that by that time he will have something for you thatwill satisfy even your young ambition. I think, moreover, it is anecessity for you to accept this, Champney. "

"You do; why?"

"Well, for a good many reasons. I doubt, in the first place, if thesequarries can get under full running headway for the next seven years, and even if you had been offered some position of trust in connectionwith them, you haven't had an opportunity to prove yourself worthy of itin a business way. I doubt, too, if the salary would be any larger; itis certainly a fair one for the work he offers. " She consulted theletter. "Twelve hundred for the first year, and for every succeedingyear an additional five hundred. What more could you expect, inexperienced as you are? Many men have to give their services gratisfor a while to obtain entrance into such offices and have their names, even, connected with such a financier. This opportunity is a businessasset. I feel convinced, moreover, that you need just this discipline. "

"Why?"

"For some other good reasons. For one, you would be brought into dailycontact with men, experienced men, of various nationalities--"

"You can be that in New York. There isn't a city in the world where youcan gain such a cosmopolitan experience. " He was still protesting, stillinsisting. His mother made no reply, nor did she notice theinterruption. 

"--Learn their ways, their point of view. All this would be of infinitehelp if, later on, you should come into a position of greatresponsibility in connection with the quarry syndicate. --It does seem sostrange that hundreds will make their livelihood from our barrenpastures!" She spoke almost to herself, and for a moment they weresilent. 

"And look at this invitation to cross in his yacht with his family!Champney, you know perfectly well nothing could be more courteous orthoughtful; it saves your passage money, and it shows plainly hisinterest in you personally. "

"I know; that part isn't half bad. " He spoke with interest and lessreluctance. "I saw the yacht last spring lying in North River; she's aperfect floating palace they say. Of course, I appreciate theinvitation; but supposing--only supposing, you know, "--this as a warningnot to take too much for granted, --"I should accept. How could I live ontwelve hundred a year? He spends twice that on a cook. How does he thinka fellow is going to dress and live on that? 'T was a tight squeeze incollege on thirteen hundred. "

His mother knew his way so well, that she recognized in this insistentpiling of one obstacle upon another the budding impulse to yield. Shewas willing to press the matter further. 

"Oh, clothes are cheaper abroad and living is not nearly so dear. Youcould be quite the gentleman on your second year's salary, and, ofcourse, I can help out with the interest on the twenty thousand. Youforget this. "

"By George, I did, mother! You're a trump; but I don't want you to thinkI want to cut any figure over there; I don't care enough about 'em. ButI want enough to have a ripping good time to compensate for staying awayso long. "

"You need not stay five consecutive years away from home. Look here, Champney; you have read this letter with your eyes but not with yourwits. Your boiling condition was not conducive to clear-headedness. "

"Oh, I say mother! Don't rap a fellow too hard when he's down. "

"You're not down; you're up, "--she held her ground with him rightsturdily, --"up on the second round already, my son; only you don't knowit. Here it is in black and white that you can come home for six weeksafter two years, and the fifth year is shortened by three months if allgoes well. What more do you want?"

"That's something, anyway. "

"Now, I want you to think this over. "

"I wish I could run down to New York for a day or two; it would help alot. I could look round and possibly find an opening in the direction Iwant. I want to do this before deciding. "

"Champney, I shall lose patience with you soon. You know you, can't rundown to New York for even a day. Mr. Van Ostend states the fact baldly:'Your decision I must have by telegraph, at the latest, by Thursdaynoon. ' That's day after to-morrow. 'We sail on Saturday. ' Mr. Van Ostendis not a man to waste a breath, as you have said. "

Champney had no answer ready. He evaded the question. "I'll tell youto-morrow, mother. It's late; you mustn't sit up any longer. " He lookedat his watch. "One o'clock. Good night. "

"Good night, Champney. Leave your door into the hall wide open; it's soclose. "

She put out her light and sat down by the window. The night wasbreathless; not a leaf of the elm trees quivered. She heard the Rothelpicking its way down the rocky channel of The Gore. She gave herself upto thought, far-reaching both into the past and the future. Soon, mingled with the murmur of the brook, she heard her son's quiet measuredbreathing. She rose, walked noiselessly down the hall and stood at hisbedroom door, to gaze--mother-like, to worship. The moonlight justtouched the pillow. He lay with his head on his arm; the full whitechest was partly bared; the spare length of the muscular body wasoutlined beneath the sheet. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned fromthe door, and, noiselessly as she had come, went back to her room andher couch. 

 * * * * *

How little the pending decision weighed on his mind was proven by hislong untroubled sleep; but directly after a late breakfast he told hismother he was going out to prospect a little in The Gore; and she, understanding, questioned him no further. He whistled to Rag and turnedinto the side road that led to the first quarry. There was no work goingon there. This small ownership of forty acres was merged in thesyndicate which had so recently acquired the two hundred acres from theGooge estate. He made his way over the hill and around to the head ofThe Gore. He wanted to climb the cliff-like rocks and think it out underthe pines, landmarks of his early boyhood. He picked his way among theboulders and masses of sheep laurel; he was thinking not of the quarriesbut of himself; he did not even inquire of himself how the sale of thequarries might be about to affect his future. 

Champney Googe was self-centred. The motives for all his actions in ashort and uneventful life were the spokes to his particular hub of self;the tire, that bound them and held them to him, he considered merely thenecessary periphery of constant contact with people and things by whichhis own little wheel of fortune might be made to roll the more easily. He was following some such line of thought while turning Mr. VanOstend's plan over and over in his mind, viewing it from all sides. Itwas not what he wanted, but it might lead to that. His eyes were on therough ground beneath him, his thoughts busy with the pending decision, when he was taken out of himself by hearing an unexpected voice in hisvicinity. 

"Good morning, Mr. Googe. Am I poaching on your preserve?"

Champney recognized the voice at once. It was Father Honoré's hailinghim from beneath the pines. He was sitting with his back against one; aviolin lay on its cover beside him; on his lap was a drawing-board withrule and compass pencil. Champney realized on the instant, and with afeeling of pleasure, that the priest's presence was no intrusion even atthis juncture. 

"No, indeed, for it is no longer my preserve, " he answered cheerily, andadded, with a touch of earnestness that was something of a surprise tohimself, "and it wouldn't be if it were still mine. "

"Thank you, Mr. Googe; I appreciate that. You must find it hard to see astranger like myself preëmpting your special claim, as I fancy this oneis. "

"It used to be when I was a youngster; but, to tell the truth, I haven'tcared for it much of late years. The city life spoils a man for this. Ilove that rush and hustle and rubbing-elbows with the world in general, getting knocked about--and knocking. " He laughed merrily, significantly, and Father Honoré, catching his meaning at once, laughed too. "But I'mnot telling you any news; of course, you've had it all. "

"Yes, all and a surfeit. I was glad to get away to this hill-quiet. "

Champney sat down on the thick rusty-red matting of pine needles andturned to him, a question in his eyes. Father Honoré smiled. "What isit?" he said. 

"May I ask if it was your own choice coming up here to us?"

"Yes, my deliberate choice. I had to work for it, though. The superiorof my order was against my coming. It took moral suasion to get theappointment. "

"I don't suppose they wanted to lose a valuable man from the city, " saidChampney bluntly. 

"The question of value is not, happily, a question of environment. Isimply felt I could do my best work here in the best way. "

"And you didn't consider yourself at all?" Champney put the question, which voiced his thought, squarely. 

"Oh, I'm human, " he answered smiling at the questioner; "don't make anymistake on that point; and I don't suppose many of us can eliminate selfwholly in a matter of choice. I did want to work here because I believeI can do the best work, but I also welcomed the opportunity to get awayfrom the city--it weighs on me, weighs on me, " he added, but it soundedas if he were merely thinking aloud. 

Champney failed to comprehend him. Father Honoré, raising his eyes, caught the look on the young man's face and interpreted it. He saidquietly:

"But then you're twenty-one and I'm forty-five; that accounts for it. "

For a moment, but a moment only, Champney was tempted to speak out tothis man, stranger as he was. Mr. Van Ostend evidently had confidence inhim; why shouldn't he? Perhaps he might help him to decide, and for thebest. But even as the thought flashed into consciousness, he was awareof its futility. He was sure the man would repeat only what his motherhad said. He did not care to hear that twice. And what was this man tohim that he should ask his opinion, appeal to him for advice indirecting this step in his career? He changed the subject abruptly. 

"I think you said you had met Mr. Van Ostend?"

"Yes, twice in connection with the orphan child, as I told you, and onceI dined with him. He has a charming family: his sister and his littledaughter. Have you met them?"

"Only once. He has just written me and asked me to join them on hisyacht for a trip to Europe. " Champney felt he was coasting on the edge, and enjoyed the sport. 

"And of course you're going? I can't imagine a more delightful host. "Father Honoré spoke with enthusiasm. 

But Champney failed to respond in like manner. The priest took note ofit. 

"I haven't made up my mind;" he spoke slowly; then, smiling merrily intothe other's face, "and I came up here to try to make it up. "

"And I was here so you couldn't do it, of course!" Father Honoréexclaimed so ruefully that Champney's hearty laugh rang out. "No, no; Ididn't mean for you to take it in that way. I'm glad I found you here--Iliked what you said about the 'value'. "

Father Honoré looked mystified for a moment; his brow contracted in theeffort to recall at the moment what he had said about "value", and inwhat connection; but instead of any further question as to Champney'srather incoherent meaning, he handed him the drawing-board. 

"This is the plan for my shack, Mr. Googe. I have written to Mr. VanOstend to ask if the company would have any objection to my putting ithere near these pines. I understand the quarries are to be opened up asfar as the cliff, and sometime, in the future, my house will be neighborto the workers. I suppose then I shall have to 'move on'. I'm going tobuild it myself. "

"All yourself?"

"Why not? I'm a fairly good mason; I've learned that trade, and there isplenty of material, good material, all about. " He looked over upon therock-strewn slopes. "I'm going to use some of the granite waste too. " Heput his violin into its case and held out his hand for the board. "I'mgoing now, Mr. Googe; I shall be interested to know your decision assoon as you yourself know about it. "

"I'll let you know by to-morrow. I've nearly a day of grace. You play?You are a musician?" he asked, as Father Honoré rose and tucked theviolin and drawing-board under his arm. 

"My matins, " the priest answered, smiling down into the curiously eagerface that with the fresh unlined beauty of young manhood was upturned tohis. "Good morning. " He lifted his hat and walked rapidly away withoutwaiting for any further word from Champney. 

"Sure-footed as a mountain goat!" Champney said to himself as he watchedhim cross the rough hilltop. "I'd like to know where he gets it all!"

He stretched out under the pines, his hands clasped under his head, andfell to thinking of his own affairs, into the as yet undecided course ofwhich the memory of the priest's words, "The question of value is not, happily, a question of environment" fell with the force of gravity. 

"I might as well go it blind, " he spoke aloud to himself: "it's all amatter of luck into which ring you shy your hat; I suppose it's the'value', after all, that does it in the end. Besides--"

He did not finish that thought aloud; but he suddenly sat bolt upright, a fist pressed hard on each knee. His face hardened into determination. "By George, what an ass I've been! If I can't do it in one way I can inanother. --Hoop! Hooray!"

He turned a somersault then and there; came right side up; cuffed thedazed puppy goodnaturedly and bade him "Come on", which behest thelittle fellow obeyed to the best of his ability among the rough ways ofthe sheep walks. 

He did not stop at the house, but walked straight down to Flamsted, Raglagging at his heels. He sent a telegram to New York. Then he wenthomewards in the broiling sun, carrying the exhausted puppy under hisarm. His mother met him on the porch. 

"I've just telegraphed Mr. Van Ostend, mother, that I'll be in New YorkFriday, ready to sail on Saturday. "

"My dear boy!" That was all she said then; but she laid her hand on hisshoulder when they went in to dinner, and Champney knew she wassatisfied. 

Two days later, Champney Googe, having bade good-bye to his neighbors, the Caukinses large and small, to Octavius, Ann and Hannah, --Aileen wasgone on an errand when he called last at Champ-au-Haut but he left hisremembrance to her with the latter--to his aunt, to Joel Quimber andAugustus, to Father Honoré and a host of village well-wishers who, intheir joyful anticipation of his future and his fortunes, laid aside allfactional differences, said, at last, farewell to Flamsted, to TheCorners, The Bow, and his home among the future quarries in The Gore. 

PART THIRD

In the Stream

I

Mrs. Milton Caukins had her trials, but they were of a kind some peoplewould call "blessed torments. " The middle-aged mother of eight children, six boys, of whom Romanzo was the eldest, and twin girls, Elvira Caukinsmight with justice lay claim to a superabundance of a certain kind oftrial. Every Sunday morning proved the crux of her experience, and Mrs. Caukins' nerves were correspondingly shaken. To use her own words, she"was all of a tremble" by the time she was dressed for church. 

On such occasions she was apt to speak her mind, preferably to theColonel; but lacking his presence, to her family severally andcollectively, to 'Lias, the hired man, or aloud to herself when busyabout her work. She had been known, on occasion, to acquaint even thecollie with her state of mind, and had assured the head of the familyafterwards that there was more sense of understanding of a woman'strials in one wag of a dog's tail than in most men's head-pieces. 

"Mr. Caukins!" she called up the stairway. She never addressed herhusband in the publicity of domestic life without this prefix; to herchildren she spoke of him as "your pa"; to all others as "the Colonel. "

"Yes, Elvira. "

The Colonel's voice was leisurely, but muffled owing to the extra heavylather he was laying about his mouth for the Sunday morning shave. Hiswife's voice shrilled again up the staircase:

"It's going on nine o'clock and the boys are nowheres near ready; Ihaven't dressed the twins yet, and the boys are trying to shampoo eachother--they've got your bottle of bay rum, and not a single shoe havethey greased. I wish you'd hurry up and come down; for if there's onething you know I hate it's to go into church after the beginning of thefirst lesson with those boys squeaking and scrunching up the aislebehind me. It makes me nervous and upsets me so I can't find the placein my prayer book half the time. "

"I'll be down shortly. " The tone was intended to be conciliatory, but itirritated Mrs. Caukins beyond measure. 

"I know all about your 'shortlies, ' Mr. Caukins; they're as long as therector's sermon this very Whit-sunday--the one day in the whole yearwhen the children can't keep still any more than cows in fly time. Didyou get their peppermints last night?"

"'Gad, my dear, I forgot them! But really--", his voice was degeneratinginto a mumble owing to the pressure of circumstances, "--matters ofsuch--er--supreme importance--came--er--to my knowledge last eveningthat--that--"

"That what?"

"--That--that--mm--mm--" there followed the peculiar noise attendantupon a general clearing up of much lathered cuticle, "--I forgot them. "

"What matters were they? You didn't say anything about 'supremeimportance' last night, Mr. Caukins. "

"I'll tell you later, Elvira; just at present I--"

"Was it anything about the quarries?"

"Mm--"

"_What_ was it?"

"I heard young Googe was expected next week. "

"Well, I declare! I could have told you that much myself if you'd beenat home in any decent season. It seems pretty poor planning to have torun down three miles to The Greenbush every Saturday evening to find outwhat you could know by just stepping across the bridge to Aurora's. Shetold me yesterday. Was that all?"

"N--no--"

"For mercy's sake, Mr. Caukins, don't keep me waiting here any longer!It's almost church time. "

"I wasn't aware that I was detaining you, Elvira. " The Colonel's protestwas mild but dignified. There were sounds above of renewed activity. 

"Dulcie, " said Mrs. Caukins, turning to a little girl who was standingbeside her, listening with erected ears to her mother's questions andfather's answers, "go up stairs into mother's room and see if Doosie'sgetting ready, there's a good girl. "

"Doosie is with me, Elvira; I would let well enough alone for thepresent, if I were you, " said the Colonel admonishingly. His wife wiselytook the hint. "Come up, Dulcie, " he called, "father's ready. " Dulciehopped up stairs. 

"You haven't said what matters of importance kept you last night. " Mrs. Caukins returned to her muttons with redoubled energy. 

"Champney came home unexpectedly last evening, and the syndicate hasoffered him a position, a big one, in New York--treasurer of theFlamsted Quarries Company; and our Romanzo's got a chance too--"

"You don't say! What is it?" Mrs. Caukins started up stairs whence camesounds of an obstreperous bootjack. 

"Paymaster, here in town; I'll explain in more propitious circumstances. Has 'Lias harnessed yet, Elvira?"

Without deigning to answer, Mrs. Caukins freed her mind. 

"Well, Mr. Caukins, I must say you grow more and more like that old ramof 'Lias's that has learned to butt backwards just for the sake of goingcontrary to nature. I believe you'd rather tell a piece of newsbackwards than forwards any day! Why didn't you begin by telling meabout Romanzo? If your own child that's your flesh and blood and boneisn't of most interest to you, I'd like to know what is!"

The Colonel's reply was partly inaudible owing to a sudden outbreak ofaltercation among the boys in the room below. Mrs. Caukins, who had justreached the landing, turned in her tracks and hurried to the rescue. 

The Colonel smiled at the rosy, freshly-shaved face reflected in themirror of the old-fashioned dressing-case, and, at the same time, caughtthe reflection of another image--that of his hired man, 'Lias, who wascrossing the yard. He went to the window and leaned out, stemming hishands on the sill. 

"There seems to be the usual Sunday morning row going on below, 'Lias. Ifear the boys are shampooing each other's heads with the backs of theirbrushes from the sounds. "

'Lias smiled, and nodded understandingly. 

"Just look in and lend a hand in case Mrs. Caukins should beoutnumbered, will you? I'm engaged at present. " And deeply engaged hewas to the twins' unspeakable delight. Whistling softly an air from "IlTrovatore, " he rubbed some orange-flower water on his chin and cheeks;then taking a fresh handkerchief, dabbed several drops on the two littlenoses that waited upon him weekly in expectation of this fragrant boon. He was rewarded by a few satisfactory kisses. 

"Now run away and help mother--coach leaves at nine forty-five_pre_-cisely. I forgot the peppermints, but--" he slapped his trousers'pockets significantly. 

The twins shouted with delight and rushed away to impart the news to theboys. 

"I wish you would tell me the secret of your boys' conduct in church, Colonel Caukins; it's exemplary. I don't understand it, for boys will beboys, " said the rector one Sunday several years before when all the boyswere young. He had taken note of their want of restlessness throughoutthe sermon. 

The Colonel's mouth twitched; he answered promptly, but avoided hiswife's eyes. 

"All in the method, I assure you. We Americans have spent a generationin experimenting with the inductive, the subjective method in education, and the result is, to all intents and purposes, a dismal failure. Thefuture will prove the value of the objective, the deductive--which ismine, " he added with a sententious emphasis that left the puzzled rectorno wiser than before. 

"Whatever the method, Colonel, you have a fine family; there is nomistake about that, " he said heartily. 

The Colonel beamed and responded at once:

"'Blessed is the man that hath his quiver full'--"

At this point Mrs. Caukins surreptitiously poked the admonitory end ofher sunshade between the Colonel's shoulder blades, and the Colonel, comprehending, desisted from further quotation of scripture. It was nothis strong point. Once he had been known to quote, not only unblushinglybut triumphantly, during a touch-and-go discussion of the labor questionin the town hall:--"The ass, gentlemen, is worthy of his hire"; and inso doing had covered Mrs. Caukins with confusion and made a transientenemy of every wage-earner in the audience. 

But his boys behaved--that was the point. What boys wouldn't when theirheart's desire was conveyed to them at the beginning of the sermon by asecret-service-under-the-pew process wholly delightful to the younghuman male? Who wouldn't be quiet for the sake of the peppermints, akeen three-bladed knife, or a few gelatine fishes that squirmed on hiswarm moist palm in as lively a manner as if just landed on the lakeshore? Their father had been a boy, and at fifty had a boy's heartwithin him--this was the secret of his success. 

Mrs. Caukins appeared at last, radiant in the consciousness of a newchip hat and silk blouse. Dulcie and Doosie in white lawn did theirpains-taking mother credit in every respect. The Colonel gallantlypresented his wife with a small bunch of early roses--an attention whichcalled up a fine bit of color into her still pretty face. 'Lias helpedher into the three-seated wagon, then lifted in the twins; the boyspiled in afterwards; the Colonel took the reins. Mrs. Caukins waved hersunshade vigorously at 'Lias and gave a long sigh of relief andsatisfaction. 

"Well, we're off at last! I declare I miss Maggie every hour in the day. I don't know what I should have done all these years without that girl!"

The mention of "Maggie" emphasizes one of the many changes in Flamstedduring the six years of Champney Googe's absence. Mrs. Caukins, urged byher favorite, Aileen, and advised by Mrs. Googe and Father Honoré, hadimported Margaret O'Dowd, the "Freckles" of the asylum, as mother'shelper six months after Aileen's arrival in Flamsted. For nearly sixyears Maggie loyally seconded Mrs. Caukins in the care of her childrenand her household. Slow, but sure and dependable, strong and willing, she made herself invaluable in the stone house among the sheep pastures;her stunted affections revived and flourished apace in that household ofwell-cared-for children to whom both parents were devoted. It cost her aheartache to leave them; but six months ago burly Jim McCann, one of thebest workmen in the sheds--although of unruly spirit and a source ofperennial trouble among the men--began to make such determined love tothe mother's helper that the Caukinses found themselves facinginevitable loss. Maggie had been married three months; and alreadyMcCann had quarrelled with the foreman, and, in a huff, despite hiswife's tears and prayers, sought of his own accord work in another andfar distant quarry. 

"Maggie told me she'd never leave off teasing Jim to bring her back, "said the fifth eldest Caukins. --"Oh, look!" he cried as they rumbledover the bridge; "there's Mrs. Googe and Champney on the porch waving tous!"

The Colonel took off his hat with a flourish; the boys swung theirs;Mrs. Caukins waved her sunshade to mother and son. 

"I declare, I'd like to stop just a minute, " she said regretfully, forthe Colonel continued to drive straight on. "I'm so glad for Aurora'ssake that he's come home; I only hope our Romanzo will do as well. "

"It would be an intrusion at such a time, Elvira. The effusions of eventhe best-intentioned friends are injudicious at the inopportune momentof domestic reunion. "

Mrs. Caukins subsided on that point. She was always depressed by theColonel's grandiloquence, which he usually reserved for The Greenbushand the town-meeting, without being able to account for it. 

"He'll see a good many changes here; it's another Flamsted we're livingin, " she remarked later on when they passed the first stone-cutters'shed on the opposite shore of the lake; and the family proceeded tocomment all the way to church on the various changes along the route. 

 * * * * *

It was in truth another Flamsted, the industrial Flamsted which theColonel predicted six years before on that memorable evening in theoffice of The Greenbush. 

To watch the transformation of a quiet back-country New England villageinto the life-centre of a great and far-reaching industry, is in itselfa liberal education, not only in economics, but in inheritedcharacteristics of the human race. Those first drops of "the deluge, "the French priest and the Irish orphan, were followed by an influx offoreigners of many nationalities: Scotch, Irish, Italians, Poles, Swedes, Canadian French; and with these were associated a fewAmerican-born. 

Their life-problem, the earning of wages for the sustenance ofthemselves and their families, was one they had in common. Its solutionwas centred for one and all in their work among the granite quarries ofThe Gore and in the stone-cutters' sheds on the north shore of LakeMesantic. These two things the hundreds belonging to a half-dozennationalities possessed in common--these, and their common humanitytogether with the laws to which it is subject. But aside from this, their speech, habits, customs, religions, food, and pastimes werepolyglot; on this account the lines of racial demarkation were apt, attimes, to be drawn all too sharply. Yet this very fact ofdifferentiation provided hundreds of others--farmers, shopkeepers, jobbers, machinists, mechanics, blacksmiths, small restaurant-keepers, pool and billiard room owners--with ample sources of livelihood. 

This internal change in the community of Flamsted corresponded to theexternal. During those six years the very face of nature underwenttransformation. The hills in the apex of The Gore were shaved clean ofthe thin layer of turf, and acres of granite laid bare to the drill. Monster derricks, flat stone-cars, dummy engines, electric motors, wereeverywhere in evidence. Two glittering steel tracks wound downwardsthrough old watercourses to the level of the lake, and to the hugestone-cutting sheds that stretched their gray length along the northernshore. Here the quarried stones, tons in weight, were unloaded by thegreat electric travelling crane which picks up one after the other withautomatic perfection of silence and accuracy, and deposits them whereverneeded by the workmen. 

A colony of substantial three-room houses, two large boarding-houses, apower house and, farther up beyond the pines, a stone house and a longlow building, partly of wood, partly of granite waste cemented, circledthe edges of the quarry. 

The usual tale of workmen in the fat years was five hundred quarrymenand three hundred stone-cutters. This population of working-men, swelledto three thousand by the addition of their families, increased ordiminished according as the years and seasons proved fat or lean. Aticker on Wall Street was sufficient to give to the great industryabnormal life and activity, and draw to the town a surplus workingpopulation. A feeling of unrest and depression, long-continued inmetropolitan financial circles, was responded to with sensitive pulse onthese far-away hills of Maine and resulted in migratory flights, by tensand twenties, of Irish and Poles, of Swedes, Italians, French Canucks, and American-born to more favorable conditions. "Here one day and gonethe next"; even the union did not make for stability of tenure. 

In this ceaseless tidal ebb and flow of industrials, the originalpopulation of Flamsted managed at times to come to the surface tobreathe; to look about them; to speculate as to "what next?" for thechanges were rapid and curiosity was fed almost to satiety. A fruitfulsource of speculation was Champney Googe's long absence from home, already six years, and his prospects when he should have returned. Speculation was also rife when Aurora Googe crossed the ocean to spend asummer with her son; at one time rumors were afloat that Champney'sprospective marriage with a relation of the Van Ostends was near athand, and this was said to be the cause of his mother's rather suddendeparture. But on her return, Mrs. Googe set all speculation in thisdirection at rest by denying the rumor most emphatically, and adding theinformation for every one's benefit that she had gone over to be withChampney because he did not wish to come home at the time his contractwith Mr. Van Ostend permitted. 

Once during the past year, the village wise heads foregathered in theoffice of The Greenbush to discuss the very latest:--the coming toFlamsted of seven Sisters, Daughters of the Mystic Rose, who, foreseeingthe suppression of their home institution in France, had come to preparea refuge for their order on the shores of America and found another homeand school among the quarrymen in this distant hill-country of the newMaine--an echo of the old France of their ancestors. This was lookedupon as an undreamed-of innovation exceeding all others that had come totheir knowledge; it remained for old Joel Quimber to enter the lists aschampion of the newcomers, their cause, and their school which, withFather Honoré's aid, they at once established among the barren hills ofThe Gore. 

"Hounded out er France, poor souls, just like my owngreat-great-great-granther's father!" he said, referring to the subjectagain on that last Saturday evening when the frequenters of TheGreenbush were to be stirred shortly by the news they considered best ofall: Champney Googe's unexpected arrival. "I was up thar yisterd'y an'it beats all how snug they're fixed! The schoolroom's ez neat as a pin, an' pitchers on the walls wuth a day's journey to see. They're havin' aroom built onto the farther end--a kind of er relief hospital, soFather Honoré told me--ter help out when the quarrymen git a jammed footer finger, so's they needn't be took home to muss up their little cabinsan' worrit their wives an' little 'uns. I heerd Aileen hed ben goin' upthar purty reg'lar lately for French an' sich; guess Mis' Champney'sdone 'bout the right thing by her, eh, Tave?"

Octavius nodded. "And Aileen's done the right thing by Mrs. Champney. 'Tisn't every young girl that would stick to it as Aileen's done the lastsix years--not in the circumstances. "

"You're right, Tave. I heerd not long ago thet she was a-goin' on thestage when she'd worked out her freedom, and by A. J. She's got thevoice for it! But I'd hate ter see _her_ thar. She's made a lot ersunshine in this place, and I guess from all I hear there's them thetwould stan' out purty stiff agin it; they say Luigi Poggi an' RomanzoCaukins purty near fit over her t' other night. "

"You needn't believe all you hear, Joel, but you can believe me when Itell you there'll be no going on the stage for Aileen--not if I know it, or Father Honoré either. "

He spoke so emphatically that his brother Augustus looked at him insurprise. 

"What's up, Tave?" he inquired. 

"I mean Aileen's got a level head and isn't going to leave just asthings are beginning to get interesting. She's stood it six year and shecan stand it six more if she makes up her mind to it, and I'd ought toknow, seeing as I've lived with her ever since she come to Flamsted. "

"To be sure, Tave, to be sure; nobody knows better'n you, 'bout Aileen, an' I guess she's come to look on you, from all I hear, as her specialpiece of property. " His brother spoke appeasingly. 

Octavius smiled. "Well, I don't deny but she lays claim to me most ofthe time; it's 'Octavius' here and 'Octavius' there all day long. Sometimes Mrs. Champney ruffs up about it, but Aileen has a way ofsmoothing her down, generally laughs her out of it. Is that theColonel?" He listened to a step on the veranda. "Don't let on 'boutanything 'twixt Romanzo and Aileen before the Colonel, Joel. "

"You don't hev ter say thet to me, " said old Quimber resentfully;"anybody can see through a barn door when thar's a hole in it. All on usknow Mis' Champney's a-breakin'; they do say she's hed a shock, leastwise I heerd so, an' Aileen'll look out for A No. 1. I ain't livedto be most eighty in Flamsted for nothin', an' I've seen an' heerdmore'n I've ever told, Tave; more'n even you know 'bout some things. Youdon't remember the time old Square Googe took Aurory inter his home tobring up an' Judge Champney said he was sorry he'd got ahead of him forhe wanted to adopt her for a daughter himself; them's his words; I heerdhim. An' I can tell more'n--"

"Shut up, Quimber, " said Octavius shortly; and Joel Quimber "shut up, "but, winking knowingly at Augustus Buzzby, continued to chuckle tohimself till the Colonel entered who, beginning to expatiate upon thesubject of Champney Googe's prospects when he should have returned tothe home-welcome awaiting him, was happily interrupted by theannouncement of that young man's unexpected arrival on the eveningtrain. 

II

Champney Googe was beginning to realize, as he stood on the porch withhis mother and waved to his old neighbors, the Caukinses, the changedconditions he was about to face. He was also realizing that he mustchange to meet these conditions. On his way up from the train Saturdayevening, he noted the power house at The Corners and the substantialline of comfortable cottages that extended for a mile along the highroadto the entrance of the village. He found Main Street brilliant withelectric lights and lined nearly its entire length with shops, large andsmall, which were thronged with week-end purchasers. An Italian fruitstore near The Greenbush bore the proprietor's name, Luigi Poggi; as hedrove past he saw an old Italian woman bargaining with smiles and livelygestures over the open counter. Farther on, from an improvised woodenbooth, the raucous voice of the phonograph was jarring the night air andentertaining a motley group gathered in front of it. Across the street aflaunting poster announced "Moving Picture Show for a Nickel. " Vehiclesof all descriptions, from a Maine "jigger" to a "top buggy, " werestationary along the village thoroughfare, their various steeds hitchedto every available stone post. In front of the rectory some Italianchildren were dancing to the jingle of a tambourine. 

On nearing The Bow the confusion ceased; the polyglot sounds weredistinguishable only as a murmur. In passing Champ-au-Haut, he lookedup at the house; here and there a light shone behind drawn shades. Sixyears had passed since he was last there; six years--and time had notdulled the sensation of that white pepper in his nostrils! He smiled tohimself. He must see Aileen before he left, for from time to time he hadheard good reports of her from his mother with whom she had become afavorite. He thought she must be mighty plucky to stand Aunt Meda allthis time! He gathered from various sources that Mrs. Champney wasgrowing peculiar as she approached three score and ten. Her rare lettersto him, however, were kind enough. But he was sure Aileen's anomalousplace in the household at Champ-au-Haut--neither servant nor child ofthe house, never adopted, but only maintained--could have been nosinecure. Anyway, he knew she had kept the devotion of her two admirers, Romanzo Caukins and Octavius Buzzby. From a hint in his aunt's lastletter, he drew the conclusion that Aileen and Romanzo would make amatch of it before long, when Romanzo should be established. At anyrate, Aileen had wit enough, he was sure, to know on which side herbread was buttered, and from all he heard by the way of letters, RomanzoCaukins was not to be sneezed at as a prospective husband--asteady-going, solid sort of a chap who, he was told, had a chance nowlike himself in the quarry business. He must credit Aunt Meda with thisone bit of generosity, at least; Mr. Van Ostend told him she had appliedto him for some working position for Romanzo in the Flamsted office, andnot in vain; he was about to be put in as pay-master. 

As he drove slowly up the highroad towards The Gore, he saw thestone-cutters' sheds stretching dim and gray in the moonlight along thefarther shore. A standing train of loaded flat-cars gleamed in theelectric light like a long high-piled drift of new-fallen snow. Here andthere, on approaching The Gore, an arc-light darkened the hills roundabout and sent its blinding glare into the traveller's eyes. At last, his home was in sight--his home!--he wondered that he did not experiencea greater thrill of home-coming--and behind and above it the manyelectric lights in and around the quarries produced hazy whitereflections concentrated in luminous spots on the clear sky. 

His mother met him on the porch. Her greeting was such that it causedhim to feel, and for the first time, that where she was, there, henceforth, his true home must ever be. 

 * * * * *

"It will be hard work adjusting myself at first, mother, " he said, turning to her after watching the wagonload of Caukinses out of sight, "harder than I had any idea of. A foreign business training may broadena man in some ways, but it leaves his muscles flabby for real home workhere in America. You make your fight over there with gloves, and hereonly bare knuckles are of any use; but I'm ready for it!" He smiled andsquared his shoulders as to an imaginary load. 

"You don't regret it, do you, Champney?"

"Yes and no, mother. I don't regret it because I have gained a certainknowledge of men and things available only to one who has lived overthere; but I do regret that, because of the time so spent, I am, attwenty-seven, still hugging the shore--just as I was when I leftcollege. After all these years I'm not 'in it' yet; but I shall besoon, " he added; the hard determined ring of steadfast purpose was inhis voice. He sat down on the lower step: his mother brought forwardher chair. 

"Champney, " she spoke half hesitatingly; she did not find it easy toquestion the man before her as she used to question the youth oftwenty-one, "would you mind telling me if there ever was any truth inthe rumor that somehow got afloat over here three years ago that youwere going to marry Ruth Van Ostend? Of course, I denied it when I gothome, for I knew you would have told me if there had been anything toit. "

Champney clasped his hands about his knee and nursed it, smiling tohimself, before he answered:

"I suppose I may as well make a clean breast of the whole affair, whichis little enough, mother, even if I didn't cover myself with glory andcome out with colors flying. You see I was young and, for all my fouryears in college, pretty green when it came to the real life of thosepeople--"

"You mean the Van Ostends?"

"Yes, their kind. It's one thing to accept their favors, and it's quiteanother to make them think you are doing them one. So I sailed in tomake Ruth Van Ostend interested in me as far as possible, circumstancespermitting--and you'll admit that a yachting trip is about as favorableas they make it. You know she's three years older than I, and I think itflattered and amused her to accept my devotion for a while, but then--"

"But, Champney, did you love her?"

"Well, to be honest, mother, I hadn't got that far myself--don't knowthat I ever should have; any way, I wanted to get her to the pointbefore I went through any self-catechism on that score. "

"But, Champney!" She spoke with whole-hearted protest. 

He nodded up at her understandingly. "I know the 'but', mother; butthat's how it stood with me. You know they were in Paris the next springand, of course, I saw a good deal of them--and of many others who weredancing attendance on the heiress to the same tune that I was. But Icaught on soon, and saw all the innings were with one special man; and, well--I didn't make a fool of myself, that's all. As you know, she wasmarried the autumn after your return, three years ago. "

"You're sure you really didn't mind, Champney?"

He laughed out at that. "Mind! Well, rather! You see it knocked one ofmy little plans higher than a kite--a plan I made the very day I decidedto accept Mr. Van Ostend's offer. Of course I minded. "

"What plan?"

"Wonder if I'd better tell you, mother? I'd like to stand well in yourgood graces--"

"Oh, Champney!"

"Fact, I would. Well, here goes then: I decided--I was lying up underthe pines, you know that day I didn't want to accept his offer?"--shenodded confirmatorily--"that if I couldn't have an opportunity to getrich quick in one way, I would in another; and, in accepting the offer, I made up my mind to try for the sister and her millions; if successful, I intended to take by that means a short cut to matrimony and fortune. "

"Oh, Champney!"

"Young and fresh and--hardened, wasn't it, mother?"

"You were so young, so ignorant, so unused to that sort of living; youhad no realization of the difficulties of life--of love--. "

She began speaking as if in apology for his weakness, but ended with themurmured words "life--love", in a voice so tense with pain that itsounded as if the major dominant of youth and ignorance suddenlysuffered transcription into a haunting minor. 

Her son looked up at her in surprise. 

"Why, mother, don't take it so hard; I assure you I didn't. It broughtme down to bed rock, for I was making a conceited ass of myself that'sall, in thinking I could have roses for fodder instead of thistles--andjust for the asking! It did me no end of good. I shall never rush inagain where even angels fear to tread except softly--I mean the malewingless kind--worth a couple of millions; she has seven in her ownright. --But we're the best of friends. "

He spoke without bitterness. His mother felt, however, at the moment, that she would have preferred to hear a note of keen disappointment inhis explanation rather than this tone of lightest persiflage. 

"I don't see how--" she began, but checked herself. A slight flushmounted in her cheeks. 

"See how what, mother? Please don't leave me dangling; I'm willing totake all you can give. I deserve it. "

"I wasn't going to blame you, Champney. I'm the last one to dothat--Life teaches each in her own way. I was only thinking I didn't seehow any girl _could_ resist loving you, dear. "

"Oh, ho! Don't you, mother mine! Well, commend me to a doting--"

"I'm _not_ doting, Champney, " she protested, laughing; "I know yourfaults better than you know them yourself. "

"A doting mother, I say, to brace up a man fallen through his pride. Doyou mean to say"--, he sprang to his feet, faced her, his hands thrustdeep in his pockets, his face alive with the fun of the moment, --"do youmean to say that if you were a girl I should prove irresistible to you?Come now, mother, tell me, honor bright. "

She raised her eyes to his. The flush faded suddenly in her cheeks, leaving them unnaturally white; her eyes filled with tears. 

"I should worship you, " she said under her breath, and dropped her headinto her hands. He sprang up the steps to her side. 

"Why, mother, mother, don't speak so. I'm not worthy of it--it shamesme. Here, look up, " he took her bowed head tenderly between his handsand raised it, "look into my face; read it well--interpret, and you willcease to idealize, mother. "

She wiped her eyes, half-smiling through her tears. "I'm not idealizing, Champney, and I didn't know I could be so weak; I think--I think thetelegram and your coming so unexpectedly--"

"I know, mother, " he spoke soothingly, "it was too much; you've been toolong alone. I'm glad I'm at home at last and can run up here almost anytime. " He patted her shoulder softly, and whistled for Rag. "Come, puton your shade hat and we'll go up to the quarries. I want to see them;do you realize they are the largest in the country? It's wonderful whata change they've made here! After all, it takes America to forge ahead, for we've got the opportunities and the money to back them--and whatmore is needed to make us great?" He spoke lightly, expecting noanswer. 

She brought her hat and the two went up the side road under the elms tothe quarry. 

Ay, what more is needed to make us great? That is the question. Therecomes a time when a man, whose ears are not wholly deafened by the roarof a trafficking commercialism, asks this question of himself in thehope that some answer may be vouchsafed to him. If it come at all, itcomes like the "still small voice" _after the whirlwind_; and the manwho asks that question in the expectation of a response, must first havesuffered, repented, struggled, fought, at times succumbed to fatefuloverwhelming circumstance, before his soul can be attuned so finely thatthe "still small voice" becomes audible. Youth and that question are notsynchronous. 

 * * * * *

"I've not been so much alone as you imagine, Champney, " said his mother. They were picking their way over the granite slopes and around to FatherHonoré's house. "Aileen and Father Honoré and all the Caukinses and, during this last year, those sweet women of the sisterhood have broughtso much life into my life up here among these old sheep pastures thatI've not had the chance to feel the loneliness I otherwise should. Andthen there is that never-to-be-forgotten summer with you over theocean--I feed constantly on the remembrance of all that delight. "

"I'm glad you had it, mother. "

"Besides, this great industry is so many-sided that it keeps meinterested in every new development in spite of myself. "

"By the way, mother, you wrote me that you had invested most of thattwenty thousand from the quarry lands in bank stock, didn't you?"

"Yes; Mr. Emlie is president now; he is considered safe. The depositshave quadrupled these last two years, and the dividends have beensatisfactory. "

"Yes, I know Emlie's safe enough, but you don't want to tie up yourmoney so that you can't convert it at once into cash if advisable. Youknow I shall be on the inside track now and in a position to use alittle of it at a time judiciously in order to increase it for you. I'dlike to double it for you as Aunt Meda has doubled her inheritance fromgrandfather--Who's that?"

He stopped short and, shading his eyes with his hat, nodded in thedirection of the sisterhood house that stood perhaps an eighth of a milebeyond the pines. His mother, following his look, saw the figure of agirl dodge around the corner of the house. Before she could answer, Rag, the Irish terrier, who had been nosing disconsolately about on thebarren rock, suddenly lost his head. With one short suppressed yelp, helaid his heels low to the slippery granite shelves and scuttled, scurried, scrambled, tore across the intervening quarry hollow like abundle of brown tow driven before a hurricane. 

Mrs. Googe laughed. "No need to ask 'who' when you see Rag go mad likethat! It's Aileen; Rag has been devoted to her ever since you've beengone. I wonder why she isn't at church?"

The girl disappeared in the house. Again and again Champney whistled forhis dog but Rag failed to put in an appearance. 

"He'll need to be re-trained. It isn't well, even for a dog, to be undersuch petticoat government as that; it spoils him. Only I'm afraid Isha'n't be at home long enough to make him hear to reason. "

"Aileen has him in good training. She knows the dog adores her and makesthe most of it. Oh, I forgot to tell you I sent word to Father Honoréthis morning to come over to tea to-night. I knew you would like to seehim, and he has been anticipating your return. "

"Has he? What for I wonder. By the way, where did he take his mealsafter he left you?"

"Over in the boarding-house with the men. He stayed with me only threemonths, until his house was built. He has an old French Canadian forhousekeeper now. "

"He's greatly beloved, I hear. "

"The Gore wouldn't be The Gore without him, " Mrs. Googe spoke earnestly. "The Colonel"--she laughed as she always did when about to quote herrhetorical neighbor--"speaks of him to everyone as 'the heart of thequarry that responds to the throb of the universal human, ' and so far asI know no one has ever taken exception to it, for it's true. "

"I remember--he was an all round fine man. I shall be glad to see himagain. He must find some pretty tough customers up here to deal with, and the Colonel's office is no longer the soft snap it was for fifteenyears, I'll bet. "

"No, that's true; but, on the whole, there is less trouble than youwould expect among so many nationalities. Isn't it queer?--Father Honorésays that most of the serious trouble comes from disputes between theHungarians and Poles about religious questions. They are apt to settleit with fists or something worse. But he and the Colonel have managedwell between them; they have settled matters with very few arrests. "

"I can't imagine the Colonel in that rôle. " Champney laughed. "What doeshe do with all his rhetorical trumpery at such times? I've never seenhim under fire--in fact, he never had been when I left. "

"I know he doesn't like it. He told me he shouldn't fill the officeafter another year. You know he was obliged to do it to make both endsmeet; but since the opening of the quarries he has really prospered andhas a market right here in town for all the mutton he can raise. I'm soglad Romanzo's got a chance. "

They rambled on, crossing the apex of The Gore and getting a good viewof the great extent of the opened quarries. Their talk drifted from onething to another, Champney questioning about this one and that, until, as they turned homewards, he declared he had picked up the many droppedstitches so fast, that he should feel no longer a stranger in his nativeplace when he should make his first appearance in the town the next day. He wanted to renew acquaintance with all the people at Champ-au-Haut andthe old habitués of The Greenbush. 

III

He walked down to Champ-au-Haut the next afternoon. Here and there onthe mountain side and along the highroad he noticed the massed pink andwhite clusters of the sheep laurel. Every singing bird was in fullvoice; thrush and vireo, robin, meadow lark, song-sparrow and catbirdwere singing as birds sing but once in the whole year; when the matingseason is at its height and the long migratory flight northwards isforgotten in the supreme instinctive joy of the ever-new miracle ofprocreation. 

When he came to The Bow he went directly to the paddock gate. He washoping to find Octavius somewhere about. He wanted to interview himbefore seeing any one else, in regard to Rag who had not returned. Therecalcitrant terrier must be punished in a way he could not forget; butChampney was not minded to administer this well-deserved chastisement inthe presence of the dog's protectress. He feared to make a poor firstimpression. 

He stopped a moment at the gate to look down the lane--what a beautifulestate it was! He wondered if his aunt intended leaving anything of itto the girl she had kept with her all these years. Somehow he hadreceived the impression, whether from Mr. Van Ostend or his sister hecould not recall, that she once said she did not mean to adopt her. Hismother never mentioned the matter to him; indeed, she shunned allmention, when possible, of Champ-au-Haut and its owner. 

In his mind's eye he could still see this child as he saw her on thestage at the Vaudeville, clad first in rags, then in white; as he sawher again dressed in the coarse blue cotton gown of orphan asylum order, sitting in the shade of the boat house on that hot afternoon in July, and rubbing her greasy hands in glee; as he saw her for the third timeleaning from the bedroom window and listening to his improvisedserenade. Well, he had a bone to pick with her about his dog; that wouldmake things lively for a while and serve for an introduction. He reachedover to unlatch the gate. At that moment he heard Octavius' voice inviolent protest. It came from behind a group of apple trees down thelane in the direction of the milking shed. 

"Now don't go for to trying any such experiment as that, Aileen; you'llfret the cow besides mussing your clean dress. "

"I don't care; it'll wash. Now, please, do let me, Tave, just thisonce. "

"I tell you the cow won't give down her milk if you take hold of her. She'll get all in a fever having a girl fooling round her. " Therefollowed the rattle of pails and a stool. 

"Now, look here, Octavius Buzzby, who knows best about a cow, you or I?"

"Well, seeing as I've made it my business to look after cows ever sinceI was fifteen year old, you can't expect me to give in to you and say_you_ do. "

Her merry laugh rang out. Champney longed to echo it, but thought bestto lie low for a while and enjoy the fun so unexpectedly provided. 

"Tavy, dear, that only goes to prove you are a mere man; a dear one tobe sure--but then! Don't you flatter yourself for one moment that you, or any other man, really know any creature of the feminine gender from awoman to a cow. You simply can't, Tavy, because you aren't feminine. _Can_ you comprehend that? Can you say on your honor as a man that youhave ever been able to tell for certain what Mrs. Champney, or Hannah, or I, for instance, or this cow, or the cat, or Bellona, when she hasn'tbeen ridden enough, or the old white hen you've been trying to force tosit the last two weeks, is going to do next? Now, honor bright, haveyou?"

Octavius was grumbling some reply inaudible to Champney. 

"No, of course you haven't; and what's more you never will. Not thatit's your fault, Tavy, dear, it's only your misfortune. " Exasperatingpatronage was audible in her voice. Champney noted that a trace of therich Irish brogue was left. "Here, give me that pail. "

"I tell you, Aileen, you can't do it; you've never learned to milk. "

"Oh, haven't I? Look here, Tave, now no more nonsense; Romanzo taught mehow two years ago--but we both took care you shouldn't know anythingabout it. Give me that pail. " This demand was peremptory. 

Evidently Octavius was weakening, for Champney heard again the rattle ofthe pails and the stool; then a swish of starched petticoat and a cooing"There, there, Bess. "

He opened the gate noiselessly and closing it behind him walked down thelane. The golden light of the June sunset was barred, where it lay uponthe brilliant green of the young grass, with the long shadows of theapple-tree trunks. He looked between the thick foliage of thelow-hanging branches to the milking shed. The two were there. Octaviuswas looking on dubiously; Aileen was coaxing the giant Holstein motherto stand aside at a more convenient angle for milking. 

"Hold her tail, Tave, " was the next command. 

She seated herself on the stool and laid her cheek against the warm, shining black flank; her hands manipulated the rosy teats; then shebegan to sing:

 "O what are you seeking my pretty colleen, So sadly, tell me now!"-- "O'er mountain and plain I'm searching in vain Kind sir, for my Kerry cow. "

The milk, now drumming steadily into the pail, served for a runningaccompaniment to the next verses. 

 "Is she black as the night with a star of white Above her bonny brow? And as clever to clear The dykes as a deer?"-- "That's just my own Kerry cow. "

 "Then cast your eye into that field of wheat She's there as large as life. "-- "My bitter disgrace! Howe'er shall I face The farmer and his wife?"

What a voice! And what a picture she made leaning caressingly againstthe charmed and patient Bess! She was so slight, yet round andsupple--strong, too, with the strength of perfect health! The thickfluffed black hair was rolled away from her face and gathered into a lowknot in the nape of her neck. Her dress cut low at the throat enhancedthe white purity of her face and the slim round grace of her neck whichshowed to advantage against the ebony flank of the mother of many milkyways. Her lips were red and full; the nose was a saucy stub; the eyes hecould not see; they were downcast, intent upon her filling pail and therising creamy foam; but he knew them to be an Irish blue-gray. 

[Illustration: "What a picture she made leaning caressingly against thecharmed and patient Bess"]

 "Since the farmer's unwed you've no cause to dread From his wife, you must allow. And for kisses three-- 'Tis myself is he-- The farmer will free your cow. "

The song ceased; the singer was giving her undivided attention to herself-imposed task. Octavius took a stool and began work with anothercow. Champney, nothing loath to prolong the pleasure of looking at theimprovised milkmaid, waited before making his presence known until sheshould have finished. 

And watching her, he could but wonder at the ways of Chance that hadcast this little piece of foreign flotsam upon the shores of America, only to sweep it inland to this village in Maine. He could not helpcomparing her with Alice Van Ostend--what a contrast! What an abyssbetween the circumstances of the two lives! Yet this one was decidedlycharming, more so than the other; for he was at once aware that Aileenwas already in possession of her womanhood's dower of command over allpoor mortals of the opposite sex--her manner with Octavius showed himthat; and Alice when he saw her last, now nearly six months ago, wouldhave given any one the impression of something still unfledged--a tall, slim, overgrown girl of sixteen, and somewhat spoiled. This was indeedonly natural, for her immediate world of father, aunt, and relations hadcircled ever since her birth in the orbit of her charming wilfulness. Champney acknowledged to himself that he had done her bidding a littletoo frequently ever since the first yachting trip, when as a little girlshe attached herself to him, or rather him to her as a part of herspecial goods and chattels. At that time their common ground forconversation was Aileen; the child was never tired of his rehearsing forher delight the serenade scene. But in another year she lost thisinterest, for many others took its place; nor was it ever renewed. 

The Van Ostends, together with Ruth and her husband, had been living thelast three winters in Paris, Mr. Van Ostend crossing and recrossing ashis business interests demanded or permitted. Champney was much withthem, for their home was always open to him who proved an ever welcomeguest. He acknowledged to himself, while participating in the intimacyof their home life, that if the child's partiality to his companionship, so undisguisedly expressed on every occasion, should, in the transitionperiods of girlhood and young womanhood, deepen into a real attachment, he would cultivate it with a view to asking her in marriage of herfather when the time should show itself ripe. In his first youthfularrogance of self-assertion he had miscalculated with Ruth Van Ostend. He would make provision that this "undeveloped affair"--so he termedit--with her niece should not miscarry for want of caution. He intendedwhile waiting for Alice to grow up--a feat which her aunt was alwaysdeploring as an impossibility except in a physical sense--to makehimself necessary in this young life. Thus far he had been successful;her weekly girlish letters conclusively proved it. 

While waiting for the milk to cease its vigorous flow, he was consciousof reviewing his attitude towards the "undeveloped affair" in some suchtrain of thought, and finding in it nothing to condemn, rather tocommend, in fact; for not for the fractional part of a second did heallow a thought of it to divert his mind from the constant end in view:the making for himself a recognized place of power in the financialworld of affairs. He knew that Mr. Van Ostend was aware of thissteadfast pursuit of a purpose. He knew, moreover, that the fact thatthe great financier was taking him into his New York office as treasurerof the Flamsted Quarries, was a tacit recognition not only of his sixyears' apprenticeship in some of the largest banking houses in Europe, but of his ability to acquire that special power which was his goal. Inthe near future he would handle and practically control millions both inreceipt and disbursement. Many of the contracts, already signed, were tobe filled within the next three years--the sound of the milking suddenlyceased. 

"My, how my wrists ache! See, Tave, the pail is almost full; there mustbe twelve or fourteen quarts in all. "

She began to rub her wrists vigorously. Octavius muttered: "I told youso. You might have known you couldn't milk steady like that withoutgetting all tuckered out. "

Champney stepped forward quickly. "Right you are, Tave, every time. Howare you, dear old chap?" He held out his hand. 

"Champ--Champney--why--" he stammered rather than spoke. 

"It's I, Tave; the same old sixpence. Have I changed so much?"

"Changed? I should say so! I thought--I thought--" he was wringingChampney's hand; some strange emotion worked in his features--"I thoughtfor a second it was Mr. Louis come to life. " He turned to Aileen who hadsprung from her stool. "Aileen, this is Mr. Champney Googe; you'veforgotten him, I dare say, in all these years. "

The rich red mantled her cheeks; the gray eyes smiled up frankly intohis; she held out her hand. "Oh, no, I've not forgotten Mr. ChampneyGooge; how could I?"

"Indeed, I think it is the other way round; if I remember rightly yougave me the opportunity of never forgetting you. " He held her hand justa trifle longer than was necessary. The girl smiled and withdrew it. 

"Milky hands are not so sticky as spruce gum ones, Mr. Googe, but theyare apt to be quite as unpleasant. "

Champney was annoyed without in the least knowing why. He was wonderingif he should address her as "Aileen" or "Miss Armagh, " when Octaviusspoke:

"Aileen, just go on ahead up to the house and tell Mrs. Champney Mr. Googe is here. " Aileen went at once, and Octavius explained. 

"You see, Champney--Mr. Googe--"

"Have I changed so much, Tave, that you can't use the old name?"

"You've changed a sight; it don't come easy to call you Champ, any morethan it did to call Mr. Louis by his Christian name. You look a Champneyevery inch of you, and you act like one. " He spoke emphatically; hissmall keen eyes dwelt admiringly on the face and figure of the tall manbefore him. "I thought 't was better to send Aileen on ahead, for Mrs. Champney's broken a good deal since you saw her; she can't stand muchexcitement--and you're the living image. " He called for the boy who hadtaken Romanzo's place. "I'll go up as far as the house with you. Howlong are you going to stay?"

"It depends upon how long it takes me to investigate these quarries, learn the ropes. A week or two possibly. I am to be treasurer of theCompany with my office in New York. "

"So I heard, so I heard. I'm glad it's come at last--no thanks to_her_, " he added, nodding in the direction of the house. 

"Do you still hold a grudge, Tave?"

"Yes, and always shall. Right's right and wrong's wrong, and there ain'ta carpenter in this world that can dovetail the two. You and your motherhave been cheated out of your rights in what should be yours, and it'sten to one if you ever get a penny of it. "

Champney smiled at the little man's indignation. "All the more reason tocongratulate me on my job, Tave. "

"Well, I do; only it don't set well, this other business. She ain'thelped you any to it?" He asked half hesitatingly. 

"Not a red cent, Tave. I don't owe her anything. Possibly she will leavesome of it to this same Miss Aileen Armagh. Stranger things havehappened. " Octavius shook his head. 

"Don't you believe it, Champney. She likes Aileen and well she may, butshe don't like her well enough to give her a slice off of this estate;and what's more she don't like any living soul well enough to part witha dollar of it on their account. "

"Is there any one Aunt Meda ever did love, Tave? From all I remember tohave heard, when I was a boy, she was always bound up pretty thoroughlyin herself. "

"Did she ever love any one? Well she did; that was her husband, LouisChampney, who loved you as his own son. And it's my belief that's thereason you don't get your rights. She was jealous as the devil of everyword he spoke to you. "

"You're telling me news--and late in the day. "

"Late is better than never, and I'd always meant to tell you when youcome to man's estate--but you've been away so long, I've thoughtsometimes you was never coming home; but I hoped you would for yourmother's sake, and for all our sakes. "

"I'm going to do what I can, but you mustn't depend too much on me, Tave. I'm glad I'm at home for mother's sake although I always felt shehad a good right hand in you, Tave; you've always been a good friend toher, she tells me. "

Octavius Buzzby swallowed hard once, twice; but he gave him no reply. Champney wondered to see his face work again with some emotion he failedto explain satisfactorily to himself. 

"There's Mrs. Champney on the terrace; I won't go any farther. Come inwhen you can, won't you?"

"I shall be pretty apt to run in for a chat almost anytime on my way tothe village. " He waved his hand in greeting to his aunt and sprang upthe steps leading to the terrace. 

He bent to kiss her and was shocked by the change in her that was onlytoo apparent: the delicate features were sharpened; the temples sunken;her abundant light brown hair was streaked heavily with white; thehands had grown old, shrunken, the veins prominent. 

"Kiss me again, Champney, " she said in a low voice, closing her eyeswhen he bent again to fulfil her request. When she opened them henoticed that the lids were trembling and the corners of her mouthtwitched. But she rallied in a moment and said sharply:

"Now, don't say you're sorry--I know all about how I look; but I'mbetter and expect to outlive a good many well ones yet. "

She told Aileen to bring another chair. Champney hastened to forestallher; his aunt shook her finger at him. 

"Don't begin by spoiling her, " she said. Then she bade her make readythe little round tea-table on the terrace and serve tea. 

"What do you think of her?" she asked him after Aileen had entered thehouse. She spoke with a directness of speech that warned Champney thequestion was a cloak to some other thought on her part. 

"That she does you credit, Aunt Meda. I don't know that I can pay you orher a greater compliment. "

"Very well said. You've learned all that over there--and a good dealmore besides. There have been no folderols in her education. I've madeher practical. Come, draw up your chair nearer and tell me something ofthe Van Ostends and that little Alice who was the means of Aileen'scoming to me. I hear she is growing to be a beauty. "

"Beauty--well, I shouldn't say she was that, not yet; but 'little. ' Sheis fully five feet six inches with the prospect of an additional inch. "

"I didn't realize it. When are they coming home?"

"Early in the autumn. Alice says she is going to come out next winter, not leak out as the other girls in her set have done; and what Alicewants she generally manages to have. "

"Let me see--she must be sixteen; why that's too young!"

"Seventeen next month. She's very good fun though. "

"Like her?" She looked towards the house where Aileen was visible with atea-tray. 

"Well, no; at least, not along her lines I should say. She seems to haveTave pretty well under her thumb. "

Mrs. Champney smiled. "Octavius thought he couldn't get used to it atfirst, but he's reconciled now; he had to be. --Call her Aileen, Champney; you mustn't let her get the upper hand of you by making herthink she's a woman grown, " she added in a low tone, for the girl wasapproaching them, slowly on account of the loaded tray she was carrying. 

Champney left his seat and taking the tea-things from her placed them onthe table. Aileen busied herself with setting all in order and twirlingthe tea-ball in each cup of boiling water, as if she had been used tothis ultra method of making tea all her life. 

"By the way, Aileen--"

He checked himself, for such a look of amazement was in the quicklylifted gray eyes, such a surprised arch was visible in the dark brows, that he realized his mistake in hearing to his aunt's request. He felthe must make himself whole, and if possible without further delay. 

"Oh, I see that it must still be Miss AileenArmagh-and-don't-you-forget-it!" he exclaimed, laughing to cover hisconfusion. 

She laughed in turn; she could not help it at the memories this titlecalled to mind. "Well, it's best to be particular with strangers, isn'tit?" Down went the eyes to search in the bottom of a teacup. 

"I fancied we were not wholly that; I told Aunt Meda about our escapadesix years ago; surely, that affair ought to establish a common groundfor our continued acquaintance. But, if that's not sufficient, I canfind another nearer at hand--where's my dog?"

This brought her to terms. 

"Oh, I can't do anything with Rag, Mr. Googe; I'm so sorry. He's over inthe coach house this very minute, and Tave was going to take him hometo-night. Just think! That seven-year-old dog has to be carried home, old as he is!"

"If it's come to that, I'll take him home under my arm to-night--thatis, if he won't follow; I'll try that first. "

"But you're not going to punish him!--and simply because he likes me. That wouldn't be fair!"

She made her protest indignantly. Champney looked at his aunt with anamused smile. She nodded understandingly. 

"Oh, no; not simply because he likes you, but because he is untrue tome, his master. "

"But that isn't fair!" she exclaimed again, her cheeks flushing rosered; "you've been away so long that the dog has forgotten. "

"Oh, no, he hasn't; or if he has I must jog his memory. He's Irish, andthe supreme characteristic of that breed is fidelity. "

"Well, so am I Irish, " she retorted pouting; she began to make him asecond cup of tea by twirling the silver tea-ball in the shallow cupuntil the hot water flew over the edge; "but I shouldn't consider itnecessary to be faithful to any one who had forgotten and left me forsix years. "

"You wouldn't?" Champney's eyes challenged hers, but either she did notunderstand their message or she was too much in earnest to heed it. 

"No I wouldn't; what for? I like Rag and he likes me, and we have beenfaithful to each other; it would be downright hypocrisy on his part tolike you after all these years. "

"How about you?" Champney grew bold because he knew his aunt wasenjoying the girl's entanglement as much as he was. She was amused athis daring and Aileen's earnestness. "Didn't you tell me in Tave'spresence only just now that you couldn't forget me? How is that forfidelity? And why excuse Rag on account of a six years' absence?"

"Well, of course, he's your dog, " she said loftily, so evading thequestion and ignoring the laugh at her expense. 

"Yes, he's my dog if he is a backslider, and that settles it. " He turnedto his aunt. "I'll run in again to-morrow, Aunt Meda, I mustn't wear mywelcome out in the first two days of my return. "

"Yes, do come in when you can. I suppose you will be here a month ortwo?"

"No; only a week or two at most; but I shall run up often; the businesswill require it. " He looked at Aileen. "Will you be so kind as to comeover with me to the coach house, Miss Armagh, and hand my property overto me? Good-bye, Aunt Meda. "

Aileen rose. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Champney, or will yougo in now?"

"There's no dew, and the air is so fresh I'll sit here till you come. "

The two went down the terrace steps side by side. Mrs. Champney watchedthem out of sight; there was a kindling light in her faded eyes. 

"Now, we'll see, " said Champney, as they neared the coach house and sawin the window the bundle of brown tow with black nose flattened on thepane and eyes filled with longing under the tangled topknot. The stub ofa tail was marking time to the canine heartbeats. Champney opened thedoor; the dog scurried out and sprang yelping for joy upon Aileen. 

"Rag, come here!" The dog's day of judgment was in that masculinecommand. The little terrier nosed Aileen's hand, hesitated, then pressedmore closely to her side. The girl laughed out in merry triumph. Champney noted that she showed both sets of her strong white teeth whenshe laughed. 

"Rag, dear old boy!" She parted with caressing fingers the skein of towon the frowsled head. 

"Come on, Rag. " Champney whistled and started up the driveway. Theterrier fawned on Aileen, slavered, snorted, sniffed, then crept almoston his belly, tail stiff, along the ground after Champney who turned andlaid his hand on him. The dog crouched in the road. He gently pulled thestumps of ears--"Now come!"

He went whistling up the road, and the terrier, recognizing his master, trotted in a lively manner after him. 

Champney turned at the gate and lifted his hat. "How about fidelity now, Miss Armagh?" He wanted to tease in payment for that amazed look shegave him for taking a liberty with her Christian name. 

"Well, of course, he's your dog, " she called merrily after him, "but _I_wouldn't have done it if I'd been Rag!"

Champney found himself wondering on the homeward way if she really meantwhat she said. 

IV

It was a careless question, carelessly put, and yet--Aileen Armagh, before she returned to the house, was also asking herself if she meantwhat she said, asking it with an unwonted timidity of feeling she couldnot explain. On coming in sight of the terrace, she saw that Mrs. Champney was still there. She hesitated a moment, then crossed the lawnto the boat house. She wanted to sit there a while in the shade, tothink things out with herself if possible. What did this mean--thisstrange feeling of timidity?

The course of her life was not wholly smooth. It was inevitable that twonatures like hers and Mrs. Champney's should clash at times, and theimpact was apt to be none of the softest. Twice, Aileen, making aconfidant of Octavius, threatened to run away, for the check rein washeld too tightly, and the young life became restive under it. When thechild first came to Champ-au-Haut, its mistress recognized at once thatin her mischief, her wilfulness, her emphatic assertion of her right ofway, there was nothing vicious, and to Octavius Buzzby's amazement, shedealt with her, on the whole, leniently. 

"She amuses me, " she would say when closing an eye to some of Aileen'sescapades that gave a genuine shock to Octavius in the region of hislocal prejudices. 

There had been, indeed, no "folderols" in her education. Sewing, cooking, housework she was taught root and branch in the time not spentat school, both grammar and high. During the last year Mrs. Champneypermitted her to learn French and embroidery in a systematic manner atthe school established by the gentle Frenchwomen in The Gore; but shesteadily refused to permit the girl to cultivate her voice through themedium of proper instruction. This denial of the girl's strongest desirewas always a common subject of dissension and irritation; however, afterAileen was seventeen a battle royal of words between the two was a rareoccurrence. 

At the same time she never objected to Aileen's exercising her talent inher own way. Father Honoré encouraged her to sing to the accompanimentof his violin, knowing well that the instrument would do its share incorrecting faults. She sang, too, with Luigi Poggi, her "knothole boy"of the asylum days; and, as seven years before, Nonna Lisa oftenaccompanied with her guitar. The old Italian, who had managed to keep intouch with her one-time _protégée_, and her grandson Luigi, made theirappearance in the village one summer after Aileen had been two years inFlamsted. Luigi, now that his vaudeville days were over, was in searchof work at the quarries; his grandmother was to keep house for him tillhe should be able to establish himself in trade--the goal of so many ofhis thrifty countrymen. 

These two Italians were typical of thousands of their nationality whocome to our shores; whom our national life, through naturalization andcommunity of interests, is able in a marvellously short time toassimilate--and for the public good. Intelligent, business-like, keen ata bargain, but honest and graciously gentle and friendly in manner, Luigi Poggi soon established himself in the affections of Flamsted--inno one's more solidly than in Elmer Wiggins', strange to say, whocapitulated to the "foreigner's" progressive business methods--and afterthree years of hard and satisfactory work at the quarries and in thesheds, by living frugally and saving thriftily he was able to open thefirst Italian fruit stall in the quarry town. The business wasflourishing and already threatened to overrun its quarters. Luigi was ina fair way to become fruit capitalist; his first presidential vote hadbeen cast, and he felt prepared to enjoy to the full his newAmericanhood. 

But with his young manhood and the fulfilment of its young aspirations, came other desires, other incentives for making his business a successand himself a respected and honored citizen of these United States. Luigi Poggi was ready to give into Aileen's keeping--whenever she mightchoose to indicate by a word or look that she was willing to accept thegift--his warm Italian heart that knew no subterfuge in love, but gavegenerously, joyfully, in the knowledge that there would be ever more andmore to bestow. He had not as yet spoken, save with his dark eyes, hisloving earnestness of voice, and the readiness with which, ever sincehis appearance in Flamsted he ran and fetched and carried for her. 

Aileen enjoyed this devotion. The legitimate pleasure of knowing she isloved--even when no response can be given--is a girl's normal emotionalnourishment. Through it the narrows in her nature widen and the shallowsdeepen to the dimensions that enable the woman's heart to give, at last, even as she has received, --ay, even more than she can ever hope toreceive. This novitiate was now Aileen's. 

As a foil, against which Luigi's silent devotion showed to the bestadvantage, Romanzo Caukins' dogged persistence in telling her on anaverage of once in two months that he loved her and was waiting for asatisfactory answer, served its end. For six years, while Romanzoremained at Champ-au-Haut, the girl teased, cajoled, tormented, amused, and worried the Colonel's eldest. Of late, since his twenty-firstbirthday, he had turned the tables on her, and was teasing and worryingher with his love-blind persistence. That she had given him a decidedanswer more than once made no impression on his determined spirit. Inher despair Aileen went to Octavius; but he gave her cold comfort. 

"What'd I tell you two years ago, Aileen? Didn't I say you couldn't playwith even a slow-match like Roman, if you didn't want a fire later on?And you wouldn't hear a word to me. "

"But I didn't know, Tave! How could I think that just because a boy tagsround after you from morning till night for the sake of being amused, that when he gets to be twenty-one he is going to keep on tagging roundafter you for the rest of his days? I never saw such a leech! He simplywon't accept the fact once for all that I won't have him; but he's gotto--so now!"

Octavius smiled at the sudden little flurry; he was used to them. 

"I take it Roman doesn't think you know your own mind. "

"He doesn't! Well, he'll find out I do, then. Oh, dear, why couldn't hejust go on being Romanzo Caukins with no nonsense about him, and notmake such a goose of himself! Anyway, I'm thankful he's gone; it got soI couldn't so much as tell him to harness up for Mrs. Champney, that hedidn't consider it a sign of 'yielding' on my part!" She laughed out. "Oh, Tavy dear, what should I do without you!--Now if I could make animpression on you, it might be worth while, " she added mischievously. 

Octavius would have failed to be the man he was had he not feltflattered; he smiled on her indulgently. "Well, I shouldn't tag roundafter you much if I was thirty year younger; 't ain't my way. Butthere's one thing, Aileen, I want to say to you, and if you've got anycommon sense you'll heed me this time: I want you to be mighty carefulhow you manage with Luigi. You've got no slow-match to play with thistime, let me tell you; you've got a regular sleeping volcano like someof them he was born near; and it won't do, I warn you. He ain't RomanzoCaukins--Roman's home made; but t'other is a foreigner; they'redifferent. "

"Oh, don't preach, Octavius. " She always called him by his unabbreviatedname when she was irritated. "I like well enough to sing with Luigi, andgo rowing with him, and play tennis, and have the good times, but it'snonsense for you to think he means anything serious. Why, he never spokea word of love to me in his life!"

"Humph!--that silent kind's the worst; you don't give him a chance. "

"And I don't mean to--does that satisfy you?" she demanded. "If itdoesn't, I'll tell you something--but it's a secret; you won't tell?"

"Not if you don't want me to; I ain't that kind. "

"I know you're not, Tave; that's why I'm going to tell you. Here, let mewhisper--"; she bent to his ear; he was seated on a stool in the coachhouse mending a strap; "--I've waited all this time for that prince tocome, and do you suppose for one moment I'd look at any one else?"

"Now that ain't fair to fool me like that, Aileen!"

Octavius was really vexed, but he spoke the last words to empty air, forthe girl caught up her skirt and ran like a deer up the lane. He couldhear her laughing at his discomfiture; the sound grew fainter andfainter; when it ceased he resumed his work, from time to time shakinghis head ominously and talking to himself as a vent for his outragedfeelings. 

But Aileen spoke the truth. Her vivid imagination, a factor in the trueCeltic temperament, provided her with another life, apart from the busypractical one which Mrs. Champney laid out for her. All her childishdelights of day-dreaming and joyous romancing, fostered by that firstnovel which Luigi Poggi thrust through the knothole in the orphan asylumfence, was at once transferred to Alice Van Ostend and her surroundingsso soon as the two children established their across-streetacquaintance. Upon her arrival in Flamsted, the child's adaptability tochanged circumstances and new environment was furthered by the play ofthis imagination that fed itself on what others, who lack it, might callthe commonplace of life: the house at Champ-au-Haut became her lordlypalace; the estate a park; she herself a princess guarded only too wellby an aged duenna; Octavius Buzzby and Romanzo Caukins she looked uponas life-servitors. 

Now and then the evidence of this unreal life, which she was leading, was made apparent to Octavius and Romanzo by some stilted mode ofspeech. At such times they humored her; it provided amusement of therichest sort. She also continued to invent "novels" for Romanzo'sbenefit, and many a half-hour the two spent in the carriagehouse--Aileen aglow with the enthusiasm of narration, and Romanzo intentupon listening, charmed both with the tale and the narrator. In theseinvented novels, there was always a faithful prince returning after longyears of wandering to the faithful princess. This was her one theme withvariations. 

Sometimes she danced a minuet on the floor of the stable, with thisprince as imaginary partner, and Romanzo grew jealous of the bewitchingsmiles and coquetries she bestowed upon the vacant air. At others shewould induce the youth to enter a box stall, telling him to make believehe was at the theatre, and then, forgetting her rôle of princess, shewas again the Aileen Armagh of old--the child on the vaudeville stage, dancing the coon dance with such vigor and abandonment that once, whenAileen was nearly sixteen, Octavius, being witness to this flauntingperformance, took her severely to task for such untoward actions nowthat she was grown up. He told her frankly that if Romanzo Caukins wasled astray in the future it would be through her carryings-on; at whichAileen looked so dumbfoundered that Octavius at once perceived hismistake, and retreated weakly from his position by telling her if shewanted to dance like that, she'd better dance before him who understoodher and her intentions. 

At this second speech Aileen stared harder than ever; then going up tohim and throwing an arm around his neck, she whispered:

"Tave, dear, are you mad with me? What have I done?--Is it reallyanything so awful?"

Her distress was so unfeigned that Octavius, not being a woman, comforted her by telling her he was a great botcher. Inwardly he cursedhimself for an A No. 1 fool. Aileen never danced the "coon" again, butthereafter gave herself such grown-up and stand-off airs in Romanzo'spresence, that the youth proceeded in all earnest to lose both head andheart to the girl's gracious blossoming womanhood. Octavius, observingthis, groaned in spirit, and henceforth held his tongue when he heardthe girl carolling her Irish love songs in the presence of the ingenuousCaukins. 

After this, the girl's exuberance of spirits and the sustaining innerlife of the imagination helped her wonderfully during the threefollowing years of patient waiting on a confirmed invalid. Of late, Mrs. Champney had come to depend more and more on the girl's strong youth; todemand more and more from her abundant vitality and lively spirits; andAileen, although recognizing the anomalous position she held in theChamp-au-Haut household--neither servant nor child, neither companionnor friend--gave of herself; gave as her Irish inheritance prompted herto give: ungrudgingly, faithfully, without reward save the knowledge ofa duty performed towards the woman who, in taking her into her householdand maintaining her there, had placed her in a position to makefriends--such friends!

 * * * * *

When the soil is turned over carefully, enriched and prepared perfectlyfor the seed; when rain is abundant, sunshine plenteous andmother-earth's spring quickening is instinctive, is it to be wondered atthat the rootlet delves, the plantlet lifts itself, the bud formsquickly, and unexpectedly spreads its petal-star to the sunlight whichenhances its beauty and fructifies its work of reproduction? The naturallaws, in this case, work to their prescribed end along lines offavoring circumstance--and Love is but the working out of the greatestof all Nature's laws. When conditions are adverse, there is only toooften struggle, strife, wretchedness. The result is a dwarfing of theproduct, a lowering of the vital power, a recession from the type. But, on the contrary, when all conditions combine to further the working ofthis law, we have the rapid and perfect flowering, followed by thebeneficent maturity of fruit and seed. Thus Life, the ever-new, becomesimmortal. 

Small wonder that Aileen Armagh, trying to explain that queer feeling oftimidity, should suddenly press her hand hard over her heart! It wasthrobbing almost to the point of suffocating her, so possessed was it bythe joy of a sudden and wonderful presence of love. 

The knowledge brought with it a sense of bewildering unreality. She knewnow that her day dreams had a substantial basis. She knew now that shehad _not_ meant what she said. 

For years, ever since the night of the serenade, her vivid imaginationhad been dwelling on Champney Googe's home-coming; for years he was thecentral figure in her day dreams, and every dream was made half areality to her by means of the praises in his behalf which she heardsounded by each man, woman, and child in the ever-increasing circle ofher friends. It was always with old Joel Quimber: "When Champ gits back, we'll hev what ye might call the head of a fam'ly agin. " Octavius Buzzbyspent hours in telling her of the boy's comings and goings and doings atChamp-au-Haut, and the love Louis Champney bore him. Romanzo Caukins sethim on the pedestal of his boyish enthusiasm. The Colonel himself wasnot less enthusiastic than his first born; he never failed to assureAileen when she was a guest in his house--an event that became a weeklymatter as she grew older--that her lot had fallen in pleasant places;that to his friend, Mrs. Googe, and her son, Champney, she was indebtedfor the new industrial life which brought with it such advantages to oneand all in Flamsted. 

To Aurora Googe, the mother of her imaginative ideal, Aileen, attractedfrom the first by her beauty and motherly kindness towards an orphanwaif, gave a child's demonstrative love, afterwards a girl's adoration. In all this devotion she was abetted by Elvira Caukins to whom AuroraGooge had always been an ideal of womanhood. Moreover, Aileen came toknow during these years of Champney Googe's absence that his motherworshipped in reality where she herself worshipped in imagination. 

Thus the ground was made ready for the seed. Small wonder that theflowering of love in this warm Irish heart was immediate, when ChampneyGooge, on the second day after his home-coming, questioned her with thatcareless challenge in his eyes:

"You wouldn't?"

 * * * * *

The sun set before she left the boat house. She ran up the steps to theterrace and, not finding Mrs. Champney there, sought her in the house. She found her in the library, seated in her easy chair which she hadturned to face the portrait of her husband, over the fireplace. 

"Why didn't you call me to help you in, Mrs. Champney? I blame myselffor not coming sooner. "

"I really feel stronger and thought I might as well try it; there isalways a first time--and you were with Champney, weren't you?"

"I? Why no--what made you think that?" Mrs. Champney noticed the slighthesitation before the question was put so indifferently, and the quickred that mounted in the girl's cheeks. "Mr. Googe went off half an hourago with Rag tagging on behind. "

"Then he conquered as usual. "

"I don't know whether I should call it 'conquering' or not; Rag didn'twant to go, that was plain enough to see. "

"What made him go then?"

Aileen laughed out. "That's just what I'd like to know myself. "

"What do you think of him?"

"Who?--Rag or Mr. Googe?"

She was always herself with Mrs. Champney, and her daring spirit ofmischief rarely gave offence to the mistress of Champ-au-Haut. But bythe tone of voice in which she answered, Aileen knew that, withoutintention, she had irritated her. 

"You know perfectly well whom I mean--my nephew, Mr. Googe. "

Aileen was silent for a moment. Her young secret was her own to guardfrom all eyes, and especially from all unfriendly ones. She was standingon the hearth, in front of Mrs. Champney. Turning her head slightly shelooked up at the portrait of the man above her--looked upon almost thevery lineaments of him whom at that very moment her young heart wasadoring: the fine features, the blue eyes, the level brows, the firmcurving lips, the abundant brown hair. It was as if Champney Googehimself were smiling down upon her. As she continued to look, the lovelylight in the girl's face--a light reflected from no sunset fires overthe Flamsted Hills, but from the sunrise of girlhood's firstlove--betrayed her to the faded watchful eyes beside her. 

"He looks just like your husband;" she spoke slowly; her voice seemed tolinger on the last word; "when Tave saw him he said he thought it wasMr. Champney come to life, and I think--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted her. "Octavius Buzzby is a fool. " Sudden angerhardened her voice; a slight flush came into her wasted cheeks. "TellHannah I want my supper now, let Ann bring it in here to me. I don'tneed you; I'm tired. "

Aileen turned without another word--she knew too well that tone of voiceand what it portended; she was thankful to hear it rarely now--and leftthe room to do as she was bidden. 

"Little fool!" Almeda Champney muttered between set teeth when the doorclosed upon the girl. She placed both hands on the arms of her chair toraise herself; walked feebly to the hearth where a moment before Aileenhad stood, and raising her eyes to the smiling ones looking down intohers, confessed her woman's weakness in bitter words that mingled with ahalf-sob:

"And I, too, was a fool--all women are with such as you. "

V

Although Mrs. Champney remained the only one who read Aileen Armagh'ssecret, yet even she asked herself as the summer sped if she readaright. 

During the three weeks in which her nephew was making himself familiarwith all the inner and outer workings of the business at The Gore and inthe sheds, she came to anticipate his daily coming to Champ-au-Haut, forhe brought with him the ozone of success. His laugh was so unaffectedlyhearty; his interest in the future of Flamsted and of himself as afactor in its prosperity so unfeigned; his enjoyment of his ownimportance so infectious, his account of the people and things he hadseen during his absence from home so entertaining that, in his presence, his aunt breathed a new atmosphere, the life-giving qualities of whichwere felt as beneficial to every member of the household at The Bow. 

Mrs. Champney took note that he never asked for Aileen. If the girl werethere when he ran in for afternoon tea on the terrace or an hour's chatin the evening, --sometimes it happened that the day saw him three timesat Champ-au-Haut--her presence to all appearance afforded him only anopportunity to tease her goodnaturedly; he delighted in her repartee. Mrs. Champney, keenly observant, failed to detect in the girl's frankjoyousness the least self-consciousness; she was just her own merry selfwith him, and the "give and take" between them afforded Mrs. Champney afund of amusement. 

On the evening of his departure for New York, she was witness to theirmerry leave-taking. Afterwards she summoned Octavius to the library. 

"You may bring all the mail for the house hereafter to me, Octavius; nowthat I am feeling so much stronger, I shall gradually resume mycustomary duties in the household. You need not give any of the mail toAileen to distribute--I'll do it after to-night. "

"What the devil is she up to now!" Octavius said to himself as he leftthe room. 

But no letter from New York came for Aileen. Mrs. Champney tried anothertack: the next time her nephew came to Flamsted, later on in the autumn, she asked him to write her in detail concerning his intimacy with hercousins, the Van Ostends, and of their courtesies to him. Champney, nothing loath--always keeping in mind the fact that it was well to keepon the right side of Aunt Meda--wrote her all she desired to know. Whathe wrote was retailed faithfully to Aileen; but the frequent dinners atthe Van Ostends', and the prospective coming-out reception and ball tobe given for Alice and scheduled for the late winter, called forth fromthe eagerly listening girl only ejaculations of delight and pleasantreminiscence of the first time she had seen the little girl dressed fora party. If, inwardly she asked herself the question why Alice VanOstend had dropped all her childish interest in her whom she had beenthe means of sending to Flamsted, why she no longer inquired for her, her common sense was apt to answer the question satisfactorily. AileenArmagh was keen-eyed and quick-witted, possessing, without actualexperience in the so-called other world of society, a wonderfulintuition as to the relative value of people and circumstances in thisordinary world which already, during her short life, had presentedvarious interesting phases for her inspection; consequently sherecognized the abyss of circumstance between her and the heiress ofHenry Van Ostend. But, with an intensity proportioned to her open-mindedrecognition of the first material differences, her innate womanlinessand pride refused to acknowledge any abyss as to their respectivepersonalities. Hence she kept silence in regard to certain things;laughed and made merry over the letters filled with the Van Ostends'doings--and held on her own way, sure of her own status with herself. 

Aileen kept her secret, and all the more closely because she wasrealizing that Champney Googe was far from indifferent to her. At first, the knowledge of the miracle of love, that was wrought so suddenly asshe thought, sufficed to fill her heart with continual joy. But, shortly, that was modified by the awakening longing that Champney shouldreturn her love. She felt she charmed him; she knew that he timed hiscoming and going that he might encounter her in the house or about thegrounds, whenever and wherever he could--sometimes alone in her boat onthe long arm of the lake, that makes up to the west and is known as"lily-pad reach"; and afterwards, during the autumn, in the quarry woodsabove The Gore where with her satellites, Dulcie and Doosie Caukins, shewent to pick checkerberries. 

Mrs. Champney was baffled; she determined to await developments, takingrefuge from her defeat in the old saying "Love and a cough can't behidden. " Still, she could but wonder when four months of the latespring and early summer passed, and Champney made no further appearancein Flamsted. This hiatus was noticeable, and she would have found itinexplicable, had not Mr. Van Ostend written her a letter whichsatisfied her in regard to many things of which she had previously beenin doubt; it decided her once for all to speak to Aileen and warn heragainst any passing infatuation for her nephew. For this she determinedto bide her time, especially as Champney's unusual length of absencefrom Flamsted seemed to have no effect on the girl's joyous spirits. InJuly, however, she had again an opportunity to see the two together atChamp-au-Haut. Champney was in Flamsted on business for two days only, and so far as she knew there was no opportunity for Aileen to see hernephew more than once and in her presence. She managed matters in such away that Aileen's services were in continual demand during Champney'stwo days' stay in his native town. 

But after that visit in July, the singing voice was heard ringingjoyfully at all times of the day in the house and about the grounds ofThe Bow. Sometimes the breeze brought it to Octavius from across thelake waters--Luigi's was no longer with it--and he pitied the girlsincerely because the desire of her heart, the cultivation of such avoice, was denied her. Mrs. Champney, also, heard the clear voice, which, in this the girl's twentieth year, was increasing in volume andsweetness, carolling the many songs in Irish, English, French andItalian. She marvelled at the light-heartedness and, at the same time, wondered if, now that Romanzo Caukins could no longer hope, Aileen wouldshow enough common sense to accept Luigi Poggi in due time, and throughhim make for herself an established place in Flamsted. Not that she wasyet ready to part with her--far from it. She was too useful a member ofthe Champ-au-Haut household. Still, if it were to be Poggi in the end, she felt she could control matters to the benefit of all concerned, herself primarily. She was pleasing herself with the idea of suchprospective control of Aileen's matrimonial interests one afternoon, just after Champney's flying visit in July, when she rose from her chairbeneath the awning and, to try her strength, made her way slowly alongthe terrace to the library windows; they were French casements and oneof them had swung outwards noiselessly in the breeze. She was about tostep through, when she saw Aileen standing on the hearth before theportrait of Louis Champney. She was gazing up at it, her face illuminedby the same lovely light that, a year before, had betrayed her secret tothe faded but observant eyes of Louis Champney's widow. 

This was enough; the mistress of Champ-au-Haut was again on herguard--and well she might be, for Aileen Armagh was in possession of theknowledge that Champney Googe loved her. In joyful anticipation she waswaiting for the word which, spoken by him when he should be again inFlamsted, was to make her future both fair and blest. 

VI

In entering on his business life in New York, Champney Googe, like manyanother man, failed to take into account the "minus quantities" in hispersonal equation. These he possessed in common with other men becausehe, too, was human: passions in common, ambitions in common, weaknessesin common, and last, but not least, the pursuance of a common end--theaccumulation of riches. 

The sum of these minus quantities added to the total of temperamentalcharacteristics and inherited traits left, unfortunately, in balancingthe personal equation a minus quantity. Not that he had any realizationof such a result--what man has? On the contrary, he firmly believed thathis inherited obstinate perseverance, his buoyant temperament, hisfortunate business connection with the great financier, his position asthe meeting-point of the hitherto divided family interests in Flamsted, his intimacy with the Van Ostends--the distant tie of blood confirmingthis at all points--plus his college education and cosmopolitan businesstraining in the financial capitals of Europe, were potent factors infinding the value of _x_--this representing to him an, as yet, unknownquantity of accumulated wealth. 

He had not yet asked himself how large a sum he wished to amass, but hesaid to himself almost daily, "I have shown my power along certain linesto-day, " these lines converging in his consciousness always to monetaryincrement. 

He worked with a will. His energy was tireless. He learned constantlyand much from other men powerful in the world of affairs--of theirmethods of speculation, some legitimate, others quite the contrary; oftheir manipulation of stocks, weak and strong; of their strengtheningthe market when the strengthening was necessary to fill a threateneddeficit in their treasury and of their weakening a line of investment toprevent over-loading and consequent depletion of the same. He wasthoroughly interested in all he heard and saw of the development ofmines and industries for the benefit of certain banking cliques and landsyndicates. If now and then a mine proved to have no bottom and thesmall investor's insignificant sums dropped out of sight in thisbottomless pit, that did not concern him--it was all in the game, andthe game was an enticing one to be played to the end. The two facts thatnothing is certain at all times, and that everything is uncertain atsome time, added the excitement of chance to his business interest. 

At times, for instance when walking up the Avenue on a bracing Octoberday, he felt as if he owned all in sight--a condition of mind whichthose who know from experience the powerful electro-magnetic currentgenerated by the rushing life of the New York metropolis can wellunderstand. He struck out into the stream with the rest, and withoverweening confidence in himself--in himself as master of circumstanceswhich he intended to control in his own interests, in himself as thepivotal point of Flamsted affairs. The rapidity of the current acted asa continual stimulus to exertion. Like all bold swimmers, he knew in ageneral way that the channel might prove tortuous, the current threatenat times to overpower him; but, carried rapidly out into mid-stream withthat gigantic propulsive force that is the resultant of the diverseonward-pressure of the metropolitan millions, he suddenly found himselfone day in that mid-stream without its ever having occurred to him thathe might not be able to breast it. Even had he thought enough about thematter to admit that certain untoward conditions might have to be met, he would have failed to realize that the shore towards which he wasstruggling might prove in the end a quicksand. 

Another thing: he failed to take into account the influence of any crosscurrent, until he was made to realize the necessity of stemming hisstrength against it. This influence was Aileen Armagh. 

Whenever in walking up lower Broadway from the office he found himselfpassing Grace Church, he realized that, despite every effort of will, hewas obliged to relive in thought the experience of that night sevenyears ago at the Vaudeville. Then for the first time he saw the littlematch girl crouching on the steps of the stage reproduction of this samemarble church. The child's singing of her last song had induced in himthen--wholly unawares, wholly unaccountably--a sudden mental nausea anda physical disgust at the course of his young life, the result beingthat the woman "who lay in wait for him at the corner" by appointment, watched that night in vain for his coming. 

In reliving this experience, there was always present in his thought theAileen Armagh as he knew her now--pure, loyal, high-spirited, helpful, womanly in all her household ways, entertaining in her originality, endowed with the gift of song. She was charming; this was patent to allwho knew her. It was a pleasure to dwell on this thought of her, and, dwelling upon it too often at off-times in his business life, the desiregrew irresistible to be with her again; to chat with her; to see theblue-gray eyes lifted to his; to find in them something he found in noothers. At such times a telegram sped over the wires, to Aurora Googe, and her heart was rejoiced by a two days' visit from her son. 

Champney Googe knew perfectly well that this cross current of influencewas diametrically opposed to his own course of life as he had marked itout for himself; knew that this was a species of self-gratification inwhich he had no business to indulge; he knew, moreover, that from themoment he should make an earnest effort to win Alice Van Ostend and heraccompanying millions, this self-gratification must cease. He toldhimself this over and over again; meanwhile he made excuse--a talk withthe manager of the quarries, a new order of weekly payments to introduceand regulate with Romanzo Caukins, the satisfactory pay-master in theFlamsted office, a week-end with his mother, the consideration ofcontracts and the erection of a new shed on the lake shore--to visitFlamsted several times during the autumn, winter, and early spring. 

At last, however, he called a halt. 

Alice Van Ostend, young, immature, amusing in her girlish abandon to thedelight of at last "coming out", was, nevertheless, rapidly growing up, a condition of affairs that Champney was forced rather unwillingly toadmit just before her first large ball. As usual he made himself usefulto Alice, who looked upon him as a part of her goods and chattels. Itwas in the selection of the favors for the german to be given in thestone house on the occasion of the coming-out reception for its heiress, that his eyes were suddenly opened to the value of time, so to say; forAlice was beginning to patronize him. By this sign he recognized thatshe was putting the ten years' difference in their ages at somethinglike a generation. It was not pleasing to contemplate, because thewinning of Alice Van Ostend was, to use his own expression, in a linecoincident with his own life lines. Till now he believed he was thefavored one; but certain signs of the times began to be provocative ofdistrust in this direction. 

He asked boldly for the first dance, for the cotillon, and the privilegeof giving her the flowers she was to wear that night. He assumed thesefavors to be within his rights; she was by no means of his way ofthinking. It developed during their scrapping--Champney had often toscrap with Alice to keep on a level with her immaturity--that there wasanother rival for the cotillon, another, a younger man, who desired togive her the special flowers for this special affair. The final divisionof the young lady's favors was not wholly reassuring to Mr. Googe. As aresult of this awakening, he decided to remain in New York withoutfarther visits to Flamsted until the Van Ostends should have left thecity for the summer. 

But in the course of the spring and summer he found it one thing to calla halt and quite another to make one. The cross current of influence, which had its source in Flamsted, was proving, against his will andjudgment, too strong for him. He knew this and deplored it, for itthreatened to carry him away from the shore towards which he waspushing, unawares that this apparently firm ground of attainment mightprove treacherous in the end. 

"Every man has his weakness, and she's mine, " he told himself more thanonce; yet in making this statement he was half aware that the word"weakness" was in no sense applicable to Aileen. It remained for thedevelopment of his growing passion for her to show him that he waswholly in the wrong--she was his strength, but he failed to realizethis. 

Champney Googe was not a man to mince matters with himself. He toldhimself that he was not infatuated; infatuation was a thing to which hehad yielded but few times in his selfish life. He was ready toacknowledge that his interest in Aileen Armagh was something deeper, more lasting; something that, had he been willing to look the wholematter squarely in the face instead of glancing askance at its profile, he would have seen to be perilously like real love--that love whichfirst binds through passionate attachment, then holds through congenialcompanionship to bless a man's life to its close. 

"She suits me--suits me to a T;" such was his admission in what hecalled his weak moments. Then he called himself a fool; he cursedhimself for yielding to the influence of her charming personality in sofar as to encourage what he perceived to be on her part a deep andabsorbing love for him. In yielding to his weakness, he knew he wasdeviating from the life lines he had laid with such forethought for hisfollowing. A rich marriage was the natural corollary of hisdetermination to advance his own interests in his chosen career. Thismarriage he still intended to make, if possible with Alice Van Ostend;and the fact that young Ben Falkenburg, an old playmate of Alice's, justgraduated from college, the "other man" of the cotillon favors, was thefirst invited guest for the prospective cruise on Mr. Van Ostend'syacht, did not dovetail with his intentions. It angered him to think ofbeing thwarted at this point. 

"Why must such a girl cross my path just as I was getting on my feetwith Alice?" he asked himself, manlike illogically impatient with Aileenwhen he should have lost patience with himself. But in the next momenthe found himself dwelling in thought on the lovely light in the eyesraised so frankly to his, on the promises of loyalty those same eyeswould hold for him if only he were to speak the one word which she waswaiting to hear--which she had a right to hear after his last visit inJuly to Flamsted. 

If he had not kissed her that once! With a girl like Aileen there couldbe no trifling--what then?

He cursed himself for his heedless folly, yet--he knew well enough thathe would not have denied himself that moment of bliss when the girl inresponse to his whispered words of love gave him her first kiss, andwith it the unspoken pledge of her loving heart. 

"I'm making another ass of myself!" he spoke aloud and continued to chewthe end of a cold cigar. 

The New York office was deserted in these last days of August except fortwo clerks who had just left to take an early train to the beach for abreath of air. The treasurer of the Flamsted Quarries Company wassitting idle at his desk. It was an off-time in business and he hadleisure to assure himself that he was without doubt the quadrupedalluded to above--"An ass that this time is in danger of choosingthistles for fodder when he can get something better. "

Only the day before he had concluded on his own account a deal, thatcost him much thought and required an extra amount of a certain kind ofcourage, with a Wall Street firm. Now that this was off his hands andthere was nothing to do between Friday and Monday, when he was to startfor Bar Harbor to join the Van Ostends and a large party of invitedguests for a three weeks' cruise on the Labrador coast, he had plenty oftime to convince himself that he possessed certain asinine qualitieswhich did not redound to his credit as a man of sense. In his idlemoments the thought of Aileen had a curious way of coming to the surfaceof consciousness. It came now. He whirled suddenly to face his desksquarely; tossed aside the cold cigar in disgust; touched the electricbutton to summon the office boy. 

"I'll put an end to it--it's got to be done sometime or other--just aswell now. " He wrote a note to the head clerk to say that he was leavingtwo days earlier for his vacation than he intended; left his address forthe next four days in case anything should turn up that might demand hispresence before starting on the cruise; sent the office boy off with atelegram to his mother that she might expect him Saturday morning fortwo days in Flamsted; went to his apartment, packed grip and steamertrunk for the yacht, and left on the night express for the Maine coast. 

VII

"I just saw Mr. Googe driving down from The Gore, Aileen, so he's intown again. "

Octavius was passing the open library window where Aileen was sitting ather work, and stopped to tell her the news. 

"Is he?"

The tone was indifferent, but had she not risen quickly to shake somethreads of embroidery linen into the scrap-basket beneath the librarytable, Octavius might have seen the quick blood mount into her cheeks, the red lips quiver. It was welcome news for which she had been waitingalready six weeks. 

Octavius spoke again but in a low voice:

"You might mention it to Mrs. Champney when she comes down; it don't setwell, you know, if she ain't told everything that's going on. " He passedon without waiting for an answer. 

The girl took her seat again by the window. Her work lay in her lap; herhands were folded above it; her face was turned to the Flamsted Hills. "Would he come soon? When and where could she see him again, and alone?"Her thoughts were busy with conjecture. 

Octavius recrossing the terrace called out to her:

"You going up to Mrs. Caukins' later on this afternoon?"

"Yes; Mrs. Champney said she didn't need me. "

"I'll take you up. "

"Thank you, Tave, not to-day. I'm going to row up as far as the uppershed. I promised the twins to meet them there; they want to see the newtravelling crane at work. We'll go up afterwards to The Gore together. "

"It's pretty hot, but I guess you're all three seasoned by this time. "

"Through and through, Tave; and I'm not coming home till aftersupper--it's lovely then--there's Mrs. Champney coming!"

She heard her step in the upper hall and ran upstairs to assist her incoming down. 

"Will you go out on the terrace now?" she asked her on entering thelibrary. 

"I'll wait a while; it's too warm at this hour. "

Aileen drew Mrs. Champney's arm chair to the other casement window. Sheresumed her seat and work. 

"How are you getting on with the napkins?" the mistress of Champ-au-Hautinquired after a quarter of an hour's silence in which she was busiedwith some letters. 

"Fine--see?" She held up a corner for her inspection. "This is thetenth; I shall soon be ready for the big table cloth. "

"Bring them to me. "

Aileen obeyed, and showed her the monogram, A C, wrought by her own deftfingers in the finest linen. 

"There's no one like a Frenchwoman to teach embroidery; you've done themcredit. " Aileen dropped a mock courtesy. "Which one taught you?"

"Sister Ste. Croix. "

"Is she the little wrinkled one?"

"Yes, but I've fallen in love with every wrinkle, she's a perfectdear--"

"I didn't imply she wasn't. " Mrs. Champney was apt to snap out at Aileenwhen, according to her idea, she was "gushing" too much. The girl hadceased to mind this; she was used to it, especially during her threeyears of attendance on this invalid. "Who designed this monogram?"

"She did; she can draw beautifully. "

Mrs. Champney put on her glasses to examine in detail the exquisitelettering, A C. 

Aileen leaned above her, smiling to herself. How many loving thoughtswere wrought into those same initials! How many times, while her fingerswere busy fashioning them, she had planned to make just such for hervery own! How often, as she wrought, she had laid her lips to the A C, murmuring to herself over and over again, "Aileen--Champney, Champney--Aileen, " so filling and satisfying with the sound of thispleasing combination her every loving anticipation!

She was only waiting for the "word", schooling herself in these last sixweeks to wait patiently for it--the "word" which should make thesespecial letters her legitimate own!

The singing thoughts that ring in the consciousness of a girl who givesfor the first time her whole heart to her lover; the chanted prayers toher Maker, that rise with every muted throb of the young wife's heartwhich is beating for two in anticipation of her first motherhood--whoshall dare enumerate them?

The varied loving thoughts in this girl's quick brain, which was fed byher young pulsing heart--a heart single in its loyalty to one during allthe years since her orphan childhood, were intensified and illumined bythe inherent quickening power of a vivid imagination, and inwrought withthese two letters that stood, at present, for their owner, AlmedaChampney. Aileen's smile grew wonderfully tender, almost tremulous asshe continued to lean above her work. Mrs. Champney looking up suddenlycaught it and, in part, interpreted it. It angered her both unreasonablyand unaccountably. This girl must be taught her place. She aspiring toChampney Googe! She handed her back the work. 

"Ann said just now she heard Octavius telling you that my nephew, Champney Googe, is in town--when did he come?"

"I don't know--Tave didn't say. "

"I wonder Alice Van Ostend didn't mention that he was coming here beforegoing on the yachting cruise they've planned. I had a letter from heryesterday--I know you'd like to hear it. "

"Of course I should! It's the first one she has written you, isn'tit?--Where is it?" She spoke with her usual animated interest. 

"I have it here. "

She took up one of several letters in her lap, opened it, turned itover, adjusted her glasses and began to read a paragraph here and there. Aileen listened eagerly. 

"I suppose I may as well read it all--Alice wouldn't mind you, " saidMrs. Champney, and proceeded to give the full contents. It was filledwith anticipations of the yachting cruise, of a later visit to Flamsted, of Champney and her friends. Champney's name occurred manytimes, --Alice's attitude towards the possessor of it seemed to be thatof private ownership, --but everything was written with the frankness ofan accepted publicity of the fact that Mr. Googe was one of her socialappendages. Aileen was amused at the whole tone of the rather lengthyepistle; it gave her no uneasiness. 

Mrs. Champney laid aside her glasses; she wanted to note the effect ofthe reading on the girl. 

"You can see for yourself from this how matters stand between these two;it needn't be spoken of in Flamsted outside the family, but it's just aswell for you to know of it--don't you think so?"

Aileen parried; she enjoyed a little bout with Champney Googe's aunt. 

"Of course, it's plain enough to see that they're the best of friends--"

"Friends!" Mrs. Champney interrupted her; there was a scornful note inher voice which insensibly sharpened; "you haven't your usual commonsense, Aileen, if you can't read between these lines well enough to seethat Miss Van Ostend and my nephew are as good as engaged. "

Aileen smiled, but made no reply. 

"What are you laughing at?" The tone was peremptory and denoted extremeirritation. Aileen put down her work and looked across to herinterrogator. 

"I was only smiling at my thoughts. "

"Will you be so good as to state what they are? They may prove decidedlyinteresting to me--at this juncture, " she added emphatically. 

Aileen's look of amusement changed swiftly to one of surprise. 

"To be honest, I was thinking that what she writes about Mr. Googedoesn't sound much like love, that was all--"

"That was all!" Mrs. Champney echoed sarcastically; "well, what more doyou need to convince you of facts I should like to know?"

Aileen laughed outright at this. "Oh, Mrs. Champney, what's the use ofbeing a girl, if you can't know what other girls mean?"

"Please explain yourself. "

"Won't you please read that part again where she mentions the peopleinvited for the cruise. "

Mrs. Champney found the paragraph and re-read it aloud. 

"Falkenburg--that's the name--Ben Falkenburg. "

"How did you ever hear of this Ben Falkenburg?"

"Oh, I heard of him years ago!" The mischief was in her voice and Mrs. Champney recognized it. 

"Where?"

"When I was in New York--in the asylum; he's the one that danced theminuet with the Marchioness; I told you about it years ago. "

"How do you know he was the boy?"

"Because Alice told me his name then, and showed me the valentine andMay-basket he sent her--just read the postscript again; if you want tocrack a letter for its kernel, you'll generally find it in a postscript, that is with girls of Alice's age. "

She spoke as if there were years of seniority on her part. Mrs. Champneyturned to the postscript again. 

"I see nothing in this--you're romancing again, Aileen; you'd better putit aside; it will get you into trouble sometime. "

"Oh, never fear for me, Mrs. Champney; I'll take care of all theromancing as well as the romances--but can't you see by those few wordsthat it's Mr. Ben Falkenburg who is going to make the yachting trip forMiss Van Ostend, and not your nephew?"

"No, I can't, " Mrs. Champney answered shortly, "and neither could you ifyour eyes weren't blinded by your infatuation for him. "

Aileen rolled up her work deliberately. If the time had come for openwar to be declared between the two on Champney Googe's account, it wasbest to fight the decisive battle now, before seeing him again. She roseand stood by the window. 

"What do you mean, Mrs. Champney?" Her temper was rising quickly as italways did when Mrs. Champney went too far. She had spoken but once ofher nephew in a personal way to Aileen since she asked that question ayear ago, "What do you think of him?"

"I mean what I say. " Her voice took on an added shrillness. "Yourinfatuation for my nephew has been patent for a year now--and it's timeyou should be brought to your senses; I can't suppose you're fool enoughto think he'll marry you. "

Aileen set her lips close. After all, it was not best to answer thiswoman as she deserved to be answered. She controlled the increasinganger so far as to be able to smile frankly and answer lightly:

"You've no need to worry, Mrs. Champney; your nephew has never asked meto be his wife. "

"His wife!" she echoed scornfully; "I should say not; and let me tellyou for your own benefit--sometime you'll thank me for it--and mark mywords, Aileen Armagh, he never will ask you to be his wife, and thesooner you accept this unvarnished truth the better it will be for you. I suppose you think because you've led Romanzo Caukins and young Poggi achase, you can do the same with Champney Googe--but you'll find out yourmistake; such men aren't led--they lead. He is going to marry Alice VanOstend. "

"Do you _know_ this for a fact, Mrs. Champney?" She turned upon hersharply. She was, at last, at bay; her eyes were dark with anger; herlips and cheeks white. 

"It's like you to fly off at a tangent, Aileen, and doubt a person'sword simply because it happens to contain an unpleasant truth foryou--here is the proof, " she held up a letter; "it's from my cousin, Henry Van Ostend; he has written it out in black and white that mynephew has already asked for his daughter's hand. Now disabuse your mindof any notion you may have in regard to Champney Googe--I hope you won'tdisgrace yourself by crying for the moon after this. "

The girl's eyes fairly blazed upon her. 

"Mrs. Champney, after this I'll thank you to keep your advice and yourfamily affairs to yourself--_I_ didn't ask for either. And you've noneed to tell me I'm only Aileen Armagh--for I know it perfectly well. I'm only an orphan you took into your home seven years ago and havekept, so far, for her service. But if I am only this, I am old enough todo and act as I please--and now you may mark _my_ words: it's not I whowill disgrace you and yours--not I, remember that!" Her anger threatenedto choke her; but her voice although husky remained low, never risingabove its level inflection. "And let me tell you another thing: I'm asgood any day as Alice Van Ostend, and I should despise myself if Ithought myself less; and if it's the millions that make the differencein the number of your friends--may God keep me poor till I die!" Shespoke with passionate earnestness. 

Mrs. Champney smiled to herself; she felt her purpose was accomplished. 

"Are you going up to Mrs. Caukins'?" she asked in a matter-of-fact voicethat struck like cold iron on the girl's burning intensity of feeling. 

"Yes, I'm going. "

"Well, be back by seven. "

The girl made no reply. She left the library at once, closing the doorbehind her with a force that made the hall ring. Mrs. Champney smiledagain, and proceeded to re-read Alice Van Ostend's letter. 

Aileen went out through the kitchen and across the vegetable garden tothe boat house. She cast loose one of the boats in the float, took herseat and rowed out into the lake--rowed with a strength and swiftnessthat accurately gauged her condition of mind. She rounded the peninsulaof The Bow and headed her boat, not to the sheds on the north shore, buttowards the west, to "lily-pad reach". To get away from that woman'spresence, to be alone with herself--that was all she craved at themoment. The oars caught among the lily-pads; this gave her an excuse forpulling and wrenching at them. Her anger was still at white heat--not aparticle of color as yet tinged her cheeks--and the physical exertionnecessary to overcome such an obstacle as the long tough stems she feltto be a relief. 

"It isn't true--it isn't true, " she said over and over again to herself. She kept tugging and pulling till by sheer strength she forced the boatinto the shallow water among the tall arrowhead along the margin of theshore. 

She stepped out on the landing stones, drew up the boat, then made herway across the meadow to the shade of the tall spreading willows. Hereshe threw herself down, pressing her face into the cool lush grass, andrelived in thought that early morning hour she had spent alone with him, only a few weeks ago, on the misty lake among the opening water lilies. 

She had been awakened that morning in mid-July by hearing him singingsoftly beneath her open window that same song which seven years ago madesuch an unaccountable impression on her child's heart. He had often injest threatened to repeat the episode of the serenade, but she neverrealized that beneath the jest there was any deeper meaning. Now she wasaware of that meaning in her every fibre, physical and spiritual. 

 "Aileen Mavoureen, the gray dawn is breaking--"

And hearing that, realizing that the voice was calling for her alone inall the world, she rose; dressed herself quickly; beckoned joyously tohim from the window; noiselessly made her way down the back stairs;softly unbolted the kitchen porch door--

He was there with hands outstretched for hers; she placed them in his, and again, in remembrance of their fun and frolic seven years before, heraced with her down the slate-laid garden walk, across the lawn to theboat house where his own boat lay moored. 

It was four o'clock on that warm midsummer morning. The mists lay lightbut impenetrable on the surface of the lake. The lilies were stillclosed. 

They spoke but little. 

"I knew no one could hear me--they all sleep on the other side, don'tthey?"

"Yes, all except the boy, and he sleeps like a log--Tave has to wake himevery morning; alarm clocks are no good. "

"Have you ever seen the lilies open, Aileen?"

"No, never; I've never been out early in the morning, but I've oftenseen them go to sleep under the starlight. "

"We will row round then till they open--it's worth seeing. "

The sun rose in the low-lying mists; it transfused them with crimson. Itmounted above them; shot them through and through with gold andviolet--then dispersed them without warning, and showed to the girl'scharmed eyes and senses the gleaming blue of the lake waters blotchedwith the dull green of the lily-pads, and among them the liliesexpanding the fragrant white of their corollas to its beneficent lightand warmth. . . . 

 * * * * *

When she left the boat his kiss was on her lips, his words of loveringing in her ears. One more of her day dreams was realized: she hadgiven to the man she loved with all her heart her first kiss--and withit, on her part, the unspoken pledge of herself. 

A movement somewhere about the house, the lowing of the cattle, themorning breeze stirring in the trees--something startled them. They drewapart, smiling into each other's eyes. She placed her finger on herlips. 

"Hush!" she whispered. She was off on a run across the lawn, turningonce to wave her hand to him. --And now _this_!

How could this then that she had just been told be true?

Her whole being revolted at the thought that he was tampering with whatto her was the holiest in her young life--her love for him. In the pastsix weeks it never once occurred to her that he could prove unworthy ofsuch trust as hers; no man would dare to be untrue to her--to her, Aileen Armagh, who never in all her wilfulness and love of romance hadgiven man or boy occasion to use either her name or her lightly! Howdared he do this thing? Did he not know with whom he had to deal?Because she was only Aileen Armagh, and at service with his relation, did he think her less the true woman?

Suspicion was foreign to her open nature; doubt, distrust had no placein her young life; but like a serpent in the girl's Eden the words ofthe mistress of Champ-au-Haut, "He never will ask you to be his wife, "dropped poison in her ears. 

She sat up on the grass, thrust back her hair from her forehead--

"Let him dare to hint even that what he said was love for me was notwhat--what--"

She buried her face in her hands. 

"Aileen--Aileen--where are you?"

That voice, breaking in upon her wretched thought of him, brought her toher feet. 

VIII

"Mother, don't you think Aunt Meda might open her purse and do somethingfor Aileen Armagh now that the girl has been faithful to her interestsso long?"

He had remained at home since his arrival in the morning, and was nowabout to drive down into the town. 

His mother looked up from her sewing in surprise. 

"What put that into your mind? I was thinking the same thing myself nota week ago; she has such a wonderful voice. "

"It seems unjust to keep her from utilizing it for herself so far as anincome is concerned and to deprive others of the pleasure of hearing hervoice after it is trained. But, of course, she can't do it herself. "

"I only wish I could do it for her. " His mother spoke with greatearnestness. "But even if I could help, there would be no use offeringso long as she remains with Almeda. "

"Perhaps not; anyway, I'm going down there now, and I shall do what Ican to sound Aunt Meda on this point. "

"Good luck!" she called after him. He turned, lifted his hat, and smiledback at her. 

 * * * * *

He found Mrs. Champney alone on the terrace; she was sitting under theample awning that protected her from the sun but was open on all sidesfor air. 

"All alone, Aunt Meda?" he inquired cheerfully, taking a seat besideher. 

"Yes; when did you come?"

"This morning. "

"Isn't it rather unexpected?" She glanced sideways rather sharply athim. 

"My coming here is; I'm really on my way to Bar Harbor. The Van Ostendsare off on Tuesday with a large party and I promised to go with them. "

"So Alice wrote me the other day. It's the first letter I have had fromher. She says she is coming here on her way home in October, that she's'just crazy' to see Flamsted Quarries--but I can read between the lineseven if my eyes are old. " She smiled significantly. 

Champney felt that an answering smile was the safe thing in thecircumstances. He wondered how much Aunt Meda knew from the Van Ostends. That she was astute in business matters was no guaranty that she wouldprove far-sighted in matrimonial affairs. 

"I've known Alice so long that she's gotten into the habit of taking mefor granted--not that I object, " he added with a glance in the directionof the boat house. Mrs. Champney, whom nothing escaped, noticed it. 

"I should hope not, " she said emphatically. "I may as well tell you, Champney, that Mr. Van Ostend has not hesitated to write me of yourcontinued attentions to Alice and your frankness with him in regard tothe outcome of this. So far as I see, his only objection could be onaccount of her extreme youth--I congratulate you. " She spoke with greatapparent sincerity. 

"Thank you, Aunt Meda, " he said quietly; "your congratulations arepremature, and the subject so far as Alice and I are concerned is taboofor three years--at Mr. Van Ostend's special request. "

"Quite right--a girl doesn't know her own mind before she istwenty-five. "

"Faith, I know one who knows her own mind on all subjects attwenty!"--he laughed heartily as if at some amusing remembrance--"andthat's Aileen; by the way, where is she, Aunt Meda?"

"She was going up to Mrs. Caukins'. I suppose she is there now--why?"

"Because I want to talk about her, and I don't want her to come in on ussuddenly. "

"What about Aileen?" She spoke indifferently. 

"About her voice; you've never been willing, I understand, to have itcultivated?"

"What if I haven't?"

"That's just the 'what', Aunt Meda, " he said pleasantly but earnestly;"I've heard her singing a good many times, and I've never heard her thatI didn't wish some one would be generous enough to such talent to payfor cultivating it. "

"Do you know why I haven't been willing?"

"No, I don't--and I'd like to know. "

"Because, if I had, she would have been on the stage before now--andwhere could I get another? I don't intend to impoverish myself for hersake--not after what I've done for her. " She spoke emphatically. "Whatwas your idea in asking me about her?"

"I thought it was a pity that such a talent should be left to go toseed. I wish you could look at it from my standpoint and give her thewherewithal to go to Europe for three or four years in order tocultivate it--she can take care of herself well enough. "

"And you really advise this?" She asked almost incredulously. 

"Why not? You must have seen my interest in the girl. I can't think of abetter way of showing it than to induce you to put her in the way ofearning her livelihood by her talent. "

Mrs. Champney made no direct reply. After a moment's silence she askedabruptly:

"Have you ever said anything to her about this?"

"Never a word. "

"Don't then; I don't want her to get any more new-fangled notions intoher head. "

"Just as you say; but I wish you would think about it--it seems almost amatter of justice. " He rose to go. 

"Where are you going now?"

"Over to the shed office; I want to see the foreman about the lastcontract. I'll borrow the boat, if you don't mind, and row up--I haveplenty of time. " He looked at his watch. "Can I do anything for youbefore I go?" he asked gently, adjusting an awning curtain to shut therays of the sun from her face. 

"Yes; I wish you would telephone up to Mrs. Caukins and tell her to tellAileen to be at home before six; I need her to-night. "

"Certainly. "

He went into the house and telephoned. He did not think it necessary toreturn and report Mrs. Caukins' reply that Aileen "hadn't come up yet. "He went directly to the boat house, wondering in the mean time where shewas. 

One of the two boats was already gone; doubtless she had taken it--wherecould she be?

He stepped into the boat, and pulled slowly out into the lake, keepingin the lee of the rocky peninsula of The Bow. He was fairly wellsatisfied with his effort in Aileen's behalf and with himself because hehad taken a first step in the right direction. Neither his mother norAunt Meda could say now that he was not disinterested; if Father Honorécame over, as was his custom, to chat with him on the porch for an houror two in the evening, he would broach the subject again to him who wasthe girl's best friend. If she could go to Europe there would be lessdanger--

Danger?--Yes; he was willing to admit it, less danger for them both;three years of absence would help materially in this matter in which hefelt himself too deeply involved. Then, in the very face of thisacknowledgment, he could not help a thought that whitened his cheek asit formulated itself instantaneously in his consciousness: if she werethree years in Europe, there would be opportunity for him to see hersometime. 

He knew the thought could not be uttered in the girl's pure presence;yet, with many others, he held that a woman, if she loves a manabsorbingly, passionately, is capable of any sacrifice--would she?Hardly; she was so high-spirited, so pure in thought--yet she loved him, and after all love was the great Subduer. But no--it could never be;this was his decision. He rowed out into the lake. 

Why must a man's action prove so often the slave of his thought!

He was passing the arm of Mesantic that leads to "lily-pad reach". Heturned to look up the glinting curve. Was she there?--should he seekher?

He backed water on the instant. The boat responded like a live thing, quivered, came to a partial rest--stopped, undulating on the surfaceroughened by the powerful leverage of the oars. Champney sat motionless, the dripping blades suspended over the water. He knew that in allprobability the girl was there in "lily-pad reach". Should he seek her?Should he go?--Should he?

The hands that held the steady oars quivered suddenly, then gripped themas in a vise; the man's face flushed; he bent to the right oar, thecraft whirled half way on her keel; the other oar fell--swiftly andpowerfully the boat shot ahead up "lily-pad reach". 

Reason, discretion, judgment razed in an instant from the table ofconsciousness; desire rampant, the desire of possession to whichintellect, training, environment, even that goodward-turning which menunder various aspects term religion, succumb in a moment like thepresent one in which Champney Googe was bending all his strength to theoars that he might be the sooner with the girl he loved. 

He did not ask himself what next? He gave no thought to aught butreaching the willows as soon as he could. His eye was on the glintingcurve before him; he rounded it swiftly--her boat was there tied to thestake among the arrowhead; his own dragged through the lily-pads besideit; he sprang out, ran up the bank--

"Aileen--Aileen--where are you?" he called eagerly, impatiently, andsought about him to find her. 

Aileen Armagh heard that call, and doubt, suspicion, anger dropped awayfrom her. Instead, trust, devotion, anticipation clothed her thought ofhim; he was coming to speak the "word" that was to make her future fairand plain--the one "word" that should set him forever in her heart, enthrone him in her life. That word was not "love", but the sacramentof love; the word of four letters which a woman writes large withlegitimate loving pride in the face of the world. She sprang to her feetand waited for him; the willows drooped on either side of her--so he sawher again. 

He took her in his arms. "Aileen--Aileen, " he said over and over againbetween the kisses that fell upon her hair, forehead, lips. 

She yielded herself to his embrace, passionately given and returned withall a girl's loving ardor and joy in the loved man's presence. Betweenthe kisses she waited for the "word. "

It was not forthcoming. 

She drew away from him slightly and looked straight into his eyes thatwere devouring her face and form. The unerring instinct of a pure naturewarned her against that look. He caught her to him--but she stemmed bothhands against his breast to repulse him. 

"Let me go, Champney, " she said faintly. 

"Why should I let you go? Aileen, my Aileen, why should I ever let yougo?" A kiss closed the lips that were about to reply--a kiss so long andpassionate that the girl felt her strength leaving her in the closeembrace. 

"He will speak the 'word' now surely, " she told herself. Between theirheart-throbs she listened for it. 

The "word" was not spoken. 

Again she stemmed her hands against him, pressing them hard against hisshoulders. "Let me go, Champney. " She spoke with spirit. 

The act of repulsion, the ring in her voice half angered him; at thesame time it added fuel to desire. 

"I will not let you go--you love me--tell me so--"

He waited for no reply but caught her close; the girl struggled in hisarms. It was dawning on her undaunted spirit that this, which she wasexperiencing with Champney Googe, the man she loved with all her heart, was not love. Of a sudden, all that brave spirit rose in arms to wardoff from herself any spoken humiliation to her womanhood, ay more, toprevent the man she loved from deepening his humiliation of himself inher presence. 

"Let me go" she said, but despite her effort for control her voicetrembled. 

"You know I love you--why do you repel me so?"

"Let me go, " she said again; this time her voice was firm, the toneperemptory; but she made no further struggle to free herself from hisarms. --"Oh, what are you doing!"

"I am making the attempt to find out if you love me as I love you--"

"You have no right to kiss me so--"

"I have the right because I love you--"

"But I don't love you. "

"Yes you do, Aileen Armagh--don't say that again. "

"I do not love you--let me go, I say. "

He let her go at last. She stood before him, pale, but still undaunted. 

"Do you know what you are saying?" he demanded almost fiercely under hisbreath. He took her head between his hands and bent it back to close herlips with another kiss. 

"Yes, I know. I do not love you--don't touch me!" She held out herhands to him, palm outwards, as if warding off some present danger. 

He paid no heed to her warning, but caught her to him again. "Tell menow you don't love me, Aileen, " he whispered, laying his cheek to hers. 

"I tell you I do not love you, " she said aloud; her voice was clear andfirm. 

He drew back then to look at her in amazement; turned away for a momentas if half dazed; then, holding her to his side with his left arm helaid his ear hard over her heart. What was it that paled the man'sflushed cheeks?

The girl's heart was beating slowly, calmly, even faintly. He caught herwrist, pressing his fingers on her pulse--there was not the suspicion ofa flutter. He let her go then. She stood before him; her eyes wereraised fearlessly to his. 

"I'm going to row back now--no, don't speak--not a word--"

She turned and walked slowly down to the boat; cast it off; poled itwith one oar out of the tall arrowhead and the thick fringe oflily-pads; took her seat; fitted the oars to the rowlocks, dipped them, and proceeded to row steadily down the reach towards The Bow. 

Champney Googe stood where she had left him till he watched her out ofsight around the curve; then he went over to the willows and sat down. It took time for him to recover from his debauch of feeling. He madehimself few thoughts at first; but as time passed and the shadowslengthened on the reach, he came slowly to himself. The night fell; theman still sat there, but the thoughts were now crowding fast, uncomfortably fast. He dropped his head into his hands, so covering hisface in the dark for very shame that he had so outraged his manhood. Heknew now that she knew he had not intended to speak that "word" betweenthem; but no finer feeling told him that she had saved him from himself. 

In that hour he saw himself as he was--unworthy of a good woman's love. 

He saw other things as well; these he hoped to make good in the nearfuture, but this--but this!

He rowed back under cover of the dark to Champ-au-Haut. Octavius, whowas wondering at his non-appearance with the boat, met him with alantern at the float. 

"Here's a telegram just come up; the operator gave it to me for you. Itold him you was out in the boat and would be here 'fore you went uphome. "

"All right, Tave. " He opened it; read it by the light of the lantern. 

"I've got to go back to New York--it's a matter of business. It's all upwith my vacation and the yachting cruise now, "--he looked at hiswatch, --"seven; I can get the eight-thirty accommodation to Hallsport, and that will give me time to catch the Eastern express. "

"Hold on a minute and I'll get your trap from the stable--it's all readyfor you. "

"No, I'll get it myself--good-bye, Tave, I'm off. "

"Good-bye, Champney. "

 * * * * *

"Champ's worried about something, " he said to himself; he was makingfast the boat. "I never see him look like that--I hope he hasn't gothooked in with any of those Wall Street sharks. "

In a few minutes he heard the carriage wheels on the gravel in thedriveway. He stopped on his way to the stable to listen. 

"He's driving like Jehu, " he muttered. He was still listening; he heardthe frequent snorting of the horse, the rapid click of hoofs on thehighroad--but he did not hear what was filling the driver's ears at thatmoment: the roar of an unseen cataract. 

Champney Googe was realizing for the first time that he was inmid-stream; that he might not be able to breast the current; that theeddying water about him was in fact the whirlpool; that the rush of whathe had deemed mere harmless rapids was the prelude to the thunderousfall of a cataract ahead. 

IX

For several weeks after her nephew's visit, Mrs. Champney occupied manyof her enforced leisure half-hours in trying to put two and two togetherin their logical combination of four; but thus far she had failed. Shelearned through Octavius that Champney had returned to New York onSaturday evening; that in consequence he was obliged to give up thecruise with the Van Ostends; from Champney himself she had no word. Herconclusion was that there had been no chance for him to see Aileenduring the twelve hours he was in town, for the girl came home asrequested shortly before six, but with a headache, and the excuse for itthat she had rowed too far in the sun on the way up to the sheds. 

"My nephew told me he was going to row up to the sheds, too--did youhappen to meet him there?" she inquired. She was studying the profile ofthe girl's flushed and sunburned face. Aileen had just said good nightand was about to leave Mrs. Champney's room. She turned quickly to faceher. She spoke with sharp emphasis:

"I did _not_ meet your nephew at the sheds, Mrs. Champney, nor did I seehim there--and I'll thank you, after what you said to me this morning, to draw no more conclusions in regard to your nephew's seeing or meetingme at the sheds or anywhere else--it's not worth your while; for I've nodesire either to see or meet him again. Perhaps this will satisfy you. "She left the room at once without giving Mrs. Champney time to reply. 

A self-satisfied smile drew apart Mrs. Champney's thin lips; evidentlythe girl's lesson was a final and salutary one. She would know her placeafter this. She determined not to touch on this subject again withAileen; she might run the risk of going too far, and she desired to keepher with her as long as possible. But she noticed that the singing voicewas heard less and less frequently about the house and grounds. Octaviusalso noticed it, and missed it. 

"Aileen, you don't sing as much as you did a while ago--what's thematter?" he asked her one day in October when she joined him to go upstreet after supper on an errand. 

"Matter?--I've sung out for one while; I'm taking a rest-cure with myvoice, Tave. "

"It ain't the kind of rest-cure that'll agree with you, nor I guess anyof us at Champo. There ain't no trouble with her that's bothering you?"He pointed with a backward jerk of his thumb to the house. 

"No. "

"She's acted mad ever since I told her Champney had to go back thatnight and tend to business; guess she'd set her heart on his making amatch on that yachting cruise--well, 't would be all in the family, seeing there's Champney blood in the Van Ostends, good bloodtoo, --there's no better, " he added emphatically. 

"Oh, Tave, you're always blowing the Champneys' horn--"

"And why shouldn't I?"--he was decidedly nettled. "The Champneys are myfolks, my townspeople, the founders of this town, and their interestshave always been mine--why shouldn't I speak up for 'em, I'd like toknow? You won't find no better blood in the United States than theChampneys'. "

Aileen made no reply; she was looking up the street to Poggi's fruitstall, where beneath a street light she saw a crowd of men from thequarries. 

"Romanzo said there was some trouble in the sheds--do you know what itis?" she asked. 

"No, I can't get at the rights of it; they didn't get paid off lastweek, so Romanzo told me last night, but he said Champney telegraphedhe'd fix it all right in another week. He says dollars are scarce justat this time--crops moving, you know, and market dull. "

She laughed a little scornfully. "You seem to think Mr. Googe can fixeverything all right, Tave. "

"Champney's no fool; he's 'bout as interested in this home work asanybody, and if he says it'll be all right, you may bet your life itwill be--There's Jo Quimber coming; p'raps he's heard something and cantell us. "

"What's that crowd up to, Uncle Jo?" said Aileen, linking her arm in theold man's and making him right about face to walk on with them. 

"Talkin' a strike. I heerd 'em usin' Champ's name mighty free, Tave, just now--guess he'd better come home an' calm 'em down some, orthere'll be music in the air thet this town never danced to yet. By A. J. , it riles me clear through to hear 'em!"

"You can't blame them for wanting their pay, Uncle Jo. " There was achallenge in the girl's voice which Uncle Jo immediately accepted. 

"So ye've j'ined the majority in this town, hev ye, Aileen? I don't sayez I'm blamin' anybody fer wantin' his pay; I'm jest sayin' it don't setwell on me the way they go at it to get it. How's the quickest way togit up a war, eh? Jest keep talkin' it up--talkin' it up, an' it's sureto come. They don't give a man like Champ a chance--talkin' behind hisback and usin' a good old Flamsted name ez ef 't wuz a mop rag!" Joel'sindignation got the better of his discretion; his voice was so loud thatit began to attract the attention of some men who were leaving Poggi's;the crowd was rapidly dispersing. 

"Sh--Joel! they'll hear you. You've been standing up for everythingforeign that's come into this town for the last seven years--what's comeover you that you're going back on all your preaching?"

"I ain't goin' back on nothin', " the old man replied testily; "but aman's a man, I don't keer whether he's a Polack or a 'Merican--I don'tkeer nothin' 'bout thet; but ef he's a man he knows he'd oughter stopbackbitin' and hittin' out behind another man's back--he'd oughter comeout inter the open an' say, 'You ain't done the right thing by me, nowlet's both hev it out', instead of growlin' and grumblin' an' spittin'out such all-fired nonsense 'bout the syndicaters and Champ--what'sChamp got to do with it, anyway? He can't make money for 'em. "

The crowds were surging past them; the men were talking together; theirconfused speech precluded the possibility of understanding what wassaid. 

"He's no better than other men, Uncle Jo, " the girl remarked after themen had passed. She laughed as she spoke, but the laugh was not apleasant one; it roused Octavius. 

"Now, look here, Aileen, you stop right where you are--"

She interrupted him, and her voice was again both merry and pleasant, for they were directly opposite Luigi's shop: "I'm going to, Tave; I'mgoing to stop right here; Mrs. Champney sent me down on purpose to getsome of those late peaches Luigi keeps; she said she craved them, andI'm going in this very minute to get them--"

She waved her hand to both and entered the shop. 

Old Quimber caught Octavius by the arm to detain him a moment before hehimself retraced his steps up street. 

"What d'ye think, Tave?--they goin' to make a match on't, she an' Poggi?I see 'm together a sight. "

"You can't tell 'bout Aileen any more'n a weather-cock. She might gofarther and fare worse. "

"Thet's so, Tave; Poggi's a man, an' a credit to our town. I guess fromall I hear Romanzo's 'bout give it up, ain't he?"

"Romanzo never had a show with Aileen, " Octavius said decidedly; "heain't her kind. "

"Guess you're right, Tave--By A. J. There they go now!" He nudgedOctavius with his elbow. Octavius, who had passed the shop and wasstanding on the sidewalk with old Quimber, saw the two leave it and walkslowly in the direction of The Bow. He listened for the sound ofAileen's merry laugh and chat, but he heard nothing. His grave face atonce impressed Joel. 

"Something's up 'twixt those two, eh, Tave?" he whispered. 

Octavius nodded in reply; he was comprehending all that old man's wordsimplied. He bade Quimber good night and walked on to The Greenbush. TheColonel found him more taciturn than usual that evening. . . . 

"I can't, Luigi, --I can't marry you, " she answered almost irritably. Thetwo were nearing the entrance to Champo; the Italian was pleading hiscause. "I can't--so don't say anything more about it. "

"But, Aileen, I will wait--I can wait; I've waited so long already. Ibelieve I began to love you through that knothole, you remember?"

"I haven't forgotten;" she half smiled at the remembrance; "but thatseems so long ago, and things have changed so--I've changed, Luigi. "

The tone of her voice was hard. Luigi looked at her in surprise. 

"What has changed you, Aileen? Tell me--can't you trust me?"

"Luigi!"--she faced him suddenly, looking straight up into his handsomeface that turned white as he became aware that what she was about to saywas final--"I'd give anything if I could say to you what you want meto--you deserve all my love, if I could only give it to you, for you arefaithful and true, and mean what you say--it would be the best thing forme, I know; but I can't, Luigi; I've nothing to give, and it would beliving a lie to you from morning till night to give you less than youdeserve. I only blame myself that I'm not enough like other girls toknow a good man when I see him, and take his love with a thankful heartthat it's mine--but it's no use--don't blame me for being myself--" Herlips trembled; she bit the lower one white in her effort to steady it. 

For a moment Luigi made no reply. Suddenly he leaned towards her--shedrew away from him quickly--and said between his teeth, all thelong-smouldering fire of southern passion, passion that is founded onjealousy, glowing in his eyes:

"Tell me, Aileen Armagh, is there another man you love?--tell me--"

Rag who had been with her all the afternoon moved with a quickthreatening motion to her side and a warning _gurr--rrrr_ for the onewho should dare to touch her. 

"No. " She spoke defiantly. Luigi straightened himself. Rag sprang uponher fawning and caressing; she shoved him aside roughly, for the dog wasat that moment but the scapegoat for his master; Rag cowered at herfeet. 

"Ah--" It was a long-drawn breath of relief. Luigi Poggi's eyessoftened; the fire in them ceased to leap and blaze; something like hopebrightened them. 

"I could bear anything but that--I was afraid--" He hesitated. 

"Afraid of what?" She caught up his words sharply, and began to walkrapidly up the driveway. 

He answered slowly: "I was afraid you were in love with Mr. Googe--I sawyou once out rowing with him--early one morning--"

"I in love with Mr. Googe!" she echoed scornfully, "you needn't ever beafraid of that; I--I hate him!"

Luigi stared at her in amazement. He scarce could keep pace with herrapid walk that was almost a run. Her cheeks were aflame; her eyesfilled with tears. All her pent up wretchedness of the last two months, all her outraged love, her womanhood's humiliation, a sense of life'sbitter injustice and of her impotence to avenge the wrong put upon heraffections, found vent in these three words. And Luigi, seeing AileenArmagh changed into something that an hour before he would not havebelieved possible, was gripped by a sudden fear, --he must know the truthfor his own peace of mind, --and, under its influence, he laid his handon her arm and brought her to a standstill. 

Rag snarled another warning; Aileen thrust him aside with her foot. 

"What has he done to you to make you hate him so?"

Because he spoke slowly, Aileen thought he was speaking calmly. Had shenot been carried away by her own strength of feeling, she would haveknown that she might not risk the answer she gave him. 

"Done to me?--nothing; what could he do?--but I hate him--I never wantto see his face again!"

She was beside herself with anger and shame. It was the tone of Luigi'svoice that brought her to her senses; in a flash she recalled OctaviusBuzzby's warning about playing with "volcanic fires. " It was too late, however, to recall her words. 

"Luigi, I've said too much; you don't understand--now let's drop it. "She drew away her arm from beneath his hand, and resumed her rapid walkup the driveway, Rag trotting after her. 

"And you mean what you say--you never want to see him again?" He spokeagain slowly. 

"Never, " she said firmly. 

Luigi made no reply. They were nearing the house. She turned to him whenthey reached the steps. 

"Luigi, "--she put out her hand and he took it in both his, --"forget whatI've said about another and forgive me for what I've had to say toyourself--we've always been such good friends, that now--"

She was ready with the smile that captivated him, but it was a tremulousone for she smiled through tears; she was thinking of the contrast. 

"And always will be, Aileen, when we both know for good and all that wecan be nothing more to each other, " he answered gently. 

She was grateful to him; but she turned away and went up the stepswithout saying good-bye. 

X

"'Gad, I wish I was well out of it!"

For the first time within the memory of Elmer Wiggins and Lawyer Emlie, who heard the Colonel's ejaculation, his words and tone proclaimed thefact that he was not in his seemingly unfailing good spirits. He wasstanding with the two at the door of the drug shop and watching thecrowds of men gathered in groups along the main street. 

It was Saturday afternoon and the men were idle, a weekly occurrence theColonel had learned to dread since his incumbency as deputy sheriff and, in consequence of his office, felt responsible for the peace of thecommunity at large until Monday morning. 

Something unusual was in the air, and the three men were at once awareof it. The uneasiness, that had prevailed in the sheds and at The Goreduring the past month, was evidently coming to a crisis now that themen's pay was two weeks overdue. 

Emlie looked grave on replying, after a pause in which the three werebusy taking note of the constantly increasing crowd in front of the townhall:

"I don't blame you, Colonel; there'll be the deuce to pay if the mendon't get paid off by Monday noon. They've been uneasy now so long aboutthe piece work settlement, that this last delay is going to be the matchthat fires the train--and no slow match either from the looks; I don'tunderstand this delay. When did Romanzo send his last message?"

"About an hour ago, but he hasn't had any answer yet, " replied theColonel, shading his eyes with his hat to look up street at the townhall crowd. "He has been telephoning and telegraphing off and on for thelast two weeks; but he can't get any satisfaction--corporations, youknow, don't materialize just for the rappings. "

"What does Champney say?" inquired Mr. Wiggins. 

"State of the market, " said the Colonel laconically. 

The men did not look at one another, for each was feeling a certaindegree of indignation, of humiliation and disappointment that one oftheir own, Champney Googe, should go back on Flamsted to the extent ofallowing the "market" to place the great quarry interests, throughnon-payment of the workers, in jeopardy. 

"Has Romanzo heard direct from him to-day?" asked Emlie. 

"No; the office replied he was out of the city for Saturday and Sunday;didn't give his address but asked if we could keep the men quiet tillthe middle of next week when the funds would be forwarded. "

"I wired our New York exchange yesterday, " said Emlie, "but they can'tgive us any information--answered things had gone to pot prettygenerally with certain securities, but Flamsted was all right, --not tiedup in any of them. Of course, they know the standing of the syndicate. There'll have to be some new arrangement for a large reserve fund righthere on home soil, or we'll be kept in hot water half the time. I don'tbelieve in having the hands that work in one place, and the purse thatholds their pay in another; it gets too ticklish at such times when themarket drops and a plank or two at the bottom falls out. "

"Neither do I;" Mr. Wiggins spoke emphatically. "The Quarries Company'sliabilities run up into the millions on account of the contracts theyhave signed and the work they have undertaken, and there ought to be amillion of available assets to discount panics like this one that lookspretty threatening to us away off here in Maine. Our bank ought to havethe benefit of some of the money. "

"Well, so far, we've had our trouble for nothing, you might say. You, asa director, know that Champney sends up a hundred thousand say onThursday, and Romanzo draws it for the pay roll and other disbursementson Saturday morning; they hold it at the other end to get the use of ittill the last gun is fired. " He spoke with irritation. 

"It looks to me as if some sort of a gun had been fired already, " saidMr. Wiggins, pointing to the increasing crowd before the hall. 

"Something's up, " said Emlie, startled at the sight of the gatheringhundreds. 

"Then there's my place, " said the Colonel--the other two thought theyheard him sigh--and started up the street. 

Emlie turned to Mr. Wiggins. 

"It's rough on the Colonel; he's a man of peace if ever there was one, and likes to stand well with one and all. This rough and tumble businessof sheriff goes against the grain; his time is up next month; he'll beglad enough to be out of it. I'll step over to the office for the paper, I see they've just come--the men have got them already from the stand--"

Elmer Wiggins caught his arm. 

"Look!" he cried under his breath, pointing to the crowd and a man whowas mounting the tail of an express wagon that had halted on theoutskirts of the throng. "That's one of the quarrymen--he's ring-leaderevery time--he's going to read 'em something--hark!"

They could hear the man haranguing the ever-increasing crowd; he waswaving a newspaper. They could not hear what he was saying, but in thepauses of his speechifying the hoarse murmur of approval grew louder andlouder. The cart-tail orator pointed to the headlines; there was asudden deep silence, so deep that the soft scurrying of a mass of fallenelm leaves in the gutter seemed for a moment to fill all the air. Thenthe man began to read. They saw the Colonel on the outside of the crowd;saw him suddenly turn and make with all haste for the post-office; sawhim reappear reading the paper. 

The two hurried across the street to him. 

"What's the matter?" Emlie demanded. 

The Colonel spoke no word. He held the sheet out to them and withshaking forefinger pointed to the headlines:

 BIG EMBEZZLEMENT BY FLAMSTED QUARRIES CO. OFFICIAL

 GUILTY MAN A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE

 SEARCH WARRANTS OUT

 DETECTIVES ON TRAIL

 "New York--Special Despatch: L. Champney Googe, the treasurer of the Flamsted Quarries Co. --" etc. , etc. 

The men looked at one another. There was a moment of sickening silence;not so much as a leaf whirled in the gutter; it was broken by a greatcheer from the assembled hundreds of workmen farther up the street, followed by a conglomerate of hootings, cat-calls, yells and falsettohoorays from the fringe of small boys. The faces of the three men infront of the post-office grew white at their unspoken thought. Eachwaited for the other. 

"His mother--" said Emlie at last. 

Elmer Wiggins' lips trembled. "You must tell her, Colonel--she mustn'thear it this way--"

"My God, how can I!" The Colonel's voice broke, but only for a second, then he braced himself to his martyrdom. "You're right; she mustn't hearit from any one but me--telephone up at once, will you, Elmer, that I'mcoming up to see her on an important matter?--Emlie, you'll drive me upin your trap--we can get there before the men have a chance to gethome--keep a watch on the doings here in the town, Elmer, and telephoneme if there's any trouble--there's Romanzo coming now, I suppose he'sgot word from the office--if you happen to see Father Honoré, tell himwhere I am, he will help--"

He stepped into the trap that had been hitched in front of the drugstore, and Emlie took the reins. Elmer Wiggins reached up his hand tothe Colonel, who gripped it hard. 

"Yes, Elmer, " he said in answer to the other's mute question, "this isone of the days when a man, who is a man, may wish he'd never beenborn--"

They were off, past the surging crowds who were now thronging the entirestreet, past The Bow, and over the bridge on their way to The Gore. 

XI

"Run on ahead, girlies, " said Aileen to the twins who were with her fortheir annual checkerberry picnic, "I'll be down in a few minutes. "

They were on the edge of the quarry woods which sheltered the Colonel'soutlying sheep pastures and protected from the north wind the twosheepfolds that were used for the autumn and early spring. Dulcie andDoosie, obedient to Aileen's request, raced hand in hand across theshort-turfed pastures, balancing their baskets of red berries. 

The late afternoon sunshine of the last of October shone clear and warmupon the fading close-cropped herbage that covered the long slopes. Thesheep were gathering by flocks at the folds. The collie, busy andimportant, was at work with 'Lias rounding up the stragglers. Aileen'seyes were blinded to the transient quiet beauty of this scene, for shewas alive to but one point in the landscape--the red brick house withgranite trimmings far away across the Rothel, and the man leaving thecarriage which had just stopped at the front porch. She could notdistinguish who it was, and this fact fostered conjecture--Could it beChampney Googe who had come home to help settle the trouble in thesheds?

How she hated him!--yet her heart gave a sudden sick throb ofexpectation. How she hated herself for her weakness!

"You look tired to death, Aileen, " was Mrs. Caukins' greeting a fewminutes afterwards, "come in and rest yourself before supper. Luigi washere just now and I've sent Dulcie over with him to Aurora's to get theColonel; I saw him go in there fifteen minutes ago, and he's no notionof time, not even meal-time, when he's talking business with her. I knowit's business, because Mr. Emlie drove up with him; he's waiting for himto come out. Romanzo has just telephoned that he can't get home forsupper, but he'll be up in time to see you home. "

Mrs. Caukins was diplomatic; she looked upon herself as a committee ofone on ways and means to further her son's interest so far as AileenArmagh was concerned; but that young lady was always ready with a checkto her mate. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Caukins, but I'll not trouble him; Tave is coming up todrive me home about eight; he knows checkerberry picking isn't easywork. "

Mrs. Caukins was looking out of the window and did not reply. 

"I declare, " she exclaimed, "if there isn't Octavius this very minutedriving up in a rush to Aurora's too--and Father Honoré's withhim!--Why, what--"

Without waiting to finish her thought, she hurried to the door to callout to Dulcie, who was coming back over the bridge towards the house, running as fast as she could:

"What's the matter, Dulcie?"

"Oh, mother--mother--" the child panted, running up the road, "fatherwants you to come over to Mrs. Googe's right off, as quick as youcan--he says not to stop for anything--"

The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Mrs. Caukins, withoutheeding Aileen, was hurrying down the road. The little girl, wholly outof breath, threw herself down exhausted on the grass before the door. Aileen and Doosie ran out to her. 

"What is it, Dulcie--can't you tell me?" said Aileen. 

Between quickened breaths the child told what she knew. 

"Luigi stopped to speak to Mr. Emlie--and Mr. Emlie said somethingdreadful for Flamsted--had happened--and Luigi looked all of a sudden soqueer and pale, "--she sat up, and in the excitement and importance ofimparting such news forgot her over-exertion, --"and Mr. Emlie saidfather was telling Mrs. Googe--and he was afraid it would kill her--andthen father came to the door looking just like Luigi, all queer andpale, and Mr. Emlie says, 'How is she?' and father shook his head andsaid, 'It's her death blow, ' then I squeezed Luigi's hand to make himlook at me, and I asked him what it was Mrs. Googe's was sick of, for Imust go and tell mother--and he looked at Mr. Emlie and he nodded andsaid, 'It's town talk already--it's in the papers. ' And then Luigi toldme that Mr. Champney Googe had been stealing, Aileen!--and if he gotcaught he'd have to go to prison--then father sent me over home formother and told me to run, and I've run so--Oh, Aileen!"

It was a frightened cry, and her twin echoed it. While Aileen Armagh waslistening with shortened breaths to the little girl, she felt as if shewere experiencing the concentrated emotions of a lifetime; as a result, the revulsion of feeling was so powerful that it affected herphysically; her young healthy nerves, capable at other times of almostany tension, suddenly played her false. The effect upon her of what sheheard was a severe nervous shock. She had never fainted in her life, norhad she known the meaning of an hysterical mood; she neither fainted norscreamed now, but began to struggle horribly for breath, for the shockedheart began beating as it would, sending the blood in irregular spurtsthrough the already over-charged arteries. From time to time she groanedheavily as her struggle continued. 

The two children were terrified. Doosie raced distractedly across thepastures to get 'Lias, and Dulcie ran into the house for water. Herlittle hand was trembling as she held the glass to Aileen's whitequivering lips that refused it. 

By the time, however, that 'Lias got to the house, the crisis was past;she could smile at the frightened children, and assure 'Lias that shehad had simply a short and acute attack of indigestion from eating toomany checkerberries over in the woods. 

"It serves me right, " she said smiling into the woe-begone little facesso near to hers; "I've always heard they are the most indigestiblethings going--now don't you eat any more, girlies, or you'll have aspasm like mine. I'm all right, 'Lias; go back to your work, I'll justhelp myself to a cup of hot water from the tea-kettle and then I'll gohome with Tave--I see him coming for me--I didn't expect him now. "

"But, Aileen, won't you stay to supper?" said the twins at one and thesame time; "we always have you to celebrate our checkerberry picnic. "

"Dear knows, I've celebrated the checkerberries enough already, " shesaid laughing, --but 'Lias noticed that her lips were stillcolorless, --"and I think, dearies, that it's no time for us to becelebrating any more to-day when poor Mrs. Googe is in such trouble. "

"What's up?" said 'Lias. 

The twins' eagerness to impart their knowledge of recent events to 'Liaswas such that the sorrow of parting was greatly mitigated; moreover, Aileen left them with a promise to come up again soon. 

"I'm ready, Tave, " she said as he drew up at the door. 'Lias helped herin. 

"Come again soon, Aileen--you've promised, " the twins shouted after her. 

She turned and waved her hand to them. "I'll come, " she called back inanswer. 

They drove in silence over the Rothel, past the brick house whereEmlie's trap was still standing, but now hitched. Octavius Buzzby's facewas gray; his features were drawn. 

"Did you hear, Aileen?" he said, after they had driven on a while andbegun to meet the quarrymen returning from Flamsted, many of whom weretalking excitedly and gesticulating freely. 

"Yes--Dulcie told me something. I don't know how true it is, " sheanswered quietly. 

"It's true, " he said grimly, "and it'll kill his mother. "

"I don't know about that;" she spoke almost indifferently; "you canstand a good deal when it comes to the point. "

Octavius turned almost fiercely upon her. 

"What do you know about it?" he demanded. "You're neither wife normother, but you might show a little more feeling, being a woman. Do yourealize what this thing means to us--to Flamsted--to the family?"

"Tave, " she turned her gray eyes full upon him, the pupils wereunnaturally enlarged, "I don't suppose I do know what it means to all ofyou--but it makes me sick to talk about it--please don't--I can't bearit--take me home as quick as you can. "

She grew whiter still. 

"Ain't you well, Aileen?" he asked in real anxiety, repenting of hishard word to her. 

"Not very, Tave; the truth is I ate too many checkerberries and had anattack of indigestion--I shall be all right soon--and they sent over forMrs. Caukins just at that time, and when Dulcie came back she toldme--it's awful--but it's different with you; he belongs to you all hereand you've always loved him. "

"Loved him!"--Octavius Buzzby's voice shook with suppressed emotion--"Ishould say loved him; he's been dear to me as my own--I thank God LouisChampney isn't living to go through this disgrace!"

He drew up in the road to let a gang of workmen separate--he had beendriving the mare at full speed. Both he and Aileen caught fragments ofwhat they were saying. 

"It's damned hard on his mother--"

"They say there's a woman in the case--"

"Generally is with them highflyers--"

"I'll bet he'll make for the old country, if he can get clear he'll--"

"Europe's full of 'em--reg'lar cesspool they say--"

"Any reward offered?"

"The Company'll have to fork over or there'll be the biggest strike inFlamsted that the stone-cutting business has seen yet--"

"The papers don't say what the shortage is--"

"What's Van Ostend's daughter's name, anybody know?--they say he wassweet on her--"

"She's a good haul, " a man laughed hoarsely, insultingly, "but shedidn't bite, an' lucky for her she didn't. "

"You're 'bout right--them high rollers don't want to raise nothing butgame cocks--no prison birds, eh?"

The men passed on, twenty or more. Octavius Buzzby, and the one who inthe last hour had left her girlhood behind her, drove homewards insilence. Her eyes were lowered; her white cheeks burned again, but withshame at what she was obliged to hear. 

XII

The strike was averted; the men were paid in full on the Wednesdayfollowing that Saturday the events of which brought for a time Flamsted, its families, and its great industry into the garish light ofundesirable publicity. In the sheds and the quarries the routine workwent on as usual, but speculation was rife as to the outcome of thesearch for the missing treasurer. A considerable amount of money was putup by the sporting element among the workmen, that the capture wouldtake place within three weeks. Meanwhile, the daily papers furnishedpabulum for the general curiosity and kept the interest as to theoutcome on the increase. Some reports had it that Champney Googe wasalready in Europe; others that he had been seen in one of the CentralAmerican capitals. Among those who knew him best, it was feared he wasalready in hiding in his native State; but beyond their immediate circleno suspicion of this got abroad. 

Among the native Flamstedites, who had known and loved Champney from achild, there was at first a feeling of consternation mingled with shameof the disgrace to his native town. They felt that Champney had playedfalse to his two names, and through the honored names of Googe andChampney he had brought disgrace upon all connections, whether by tiesof blood or marriage. To him they had looked to be a leader in the newFlamsted that was taking its place in the world's work. For a few daysit seemed as if the keystone of the arch of their ambition and pridehad fallen and general ruin threatened. Then, after the first weekpassed without news as to his whereabouts, there was bewilderment, followed on the second Monday by despair deepened by a suspense that wasbecoming almost unbearable. 

It was a matter of surprise to many to find the work in sheds andquarries proceeding with its accustomed regularity; to find that to thenew comers in Flamsted the affair was an impersonal one, that ChampneyGooge held no place among the workmen; that his absconding meant to themsimply another one of the "high rollers" fleeing from his deserts. Little by little, during that first week, the truth found its way hometo each man and woman personally interested in this erring son ofFlamsted's old families, that a man is but one working unit amongmillions, and that unit counts in a community only when its work isconstructive in the communal good. 

At a meeting of the bank directors the telling fact was disclosed thatall of Mrs. Googe's funds--the purchase money of the quarry lands--hadbeen withdrawn nine months previous; but this, they ascertained later, had been done with her full consent and knowledge. 

Romanzo was summoned with the Company's books to the New York office. The Colonel seemed to his friends to have aged ten years in seven days. He wore the look of a man haunted by the premonition of some impendingcatastrophe. But he confided his trouble to no one, not even to hiswife. Aurora Googe's friends suffered with her and for her; they began, at last, to fear for her reason if some definite word should not soon beforthcoming. 

The tension in the Champ-au-Haut household became almost intolerable asthe days passed without any satisfaction as to the fugitive'swhereabouts. After the first shock, and some unpleasant recrimination onthe part of Mrs. Champney, this tension showed itself by silentlyignoring the recent family event. Mrs. Champney found plausible excusein the state of her health to see no one. Octavius Buzzby attended tohis daily duties with the face of a man who has come through a severesickness; Hannah complained that "he didn't eat enough to keep a catalive. " His lack of appetite was an accompaniment to sleepless, thought-racked nights. 

Aileen Armagh said nothing--what could she say?--but sickened at her ownthoughts. She made excuse to be on the street, at the station, in TheGore at the Caukinses', with Joel Quimber and Elmer Wiggins, as well asamong the quarrymen's families, whose children she taught in anafternoon singing class, in the hope of hearing some enlightening word;of learning something definite in regard to the probabilities of escape;of getting some inkling of the whole truth. She gathered a little here, a little there; she put two and two together, and from what she heard asa matter of speculation, and from what she knew to be true through Mrs. Caukins via Romanzo in New York, she found that Champney Googe hadsacrificed his honor, his mother, his friends, and the good name of hisnative town for the unlawful love of gain. She was obliged to acceptthis fact, and its acceptance completed the work of destruction that therevelation of Champney Googe's unfaith, through the declaration of apassion that led to no legitimate consummation in marriage, had wroughtin her young buoyant spirit. She was broken beneath the suddencumulative and overwhelming knowledge of evil; her youth found noabiding-place either for heart or soul. To Father Honoré she could notgo--not yet!

 * * * * *

On the afternoon of Monday week, a telegram came for the Colonel. Heopened it in the post office. Octavius coming in at the same time forhis first mail noticed at once the change in his face--he lookedstricken. 

"What is it, Colonel?" he asked anxiously, joining him. 

For answer Milton Caukins held out the telegram. It was from the Stateauthorities; its purport that the Colonel was to form a posse and beprepared to aid, to the extent of his powers, the New York detectiveswho were coming on the early evening train. The fugitive from justicehad left New York and been traced to Hallsport. 

"I've had a premonition of this--it's the last stroke, Tave--here, inhis home--among us--and his mother!--and, in duty bound, I, of allothers, must be the man to finish the ugly job--"

Octavius Buzzby's face worked strangely. "It's tough for you, Colonel, but I guess a Maine man knows his whole duty--only, for God's sake, don't ask me!" It was a groan rather than an ejaculation. The twocontinued to talk in a low tone. 

"I shall call for volunteers and then get them sworn in--it means stiffwork for to-night. We'll keep this from Aurora, Tave; she mustn't know_this_. "

"Yes, if we can. Are you going to ask any of our own folks to volunteer, Milton?" In times of great stress and sorrow his townspeople called theColonel by his Christian name. 

"No; I'm going to ask some of the men who don't know him well--some ofthe foreigners; Poggi's one. He'll know some others up in The Gore. AndI don't believe, Tave, there's one of our own would volunteer, do you?"

"No, I don't. We can't go that far; it would be like cutting our ownthroats. "

"You're right, Tave--that's the way I feel; but"--he squared hisshoulders--"it's got to be done and the sooner it's over the better forus all--but, Tave, I hope to God he'll keep out of our way!"

"Amen, " said Octavius Buzzby. 

The two stood together in the office a moment longer in gloomy silence, then they went out into the street. 

"Well, I must get to work, " said the Colonel finally, "the time's scant. I'll telephone my wife first. We can't keep this to ourselves long;everybody, from the quarrymen to the station master, will be keen on thescent. "

"I'm glad no reward was offered, " said Octavius. 

"So am I. " The Colonel spoke emphatically. "The roughscuff won'tvolunteer without that, and I shall be reasonably certain of some goodmen--God! and I'm saying this of Champney Googe--it makes me sick; who'dhave thought it--who'd have thought it--"

He shook his head, and stepped into the telephone booth. Octavius waitedfor him. 

"I've warned Mrs. Caukins, " he said when he came out, "and told her howthings stand; that I'd try to get Poggi, and that I sha'n't be at hometo-night. She says tell Aileen to tell Mrs. Champney she will esteem ita great favor if she will let her come up to-night; she has one of hernervous headaches and doesn't want to be alone with the children and'Lias. You could take her up, couldn't you?"

"I guess she can come, and I'll take her up 'fore supper; I don't wantto be gone after dark, " he added with meaning emphasis. 

"I understand, Tave; I'm going over to Poggi's now. "

The two parted with a hand-clasp that spoke more than any words. 

XIII

About four, Octavius drove Aileen up to the Colonel's. He said nothingto her of the coming crucial night, but Aileen had her thoughts. TheColonel's absence from home, but not from town, coupled with yesterday'sNew York despatch which said that there was no trace of the guilty manin New York, and affirmed on good authority that the statement that hehad not left the country was true, convinced her that somethingunforeseen was expected in the immediate vicinity of Flamsted. But hewould never attempt to come here!--She shivered at the thought. Octavius, noticing this movement, remarked that he thought there wasgoing to be a black frost. Aileen maintained that the rising wind andthe want of a moon would keep it off. 

Although Octavius was inclined to take exception to the femininestatement that the moon, or the want of it, had an effect on frost, nevertheless this apparently innocent remark on Aileen's part recalledto him the fact that the night was moonless--he wondered if the Colonelhad thought of this--and he hoped with all his soul that it would proveto be starless as well. "Champney knows the Maine woods--knows 'em fromthe Bay to the head of Moosehead as well as an Oldtown Indian, yes andbeyond. " So he comforted himself in thought. 

Mrs. Caukins met them with effusion. 

"I declare, Aileen, I don't know what I should have done if you couldn'thave come up; I'm all of a-tremble now and I've got such a nervousheadache from all I've been through, and all I've got to, that I can'tsee straight out of my eyes. --Won't you stop to supper, Tave?"

"I can't to-night, Elvira, I--"

"I'd no business to ask you, I know, " she said, interrupting him; "Imight have known you'd want to be on hand for any new developments. Idon't know how we're going to live through it up here; you don't feel itso much down in the town--I don't believe I could go through it withoutAileen up here with me, for the twins aren't old enough to depend on orto be told everything; they're no company at such times, and of course Isha'n't tell them, they wouldn't sleep a wink; I miss my boysdreadfully--"

"Tell them what? What do you mean by 'to-night'?" Aileen demanded, asudden sharpness in her voice. 

"Why, don't you know?"--She turned to Octavius, "Haven't you told her?"

Her appeal fell on departing and intentionally deaf ears; for Octavius, upon hearing Aileen's sudden and amazed question, abruptly bade themgood-night, spoke to the mare and was off at a rapid pace before Mrs. Caukins comprehended that the telling of the latest development was leftto her. 

She set about it quickly enough, and what with her nervousness, hersympathy for that mother across the Rothel, her anxiety for the Colonel, her fear of the trial to which his powers of endurance were about to beput, and the description of his silent suffering during the last week, she failed to notice that Aileen said nothing. The girl busied herselfwith setting the table and preparing tea, Mrs. Caukins, meanwhile, rocking comfortably in her chair and easing her heart of its heavyburden by continual drippings of talk after the main flow of her talewas exhausted. 

Presently, just after sunset, the twins came rushing in. Evidently theywere full of secrets--they were always a close corporation of two--andtheir inane giggles and breathless suppression of what they wereobviously longing to impart to their mother and Aileen, told on Mrs. Caukins' already much worn nerves. 

"I wish you wouldn't stay out so long after sundown, children, you worryme to death. I don't say but the quarries are safe enough, but I do sayyou never can tell who's round after dusk, and growing girls like youbelong at home. "

She spoke fretfully. The twins exchanged meaning glances that were loston their mother, who was used to their ways, but not on Aileen. 

"Where have you been all this time, Dulcie?" she asked ratherindifferently. Her short teaching experience had shown her that the onlyway to gain children's confidence is not to display too great acuriosity in regard to their comings and goings, their doings andundoings. "Tave and I didn't see you anywhere when we drove up. "

The twins looked at each other and screwed their lips into a violentlyrepressive contortion. 

"We've been over to the sheepfolds with 'Lias. "

"Why, 'Lias has been out in the barn for the last half hour--what wereyou doing over there, I'd like to know?" Their mother spoke sharply, foruntruth she would not tolerate. 

"We did stay with 'Lias till he got through, then we played ranchmen andmade believe round up the cattle the way the boys wrote us they do. " Twoof their brothers were in the West trying their fortune on a ranch andincidentally "dovetailing into the home business, " as the Coloneldefined their united efforts along the line of mutton raising. 

"Well, I never!" their mother ejaculated; "I suppose now you'll bemaking believe you're everything the other boys are going to be. "

The little girls giggled and nodded emphatically. 

"Well, Aileen, " she said as she took her seat at the table, "times havechanged since I was a girl, and that isn't so very long ago. Then weused to content ourselves with sewing, and housework, and reading allthe books in the Sunday school library, and making our own clothes, andenjoying ourselves as much as anybody nowadays for all I see, what withour picnics and excursions down the Bay and the clam bakes and winterlecture course and the young folks 'Circle' and two or three dances tohelp out--and now here are my girls that can't be satisfied to sit downand hem good crash towels for their mother, but must turn themselvesinto boys, and play ranchmen and baseball and hockey on the ice, andWild West shows with the dogs and the pony--and even riding hima-straddle--and want to go to college just because their two brothersare going, and, for all I know, join a fraternity and have secrets fromtheir own mother and a football team!" She paused long enough to helpthe twins bountifully. 

"Sometimes I think it's their being brought up with so many boys, andthen again I'm convinced it's the times, for all girls seem to havecaught the male fever. What with divided skirts, and no petticoats, andracing and running and tumbling in basket ball, and rowing races, andentering for prize championships in golf and the dear knows what, it'llbe lucky if a mother of the next generation can tell whether she'sborned girls or boys by the time her children are ten years old. Theland knows it's hard enough for a married woman to try to keep up withone man in a few things, but when it comes to a lot of old maids andunmarried girls trying to catch up all the time with the men in_everything_, and catch on too, I must say _I_, for one, draw the line. "

Aileen could not help smiling at this diatribe on "the times. " The twinslaughed outright; they were used to their mother by this time, andpatronized her in a loving way. 

"We weren't there _all_ the time, " Doosie said meaningly, and Dulcieadded her little word, which she intended should tantalize her motherand Aileen to the extent that many pertinent questions should beforthcoming, and the news they were burning to impart would, to allappearance, be dragged out of them--a process in which the twinsrevelled. 

"We met Luigi on the road near the bridge. "

"What do you suppose Luigi's doing up here at this time, I'd like toknow, " said Mrs. Caukins, turning to Aileen and ignoring the children. 

"He come up on an errand to see some of the quarrymen, " piped up boththe girls at the same time. 

"Oh, is that all?" said their mother indifferently; then, much to thetwins' chagrin, she suddenly changed the subject. "I want you to takethe glass of wine jell on the second shelf in the pantry over to Mrs. Googe's after you finish your supper--you can leave it with the girl andtell her not to say anything to Mrs. Googe about it, but just put somein a saucer and give it to her with her supper. Maybe it'll tempt her totaste it, poor soul!"

The twins sat up very straight on their chairs. A look of consternationcame into their faces. 

"We don't want to go, " murmured Dulcie. 

"Don't want to go!" their mother exclaimed; decided irritation wasaudible in her voice. "For pity's sake, what is the matter now, that youcan't run on an errand for me just over the bridge, and here you've beenprowling about in the dusk for the last hour around those lonesomesheepfolds and 'Lias nowheres near--I declare, I could understand my sixboys even if they were terrors when they were little. You could alwayscount on their being somewheres anyway, even if 't was on the top offreight cars at The Corners or at the bottom of the pond diving forpebbles that they brought up between their lips and run the risk ofchoking besides drowning; and they did think the same thoughts for atleast twenty-four hours on a stretch, when they were set on havingthings--but when it come to my having two girls, and I forty at thetime, I give it up! They don't know their own minds from one six minutesto the next. --Why don't you want to go?" she demanded, coming at last tothe point. Aileen was listening in amused silence. 

"'Coz we got scared--awful scared, " said Dulcie under her breath. 

"Scared most to death, " Doosie added solemnly. 

Both Mrs. Caukins and Aileen saw at once that the children were inearnest. 

"You look scared!" said Mrs. Caukins with withering scorn; "you've eatena good supper if you were 'scared' as you say. --What scared you?"

The twins looked down into their plates, the generally cleared-upappearance of which seemed fully to warrant their mother's sarcasm. 

"Luigi told us not to tell, " said Dulcie in a low voice. 

"Luigi told you not to tell!" echoed their mother. "I'd like to knowwhat right Luigi Poggi has to tell my children not to tell their motheranything and everything!" She spoke with waxing excitement; everymotherly pin-feather was erect. 

"He was 'fraid it would scare you, " ventured Doosie. 

"Scare me! He must have a pretty poor opinion of a woman that can raisesix boys of her own and then be 'scared' at what two snips of girls cantell her. You'll tell me now, this very minute, what scared you--thisall comes of your being away from the house so far and so late--and Iwon't have it. "

"We saw a bear--"

"A big one--"

"He was crawling on all fours--"

"Back of the sheepfold wall--"

"He scrooched down as if he was nosing for something--"

"Just where the trees are so thick you can't see into the woods--"

"And we jumped over the wall and right down into the sheep, and theymade an awful fuss they were so scared too, huddling and rushing roundto get out--"

"Then we found the gate--"

"But I _heard_ him--" Dulcie's eyes were very big and bright withremembered terror. 

"And then we climbed over the gate--'Lias had locked it--and run homelickety-split and most run into Luigi at the bridge--"

"'Coz we come down the road after we got through the last pasture--"

"Oh, he was so big!" Doosie shuddered as her imagination began to workmore vigorously with the recital--"bigger'n a man--"

"What nonsense. "

The twins had been telling all this at the same time, and their mother'scommon sense and downright exclamation brought them to a full stop. Theylooked crestfallen. 

"You needn't tell me there's a bear between here and Moosehead--I knowbetter. Did you tell Luigi all this?" she questioned sharply. 

The two nodded affirmatively. 

"And he told you not to tell me?"

Another nod. 

"Did he say anything more?"

"He said he'd go up and see. "

"Hm--m--"

Mrs. Caukins turned a rather white face to Aileen; the two, looking intoeach other's eyes, read there a common fear. 

"Perhaps you'll take the jelly over for me, Aileen; I'll just step tothe back door and holler to 'Lias to bring in the collie and thehound--'t isn't always safe to let the dogs out after dark if there_should_ happen to be anything stirring in the quarry woods. "

"I'll go, " said Aileen. She went into the pantry to get the glass ofjelly. 

"We'll go with you, we won't mind a bit with you or Luigi, " chorussedthe twins. 

"You don't go one step, " said their mother, entering at that moment fromthe kitchen, and followed by the two dogs; "you'll stay right where youare, and what's more, you'll both go to bed early to make you rememberthat I mean what I say about your being out so long another time aftersundown--no good comes of it, " she muttered. 

The twins knew by the tone of her voice that there was no further appealto be made. 

"You can wash up the dishes while Aileen's gone; my head is sobad. --Don't be gone too long, Aileen, " she said, going to the door withher. 

"I sha'n't stay unless I can do something--but I'll stop a little whilewith Ellen, poor girl; she must be tired of all this excitement, sittingthere alone so much as she has this last week. "

"Of course, but Aurora won't see you; it's as much as ever I can do toget a look at her, and as to speaking a word of comfort, it's out of thequestion. --Why!" she exclaimed, looking out into the dusk that wassettling into night, "they never light the quarries so early, not withall the arc-lights, I wonder--Oh, Aileen!" she cried, as the meaning ofthe great illumination in The Gore dawned upon her. 

The girl did not answer. She ran down the road to the bridge with everynerve in her strained to its utmost. 

XIV

She hurried over to the brick house across the Rothel; rapped at thekitchen door and, upon the girl's opening it, gave the jelly to her withMrs. Caukins' message. She assured Ellen, who begged her to come in, that she would run over if possible a little later in the evening. A lowwhine and prolonged snuffing made themselves audible while the twotalked together in low tones at the door. They seemed to proceed fromthe vicinity of the dining-room door. 

"Where's Rag?" said Aileen, listening intently to the muffled sounds. 

"I shut him up in the dining-room closet when I see you come up thewalk; he goes just wild to get with you any chance he can, and Mrs. Googe told me she wanted to keep him round the house nights. "

"Then be careful he doesn't get out to-night--supposing you chain him upjust for once. "

"Oh, I couldn't do that; Mrs. Googe wouldn't let me; but I'll see hedoesn't follow you. I do wish you would come in--it's so lonesome, " shesaid again wistfully. 

"I can't now, Ellen; but if I can get away after eight, I may run overand sit with you a while. I'm staying with Mrs. Caukins because theColonel is away to-night. "

"So I heard; 'Lias told me just now on his way down to the village. Hesaid he wouldn't be gone long, for the Colonel wasn't to home. --Iwonder what they've turned on all the lights for?" she said, craning herneck to look farther up the road. 

Aileen made no reply. She cautioned her again to keep Rag at home. Aseries of muffled but agonized yelps followed her down the walk. 

She stood still in the road and looked about her. Everywhere the greatquarry arc-lights were sending their searching rays out upon thequarries and their approaches. 

"What shall I do--oh, what _shall_ I do!" was her hopeless unutteredcry. 

It seemed to Aileen Armagh, standing there in the road at the entranceto the bridge, as if a powerful X-ray were being directed at that momentupon her whole life so far as she remembered it; and not only upon that, but upon her heart and soul--her thoughts, desires, her secret agony; asif the ray, in penetrating her body and soul, were laying bare hersecret to the night:--she still loved him. 

"Oh, what shall I do--what _shall_ I do!" was the continual inner cry. 

Life was showing itself to her in this experience, as seen through thelens of a quickened imagination, in all its hideousness. Never had sheexperienced such a sense of loneliness. Never had she realized soforcibly that she was without father and mother, without kin in aforeign country, without a true home and abiding-place. Never had itbeen brought home to her with such keen pain that she was, in truth, awaif in this great world; that the one solid support for her in thisworld, her affections, had been ruthlessly cut away from under her bythe hand of the man she had loved with all the freshness and joy of heryoung loving heart. He had been all the more to her because she wasalone; the day dreams all the brighter because she believed he was theone to realize them for her--and now!

She walked on slowly. 

"What shall I do--what shall I do!" was her inward cry, repeated atintervals. She crossed the bridge. All was chaotic in her thoughts. Shehad supposed, during the last two months, that all her love was turnedto hate, --she hoped it was, for it would help her to bear, --that all herfeeling for him, whom she knew she ought to despise, was dead. Why, then, if it were dead, she asked herself now, had she spoken sovehemently to Luigi? And Luigi--where was he--what was he doing?

What was it produced that nervous shock when she learned the last truthfrom Dulcie Caukins? Was it her shame at his dishonor? No--she knew bythe light of the X-ray piercing her soul that the thought of hisimprisonment meant absence from her; after all that had occurred, shewas obliged to confess that she was still longing for his presence. Shehated herself for this confession. --Where was he now?

She looked up the road towards the quarry woods--Thank God, those, atleast, were dark! Oh, if she but dared to go! dared to penetrate them;to call to him that the hours of his freedom were numbered; tohelp--someway, somehow! A sudden thought, over-powering in its intimationof possibilities, stopped her short in the road just a little way beyondthe Colonel's; but before she could formulate it sufficiently to followit up with action, before she had time to realize the sensation ofreturning courage, she was aware of the sound of running feet on theroad above her. On a slight rise of ground the figure of a man showedfor a moment against the clear early dark of the October night; he wasrunning at full speed. 

Could it be--?

She braced herself to the shock--he was rapidly nearing her--a powerfulray from an arc-light shot across his path--fell full upon his hatlesshead--

"_You!_--Luigi!" she cried and darted forward to meet him. 

He thrust out his arm to brush her aside, never slackening his pace; butshe caught at it, and, clasping it with both hands, hung upon it herfull weight, letting him drag her on with him a few feet. 

"Stop, Luigi Poggi!--Stop, I tell you, or I'll scream for help--stop, Isay!"

He was obliged to slacken his speed in order not to hurt her. He triedto shake her off, untwist her hands; she clung to him like a leech. Thenhe stopped short, panting. She could see the sweat dropping from hisforehead; his teeth began to chatter. She still held his arm tightlywith both hands. 

"Let me go--" he said, catching his breath spasmodically. 

"Not till you tell me where you've been--what you've been doing--tellme. "

"Doing--" He brought out the word with difficulty. 

"Yes, doing, don't you hear?" She shook his arm violently in her anxiousterror. 

"I don't know--" the words were a long groan. 

"Where have you been then?--quick, tell me--"

He began to shake with a hard nervous chill. 

"With him--over in the quarry woods--I tried to take him--he foughtme--" The chill shook him till he could scarcely stand. 

She dropped his arm; drew away from him as if touching werecontamination; then her eyes, dilating with a still greater horror, fixed themselves on the bosom of his shirt--there was a stain--

"Have you killed him--" she whispered hoarsely. 

The answer came through the clattering teeth:

"I--I don't know--you said--you said you--never wanted to see himagain--"

Luigi found himself speaking the last words to the empty air; he wasalone, in the middle of the road, in the full glare of an electriclight. He was conscious of a desire to escape from it, to escapedetection--to rid himself of his over-powering misery in the quietest waypossible. He gathered himself together; his limbs steadied; theshivering grew less; he went on down the road at a quick walk. Alreadythe quarrymen were coming out in force to see what might be up. He mustavoid them at all hazards. 

 * * * * *

One thought was the motive power which sent Aileen running up the roadtowards the pastures, by crossing which she could reach in a few minutesthe quarry woods: "I must know if he is dead; if he is not dead, I musttry to save him from a living death. "

This thought alone sent her speeding over the darkened slopes. She waslight of foot, but sometimes she stumbled; she was up and on again--thesheepfold her goal. The quarry woods stood out dark against the clearsky; there seemed to be more light on these uplands than below in TheGore; she saw the sheepfold like a square blot on the pasture slope. Shereached it--should she call aloud--call his name? How find him?

She listened intently; the wind had died down; the sheep were huddlingand moving restlessly within the fold; this movement seemed unusual. She climbed the rough stone wall; the sheep were massed in one corner, heads to the wall, tails to the bare centre of the fold; they keptcrowding closer and more close. 

In that bared space of hoof-trampled earth she saw him lying. 

She leaped down, the frightened sheep riding one another in theirfrantic efforts to get away from the invaders of their peace. She kneltby him; lifted his head on her knee; her hands touched his sleeve, shedrew back from something warm and wet. 

"Champney--O Champney, what has he done to you!" she moaned in hopelessterror; "what shall I do--"

"Is it you--Aileen?--help me up--"

With her aid he raised himself to a sitting posture. 

"It must have been the loss of blood--I felt faint suddenly. " He spokeclearly. "Can you help me?"

"Yes, oh, yes--only tell me how. "

"If you could bind this up--have you anything--"

"Yes, oh, yes--"

He used his left hand entirely; it was the right arm that had receivedthe full blow of some sharp instrument. "Just tear away theshirt--that's right--"

She did as he bade her. She took her handkerchief and bound the armtightly above the wound, twisting it with one of her shell hairpins. Sheslipped off her white petticoat, stripped it, and under his directionsbandaged the arm firmly. 

He spoke to her then as if she were a personality and not an instrument. 

"Aileen, it's all up with me if I am found here--if I don't get out ofthis--tell my mother I was trying to see her--to get some funds, I havenothing. I depended on my knowledge of this country to escape--put themoff the track--they're after me now--aren't they?"

"Yes--"

"I thought so; I should have got across to the house if the quarrylights hadn't been turned on so suddenly--I knew they'd got word when Isaw that--still, I might have made the run, but that man throttled me--Imust go--"

He got on his feet. At that moment they both started violently at thesound of something worrying at the gate; there was a rattle at the bars, a scramble, a frightened bleating among the sheep, a joyous bark--andRag flung himself first upon Aileen then on Champney. 

He caught the dog by the throat, choking him into silence, and handedhim to Aileen. 

"For God's sake, keep the dog away--don't let him come--keep him quiet, or I'm lost--" he dropped over the wall and disappeared in the woods. 

Here and there across the pastures a lantern shot its unsteady rays. Theposse had begun their night's work. 

The dog struggled frantically to free himself from Aileen's arms; againand again she choked him that he might not bark and betray his master. The terrified sheep bleated loud and long, trampling one another in vainefforts to get through or over the wall. 

"Oh, Rag, Rag, --stop, or I must kill you, dear, dear little Rag--oh, Ican't choke you--I can't--I can't! Rag, be still, I say--oh--"

Between his desire to free his limbs, to breathe freely, and theinstinctive longing to follow his master, the dog's powerful muscleswere doing double work. 

"Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do--" she groaned in herhelplessness. The dog's frantic struggles were proving too much for herstrength, for she had to hold him with one hand; the other was on hiswindpipe. She knew 'Lias would soon be coming home; he could hear thesheep from the road, as she already heard the subdued bay of the houndand the muffled bark of the collie, shut--thanks to Mrs. Caukins'premonition of what might happen--within four walls. She looked abouther--a strip of her white skirt lay on the ground--_Could she--?_

"No, Rag darling--no, I can't, I can't--" she began to cry. Through hertears she saw something sticking up from the hoof-trampled earth nearthe strip of cotton--a knife--

She was obliged to take her hand from the dog's throat in order to pickit up--there was one joyous bark. . . . 

"O Rag, forgive me--forgive!" she cried under her breath, sobbing as ifher heart would break. 

 * * * * *

She picked up the piece of skirt, and fled with the knife in herhand--over the wall, over the pastures, that seemed lighter beneath therising stars, down the highroad into the glare of an arc-light. Shelooked at the instrument of death as she ran; it was a banana knife suchas Luigi used continually in his shop. She crossed the bridge, droppedthe knife over the guard into the rushing Rothel; re-crossed the bridgeand, throwing back the wings of the Scotch plaid cape she wore, examinedin the full light of the powerful terminal lamp her hands, dress, waist, cuffs. --There was evidence. 

She took off her cape, wrapped it over head and shoulders, folded itclose over both arms, and went back to the house. She heard carriagescoming up the road to The Gore. 

Mrs. Caukins, in a quivering state of excitement, called to her from theback porch:

"Come out here, Aileen; 'Lias hasn't got back yet--the sheep are makingthe most awful noise; something's the matter over there, you maydepend--and I can see lights, can you?"

"Yes, " she answered unsteadily. "I saw them a few minutes ago. I didn'tstay with Ellen, but went up the road a piece, for my head was achingtoo, and I thought a little air would do me good--and I believe I gotfrightened seeing the lights--I heard the sheep too--it's dreadful tothink what it means. "

Mrs. Caukins turned and looked at her sharply; the light from thekitchen shone out on the porch. 

"Well, I must say you look as if you'd seen a ghost; you're all of ashiver; you'd better go in and warm you and take a hot water bag up tobed with you; it's going to be a frosty night. I'm going to stay heretill 'Lias comes back. I'm thankful the twins are abed and asleep, or Ishould have three of you on my hands. Just as soon as 'Lias gets back, I'm going into my room to lie down--I can't sleep, but if I stay up onmy feet another hour I shall collapse with my nerves and my head; youcan do what you've a mind to. "

Aileen went into the kitchen. When Mrs. Caukins came in, fifteen minuteslater, with the information that she could see by the motion of 'Lias'lantern that he was near the house, she found the girl huddled by thestove; she was still wrapped in her cape. A few minutes afterwards shewent up to her room for the night. 

Late in the evening there was a rumor about town that Champney Googe hadbeen murdered in the Colonel's sheepfold. Before midnight this wascontradicted, and the fact established that 'Lias had found his dogstabbed to death in the fold, and that he said he had seen traces of aterrific struggle. The last news, that came in over the telephone fromthe quarries, was to the effect that no trace of the fugitive was foundin the quarry woods and the posse were now on the county line scouringthe hills to the north. The New York detectives, arriving on the eveningtrain, were carried up to join the Flamsted force. 

The next day the officers of the law returned, and confirmed the report, already current in the town, that Champney Googe had outwitted them andmade his escape. Every one believed he would attempt to cross the Canadaborder, and the central detective agency laid its lines accordingly. 

XV

Since Champney Googe's escape on that October night, two weeks had beenadded to the sum of the hours that his friends were counting until theyshould obtain some definite word of his fate. During that time the loveof the sensational, which is at the root of much so-called communalinterest, was fed by the excitement of the nominal proceedings againstLuigi Poggi. On the night of Champney's flight he went to Father Honoréand Elmer Wiggins, and confessed his complicity in the affair at thesheepfold. Within ten days, however, the Italian had been exonerated forhis attack on the escaped criminal; nor was the slightest blame attachedto such action on his part. He had been duly sworn in by the Colonel, and was justified in laying hands on the fugitive, although the wisdomof tackling a man, who was in such desperate straits, of his own accordand alone was questioned. Not once during the sharp cross examination, to which he was subjected by Emlie and the side-judge, was Aileen's namementioned--nor did he mention it to Father Honoré. Her secret was to bekept. 

During those two weeks of misery and suspense for all who loved ChampneyGooge, Octavius Buzzby was making up his mind on a certain subject. Nowthat it was fully made up, his knock on the library door sounded morelike a challenge than a plea for admittance. 

"Come in, Octavius. "

Mrs. Champney was writing. She pushed aside the pad and, moving herchair, faced him. Octavius noted the uncompromising tone of voice whenshe bade him enter, and the hard-set lines of her face as she turnedinquiringly towards him. For a moment his courage flagged; then therighteousness of his cause triumphed. He closed the door behind him. This was not his custom, and Mrs. Champney looked her surprise. 

"Anything unusual, Octavius?"

"I want a talk with you, Mrs. Champney. "

"Sit down then. " She motioned to a chair; but Octavius shook his head. 

"I can say all I've got to say standing; it ain't much, but it's to thepoint. "

Mrs. Champney removed her glasses and swung them leisurely back andforth on their gold chain. "Well, to the point, then. "

He felt the challenge implied in her words and accepted it. 

"I've served this estate pretty faithful for hard on to thirty-sevenyears. I've served the Judge, and I've served his son, and now I'm goingto work to save the man that's named for that son--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted him sharply, decisively. 

"That will do, Octavius. There is no occasion for you to tell me this; Iknew from the first you would champion his cause--no matter how bad aone. We'll drop the subject; you must be aware it is not a particularlypleasant one to me. "

Octavius winced. Mrs. Champney smiled at the effect of her words; but heignored her remark. 

"I like to see fair play, Mrs. Champney, and I've seen some things herein Champo since the old Judge died that's gone against me. Right's rightand wrong's wrong, and I've stood by and kept still when I'd ought tohave spoken; perhaps 't would have been better for us all if I had--andI'm including Champney Googe. When his father died--" Mrs. Champneystarted, leaned forward in her chair, her hands tightly grasping thearms. 

"His father--" she caught up her words, pressed her thin lips moreclosely together, and leaned back again in her chair. Octavius looked ather in amazement. 

"Yes, " he repeated, "his father, Warren Googe; who else should I mean?"

Mrs. Champney made no reply, and Octavius went on, wetting his lips tofacilitate articulation, for his throat was going dry:

"His father made me promise to look out for the child that was a-coming;and another man, Louis Champney, your husband, "--Mrs. Champney sat uprigid, her eyes fixed in a stare upon the speaker's lips, --"told me whenthe boy come that he'd father him as was fatherless--"

She interrupted him again, a sneering smile on her lips:

"You know as well as I, Octavius Buzzby, what Mr. Champney's willwas--too feeble a thing to place dependence on for any length of time;if he said that, he didn't mean it--not as you think he did, " she addedin a tone that sent a shiver along Octavius' spine. But he did notintend to be "downed, " as he said to himself, "not this time by AlmedaChampney. " He continued undaunted:

"I do know what he meant better'n anybody living, and I know what he wasgoing to do for the boy; and _I_ know, too, Mrs. Champney, who hinderedhim from having his will to do for the boy; and right's right, andnow's your time to make good to his memory and intentions--to make goodyour husband's will for Champney Googe and save your husband's name fromdisgrace and more besides. _You_ know--but you never knew I did tillnow--what Louis Champney promised to do for the boy--and he told me morethan once, Mrs. Champney, for he trusted _me_. He told me he was goingto educate the boy and start him well in life, and that he wasn't goingto end there; he told me he was going to leave him forty thousanddollars, Mrs. Champney--and he told me this not six weeks before hedied; and the interest on forty thousand has equalled the principal bythis time, --and you know best _why_ he hasn't had his own--I ain't blindand nobody else here in Flamsted. And now I've come to ask you, ifyou've got a woman's heart instead of a stone in your bosom, to makeover that principal and interest to the Quarry Company and save the boyLouis Champney loved; he told me once what I knew, that his blood flowedin that child's veins--"

"That's a lie--take that back!" she almost shrieked under her breath. She started to her feet, trembling in every limb, her face twitchingpainfully. 

Octavius was appalled at the effect of his words; but he dared notfalter now--too much was at stake--although fearful of the effect of anyfurther excitement upon the woman before him. He spoke appeasingly:

"I can't take that back, for it's true, Mrs. Champney. You know as wellas I do that far back his mother was a Champney. "

"Oh--I forgot. " She dropped into her chair and drew a long breath as ofexhaustion. "What were you saying?" She passed her hand slowly over hereyes, then put on her glasses. Octavius saw by that one movement thatshe had regained her usual control. He, too, felt relieved, and spokemore freely:

"I said I want you to make good that eighty thousand dollars--"

"Don't be a fool, Octavius Buzzby, "--she broke in upon him coldly, aworld of scornful pity in her voice, --"you mean well, but you're a foolto think that at my time of life I'm going to impoverish myself and myestate for Champney Googe. You've had your pains for nothing. Let himtake his punishment like any other man--he's no better, no worse; it'sthe fault of his bringing up; Aurora has only herself to thank. "

Octavius took a step forward. By a powerful effort he restrained himselffrom shaking his fist in her face. He spoke under his breath:

"You leave Aurora's name out of this, Mrs. Champney, or I'll say thingsthat you'll be sorry to hear. " His anger was roused to white heat and hedared not trust himself to say more. 

She laughed out loud--the forced, mocking laugh of a miserable old age. "I knew from the first Aurora Googe was at the bottom of this--"

"She doesn't know anything about this, I came of--"

"You keep still till I finish, " she commanded him, her faded eyessending forth something from behind her glasses that resembled bluelightning; "I say she's at the bottom of this as she's been at thebottom of everything else in Flamsted. She'll never have a penny of mymoney, that was Louis Champney's, to clear either herself or herstate's-prison brat! Tell her that for me with my compliments on herson's career. --And as for you, Octavius Buzzby, I'll repeat what yousaid: I'm not blind and nobody else is in Flamsted, and I know, andeverybody here knows, that you've been in love with Aurora Googe eversince my father took her into his home to bring up. "

She knew that blow would tell. Octavius started as if he had been struckin the face by the flat of an enemy's hand. He stepped forward quicklyand looked her straight in the eyes. 

"You she-devil, " he said in a low clear voice, turned on his heel andleft the room. He closed the door behind him, and felt of the knob tosee that he had shut it tight. This revelation of a woman's nature wassickening him; he wanted to make sure that the library door was shutclose upon the malodorous charnel house of the passions. He shiveredwith a nervous chill as he hurried down the hall and went upstairs tohis room in the ell. 

He sat down on the bed and leaned his head on his hands, pressing hisfingers against his throbbing temples. Half an hour passed; still he satthere trying to recover his mental poise; the terrible anger he hadfelt, combined with her last thrust, had shocked him out of it. 

At last he rose; went to his desk; opened a drawer, took out a tin box, unlocked it, and laid the papers and books it contained one by one onthe table to inspect them. He selected a few, snapped a rubber about thepackage and thrust it into the inner breast pocket of his coat. Then hereached for his hat, went downstairs, left word with Ann that he wasgoing to drive down for the mail but that he should not be back beforeten, proceeded to the stable, harnessed the mare into a light drivingtrap and drove away. He took the road to The Gore. 

On approaching the house he saw a light in Aurora's bedroom. He drovearound to the kitchen door and tied the mare to the hitching-post. Hisrap was answered by Ellen, a quarryman's daughter whom Mrs. Googeemployed for general help; but she spoke behind the closed door:

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Octavius Buzzby. "

She drew the bolt and flung open the door. "Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Buzzby? I've got so nervous these last three weeks, I keep the doorbolted most of the time. Have you heard anything?" she asked eagerly, speaking under her breath. 

"No, " said Octavius shortly; "I want to see Mrs. Googe. Tell her I mustsee her; it's important. "

The girl hesitated. "I don't believe she will--and I hate to askher--she looks awful, Mr. Buzzby. It scares me just to see her goin'round without saying a word from morning to night, and then walking halfthe night up in her room. I don't believe she's slept two hours a nightsince--you know when. "

"I guess she'll see me, Ellen; you go and ask her, anyway. I'll stay inthe lower hall. "

He heard her rap at the bedroom door and deliver the message. Therefollowed the sharp click of a lock, the opening of the door and thesound of Aurora's voice:

"Tell him to come up. "

Octavius started upstairs. He had seen her but once in the past threeweeks; that was when he went to her on the receipt of the news ofChampney's flight; he vowed then he would not go again unless sent for;the sight of the mother's despair, that showed itself in speechlessapathy, was too much for him. He could only grasp her hand at that time, press it in both his, and say: "Aurora, if you need me, call me; youknow me. We'll help all we can--both of you--"

But there was no response. He tiptoed out of the room as if leaving thepresence of the dead. 

Now, as he mounted the stairs, he had time to wonder what her attitudewould be after these three weeks of suspense. A moment more and he stoodin her presence, mute, shocked, heartsick at the change that this monthof agony had wrought in her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor; deepyellowish-purple half-circles lay beneath her sunken eyes; everyfeature, every line of the face was sharpened, and on each cheek boneburned a fever spot of vivid scarlet; her dry eyes also burned withunnatural and fevered brightness, the heavy eyelids keeping up acontinuous quivering, painful to see. The hand she held out to himthrobbed quick and hard in his grasp. 

"Any news, Tave?" Her voice was dull from despair. 

He shook his head; the slow tears coursed down his cheeks; he could nothelp it. 

"Sit down, Tave; you said it was important. "

He controlled his emotion as best he could. "Aurora, I've been thinkingwhat can be done when he's found--"

"If he ever is! Oh, Tave, Tave--if I could only know something--where heis--if living; I can't sleep thinking--" She wrung her clasped hands andbegan to walk nervously back and forth in the room. 

"Aurora, I feel sure he's living, but when he's found--then's the timeto help. "

"How?" She turned upon him almost savagely; it looked as if herprimitive mother-passion were at bay for her young. "Where's help tocome from? I've nothing left. "

"But I have. " He spoke with confidence and took out the package fromhis breast pocket. He held it out to her. "See here, Aurora, here's thevalue of twenty thousand dollars--take it--use it as your own. "

She drew away from it. --"Money!" She spoke almost with horror. 

"Yes, Aurora, honest money. Take it and see how far 't will go towardssaving prosecution for him. "

"You mean--, " she hesitated; her dry eyes bored into his that droppedbefore her unwavering gaze, "--you mean you're giving your hard-earnedwages to me to help save my boy?"

"Yes, and glad to give them--if you knew how glad, Aurora--"

She covered her face with her hands. Octavius took her by the arm anddrew her to a chair. 

"Sit down, " he said gently; "you're all worn out. "

She obeyed him passively, still keeping her hands before her face. Butno sooner was she seated than she began to rock uneasily back and forth, moaning to herself, till suddenly the long-dried fount was opened up;the merciful blessing of tears found vent. She shook with uncontrollablesobbing; she wept for the first time since Champney's flight, and thetears eased her brain for the time of its living nightmare. 

Octavius waited for her weeping to spend itself. His heart was wrungwith pity, but he was thankful for every tear she shed; hisgratefulness, however, found a curious inner expression. 

"Damn her--damn her--damn her--" he kept saying over and over tohimself, and the mere repetition seemed to ease him of his over-poweringsurcharge of pity. But it was Almeda Champney he had in mind, and, afterall, his unuttered inner curses were only a prayer for help, readbackwards. 

At last, Aurora Googe lifted her face from her hands and looked atOctavius Buzzby. He reddened and rose to go. 

"Tave, wait a little while; don't go yet. "

He sat down. 

"I thought--I felt all was lost--no one cared--I was alone--there was nohelp. You have shown me that I have been wrong--all wrong--suchfriends--such a friend as you--" Her lips quivered; the tears welledfrom the red and swollen lids. "I can't take the money, Tave, Ican't--don't look so--only on one condition. I've been coming to adecision the last two days. I'm going straight to Almeda, Tave, and askher, beg her, if I have to, on my bended knees to save my boy--she hasmore than enough--you know, Tave, what Champney should have had--"

Octavius nodded emphatically and found his voice. 

"Don't I know? You may bet your life I know more'n I've ever told, Aurora. Don't I know how Louis Champney said to me: 'Tave, I shall seethe boy through; forty thousand of mine is to be his'; and that was sixweeks before he died; and don't I know, too, how I didn't get a glimpseof Louis Champney again till two weeks before his death, and then he wasunconscious and didn't know me or any one else?"

Octavius paused for breath. Aurora Googe rose and went to the closet. 

"I must go now, Tave; take me with you. " She took out a cloak andburnous. 

"I hate to say it, Aurora, but I'm afraid it won't do no good; she's atough cuss when it comes to money--"

"But she must; he's her own flesh and blood and she's cheated him out ofwhat is rightfully his. It's been my awful pride that kept me from goingsooner--and--oh, Tave, Tave, --I tried to make my boy promise never toask her for money! I've been hoping all along she would offer--"

"Offer! Almeda Champney offer to help any one with her money that wasLouis Champney's!"

"But she has enough of her own, Tave; the money that was my boy'sgrandfather's. "

"You don't know her, Aurora, not yet, after all you've suffered fromher. If you'd seen her and lived with her as I have, year out and yearin, you'd know her love of money has eat into her soul and gangrened it. 'T ain't no use to go, I tell you, Aurora. " He put out his hand todetain her, for she had thrown on her cloak and was winding the burnousabout her head. 

"Tave, I'm going; don't say another word against it; and you must takeme down. She isn't the only one who has loved money till it blinded themto duty--I can't throw stones--and after all she's a woman; I am goingto ask her to help with the money that is rightfully my boy's--and ifshe gives it, I will take your twenty thousand to make up the amount. "She pressed the package into his hand. 

"But what if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll ask Father Honoré to do what he proposed to do last week: goto Mr. Van Ostend and ask him for the money--there's nothing left butthat. " She drew her breath hard and led the way from the room, hurriedly, as if there were not a moment to lose. Octavius followed her, protesting:

"Try Mr. Van Ostend first, Aurora; don't go to Mrs. Champney now. "

"Now is the only time. If I hadn't asked my own relation, Mr. Van Ostendwould have every reason to say, 'Why didn't you try in your own familyfirst?'"

"But, Aurora, I'm afraid to have you. "

"Afraid! I, of Almeda Champney?"

She stopped short on the stairs to look back at him. There was a traceof the old-time haughtiness in her bearing. Octavius welcomed it, for hewas realizing that he could not move her from her decision, and as forthe message from Almeda Champney, he knew he never could deliver it--hehad no courage. 

"You needn't sit up for me, Ellen, " she said to the surprised girl asthey went out; "it may be late before I get home; bolt the back door, I'll take the key to the front. "

He helped her into the trap, and in silence they drove down to The Bow. 

XVI

Aurora Googe spoke for the first time when Octavius left her at the doorof Champ-au-Haut. 

"Tave, don't leave me; I want you to be near, somewhere in the hall, ifshe is in the library. I want a witness to what I must say and--I trustyou. But don't come into the room no matter what is said. "

"I won't, Aurora, and I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm just going todrive to the stable and send the boy down for the mail, and I'll beright back. There's Aileen. "

The girl answered the knock, and on recognizing who it was caught herbreath sharply. She had not seen Mrs. Googe during the past month ofmisery and shame and excitement, and previous to that she had avoidedChampney Googe's mother on account of the humiliation her love for theson had suffered at that son's hands--a humiliation which struck at theroots of all that was truest and purest in that womanhood, which wasdrying up the clear-welling spring of her buoyant temperament, her youngenjoyment in life and living and all that life offers of best toyouth--offers once only. 

She started back at the sight of those dark eyes glowing with anunnatural fire, at the haggard face, its pallor accentuated by the whiteburnous. One thought had time to flash into consciousness before thewoman standing on the threshold could speak: here was suffering towhich her own was as a candle light to furnace flame. 

"I've come to see Mrs. Champney, Aileen; is she in the library?"

"Yes, "--the girl's lips trembled, --"shall I tell her you are here?"

"No. " She threw aside her cloak as if in great haste; Aileen took it andlaid it on a chair. Mrs. Googe went swiftly to the library door andrapped. Aileen heard the "Come in, " and the exclamation that followed:"So you've come at last, have you!"

She knew that tone of voice and what it portended. She put her fingersin her ears to shut out further sound of it, and ran down the hall tothe back passageway, closed the door behind her and stood theretrembling from nervousness. --Had Mrs. Googe obtained some inkling thatshe had a message to deliver from that son?--a message she neither couldnor would deliver? Did Champney Googe's mother know that she had seenthat son in the quarry woods? Mrs. Googe's friends had told her thetruth of the affair at the sheepfold, when it was found that herunanswered suspicions were liable to unsettle her reason. --Could sheknow of that message? Could any one?

The mere presence in the house of this suffering woman set Aileen'severy nerve tingling with sickening despair. She determined to waitthere in the dimly lighted back hall until Octavius should make hisappearance, be it soon or late; he always came through here on his wayto the ell. 

Aurora Googe looked neither to right nor left on entering the room. Shewent straight to the library table, on the opposite side of which Mrs. Champney was still sitting where Octavius had left her nearly two hoursbefore. She stemmed both hands on it as if finding the supportnecessary. Fixing her eyes, already beginning to glaze with theincreasing fever, upon her sister-in-law, she spoke, but with apparenteffort:

"Yes, I've come, at last, Almeda--I've come to ask help for my boy--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted her; she was trembling visibly, even AuroraGooge saw that. 

"I suppose this is Octavius Buzzby's doings. When I gave him thatmessage it was final--_final_, do you hear?"

She raised her voice almost an octave in the intense excitement she wasevidently trying to combat. The sound penetrated to Aileen, shut in theback hall, and again she thrust her fingers into her ears. At thatmoment Octavius entered from the outer door. 

"What are you doing here, Aileen?" For the first time in his life hespoke roughly to her. 

She turned upon him her white scared face. "What is _she_ doing?" shemanaged to say through chattering teeth. 

Octavius repented him, that under the strain of the situation he hadspoken to her as he had. "Go to bed, Aileen, " he said firmly, butgently; "this ain't no place for you now. "

She needed but that word; she was half way up the stairs before he hadfinished. He heard her shut herself into the room. He hung up his coat, noiselessly opened the door into the main hall, closed it softly behindhim and took his stand half way to the library door. He saw nothing, buthe heard all. 

For a moment there was silence in the room; then Aurora spoke in a dullstrained voice:

"I don't know what you mean--I haven't had any message, and--and"--sheswallowed hard--"nothing is final--nothing--not yet--that's why I'vecome. You must help me, Almeda--help me to save Champney; there is noone else in our family I can call upon or who can do it--and there is achance--"

"What chance?"

"The chance to save him from--from imprisonment--from a living death--"

"Has he been taken?"

"Taken!"--she swayed back from the table, clutching convulsively theedge to preserve her balance--"don't--don't, Almeda; it will kill me. Iam afraid for him--afraid--don't you understand?--Help me--let me havethe money, the amount that will save my son--free him--"

She swayed back towards the table and leaned heavily upon it, as fearingto lose her hold lest she should sink to her knees. Mrs. Champney wasrecovering in a measure from the first excitement consequent upon theshock of seeing the woman she hated standing so suddenly in herpresence. She spoke with cutting sarcasm:

"What amount, may I inquire, do you deem necessary for the present toinsure prospective freedom for your son?"

"You know well enough, Almeda; I must have eighty thousand at least. "

Mrs. Champney laughed aloud--the same mocking laugh of a miserable oldage that had raised Octavius Buzzby's anger to a white heat of rage. Hearing it again, the man of Maine, without fully realizing what he wasdoing, turned back his cuffs. He could scarce restrain himselfsufficiently to keep his promise to Aurora. 

"Eighty thousand?--hm--m; between you and Octavius Buzzby there would beprecious little left either at Champ-au-Haut or of it. " She turned inher chair in order to look squarely up into the face of the woman on theopposite side of the table. "And you expect me to impoverish myself forthe sake of Champney Googe?"

"It wouldn't impoverish you--you have your father's property and moretoo; he is of your own blood--why not?"

"Why not?" she repeated and laughed out again in her scorn; "why shouldI, answer me that?"

"He is your brother, Warren Googe's son--don't make me say any more, Almeda Champney; you know that nothing but this, nothing on earth--couldhave brought me here to ask anything of _you_!"

There was a ring of the old-time haughty independence in her voice;Octavius rejoiced to hear it. "She's getting a grip on herself, " he saidto himself; "I hope she'll give her one 'fore she gets through withher. "

"Why didn't my brother save his money for him then--if he's his son?"she demanded sharply, but breathing short as she spoke the last words ina tone that conveyed the venom of intense hatred. 

"Almeda, don't; you know well enough 'why'; don't keep me in suchsuspense--I can't bear it; only tell me if you will help. "

She seemed to gather herself together; she swept round the table; cameclose to the woman in the armchair; bent to her; the dark burning eyesfixed the faded blue ones. "Tell me quick, I say, --I can bear no more. "

"Aurora Googe, I sent word to you by Octavius Buzzby that I would nothelp your state's-prison bird--fledged from your nest, not mine, --"

She did not finish, for the woman she was torturing suddenly laid a hothand hard and close, for the space of a few seconds, over thosemalevolent lips. Mrs. Champney drew back, turned in her chair andreached for the bell. 

Aurora removed her hand. 

"Stop there, you've said enough, Almeda Champney!" she commanded her. She pointed to the portrait over the fireplace. "By the love he bore myson--by the love we two women bore him--help--"

Mrs. Champney rose suddenly by great effort from her chair. The twowomen stood facing each other. 

"Go--go!" she cried out shrilly, hoarsely; her face was distorted withpassion, her hands were clenched and trembling violently, "leave mysight--leave my house--you--_you_ ask _me_, by the love we bore LouisChampney, to save from his just deserts Louis Champney's bastard!"

Her voice rose to a shriek; she shook her fist in Aurora's face, thensank into her chair and, seizing the bell, rang it furiously. 

Octavius darted forward, but stopped short when he heard Aurora'svoice--low, dull, as if a sickening horror had quenched forever itslife:

"You have thought _that_ all these years?--O God!--Louis--Louis, whatmore--"

She fell before Octavius could reach her. Aileen and Ann, hearing thebell, came running through the hall into the room. 

"Help me up stairs, Aileen, "--the old woman was in command asusual, --"give me my cane, Ann; don't stand there staring like twofools. "

Aileen made a sign to Octavius to call Hannah; the two women helped themistress of Champ-au-Haut up to her room. 

Mrs. Googe seemed not to have lost consciousness, for as Hannah bentover her she noticed that her eyelids quivered. 

"She's all wore out, poor dear, that's what's the matter, " said Hannah, raising her to a sitting position; she passed her hand tenderly over thedark hair. 

Aileen came running down stairs bringing salts and cologne. Hannahbathed her forehead and chafed her wrists. 

In a few minutes the white lips quivered, the eyes opened; she made aneffort to rise. Octavius helped her to her feet; but for Aileen's armaround her she would have fallen again. 

"Take me home, Tave. " She spoke in a weak voice. 

"I will, Aurora, " he answered promptly, soothingly, although his handstrembled as he led her to a sofa; "I'll just hitch up the pair in thecarryall and Hannah'll ride up with us, won't you, Hannah?"

"To be sure, to be sure. Don't you grieve yourself to death, Mis'Googe, " she said tenderly. 

"Don't wait to harness into the carryall, Tave--take me now--in thetrap--take me away from here. I don't need you, Hannah. I didn't know Iwas so weak--the air will make me feel better; give me my cloak, Aileen. "

The girl wrapped her in it, adjusted the burnous, that had fallen fromher head, and went with her to the door. Aurora turned and looked ather. The girl's heart was nigh to bursting. Impulsively she threw herarms around the woman's neck and whispered: "If you need me, do send forme--I'll come. "

But Aurora Googe went forth from Champ-au-Haut without a word either tothe girl, to Hannah, or to Octavius Buzzby. 

 * * * * *

For the first two miles they drove in silence. The night was clear butcold, the ground frozen hard; a northwest wind roared in the pines alongthe highroad and bent the bare treetops on the mountain side. From timeto time Octavius heard the woman beside him sigh heavily as fromphysical exhaustion. When, at last, he felt that she was shivering, hespoke:

"Are you cold, Aurora? I've got something extra under the seat. "

"No, I'm not cold; I feel burning up. "

He turned to look at her face in the glare of an electric light theywere passing. It was true; the rigor was that of increasing fever; hercheeks were scarlet. 

"I wish you'd have let me telephone for the doctor; I don't feel rightnot to leave you in his hands to-night, and Ellen hasn't got any head onher. "

"No--no; I don't need him; he couldn't do me any good--nobodycan. --Tave, did you hear her, what she said?" She leaned towards him towhisper her question as if she feared the dark might have ears. 

"Yes, I heard her--damn her! I can't help it, Aurora. "

"And you don't believe it--you _know_ it isn't true?"

Octavius drew rein for a moment; lifted his cap and passed the back ofhis hand across his forehead to wipe off the sweat that stood in beadson it. He turned to the woman beside him; her dark eyes were devouringhis face in the effort, or so it seemed, to anticipate his answer. 

"Aurora, I've known you" (how he longed to say "loved you, " but thosewere not words for him to speak to Aurora Googe after thirty years ofsilence) "ever since you was sixteen and old Mr. Googe took you, anorphan girl, into his home; and I knew Louis Champney from the time hewas the same age till he died. What I've seen, I've seen; and what Iknow, I know. Louis Champney loved you better'n he loved his life, and Iknow you loved him; but if the Almighty himself should swear it's truewhat Almeda Googe said, I wouldn't believe him--I wouldn't!"

The terrible nervous strain from which the woman was suffering lessenedunder the influence of his speech. She leaned nearer. 

"It was not true, " she whispered again; "I know you'll believe me. "

Her voice sounded weaker than before, and Octavius grew alarmed lest shehave another of what Hannah termed a "sinking spell" then and there. Hedrew rein suddenly, and so tightly that the mare bounded forward andpulled at a forced pace up the hill to The Gore. 

"And she thought _that_ all these years--and I never knew. That's whyshe hates my boy and won't help--oh, how could she!"

She shivered again. Octavius urged the mare to greater exertion. If onlyhe could get the stricken woman home before she had another turn. 

"How could she?" he repeated with scathing emphasis; "just as anyshe-devil can set brooding on an evil thought for years till she'shatched out a devil's dozen of filthy lies. " He drew the reins a littletoo tightly in his righteous wrath, and the mare reared suddenly. "Whatthe dev--whoa, there Kitty, what you about?"

He calmed the resentful beast, and they neared the house in The Gore ata quick trot. 

"You don't think she has ever spoken to any one before--not so, do you, Tave? not to Louis ever?--"

"No, I don't, Aurora. Louis Champney wouldn't have stood that--I knowhim well enough for that; but she might have hinted at a something, andit's my belief she did. But don't you fret, Aurora; she'll never speakagain--I'd take my oath on that--and if I dared, I'd say I wish AlmightyGod would strike her dumb for saying what she has. "

They had reached the house. She lifted her face to the light burning inher bedroom. 

"Oh, my boy--my boy--" she moaned beneath her breath. Octavius helpedher out, and holding the reins in one hand, with the other supported herto the steps; her knees gave beneath her. --"Oh, where is heto-night--what shall I do!--Think for me, Tave, act for me, or I shallgo mad--"

Octavius leaned to the carriage and threw the reins around thewhipstock. 

"Aurora, " he grasped her firmly by the arm, "give me the key. "

She handed it to him; he opened the door; led her in; called loudly forEllen; and when the frightened girl came hurrying down from her room, hebade her see to Mrs. Googe while he went for the doctor. 

XVII

"The trouble is she has borne up too long. "

The doctor was talking to Father Honoré while untying the horse from thehitching-post at the kitchen porch. 

"She has stood it longer than I thought she could; but without thenecessary sleep even her strong constitution and splendid physique can'tsupply sufficient nerve force to withstand such a strain--it's fearful. Something had to give somewhere. Practically she hasn't slept for overthree weeks, and, what's more, she won't sleep till--she knows one wayor the other. I can't give her opiates, for the strain has weakened herheart--I mean functionally. " He stepped into the carriage. "You haven'theard anything since yesterday morning, have you?"

"No; but I'm inclined to think that now he has put them off the trackand got them over the border, he will make for New York again. It's mybelief he will try to get out of the country by that door instead of byway of Canada. "

"I never thought of that. " He gathered up the reins, and, leaningforward from the hood, looked earnestly into the priest's eyes. "Makeher talk if you can--it's her only salvation. She hasn't opened her lipsto me, and till she speaks out--you understand--I can do nothing. Thefever is only the result of the nerve-strain. "

"I wish it were in my power to help her. I may as well tell younow--but I'd like it to remain between ourselves, of course I've toldthe Colonel--that I determined last night to go down to New York and seeif I can accomplish anything. I shall have two private detectives thereto work with me. You know the city agency has its men out therealready?"

"No, I didn't. I thought all the force was centred here in this Stateand on the Canada line. It strikes me that if she could know you weregoing--and for what--she might speak. You might try that, and let meknow the result. "

"I will. "

The doctor drove off. Father Honoré stood for a few minutes on the backporch; he was thinking concentratedly:--How best could he approach thestricken mother and acquaint her with his decision to search for herson?

He was roused by the sound of a gentle voice speaking in French:

"Good-morning, Father Honoré; how is Mrs. Googe? I have just heard ofher illness. "

It was Sister Ste. Croix from the sisterhood home in The Gore. 

The crisp morning air tinged with a slight color her wrinkled andfurrowed cheeks; her eyelids, also, were horribly wrinkled, as could beplainly seen when they drooped heavily over the dark blue eyes. YetSister Ste. Croix was still in middle life. 

"There is every cause for great anxiety, I grieve to say. The doctor hasjust gone. "

"Who is with her, do you know?"

"Mrs. Caukins, so Ellen says. "

"Do you think she would object to having me nurse her for a while? Shehas been so lovely to me ever since I came here, and in one way andanother we have been much together. I have tried again and again to seeher during these dreadful weeks, but she has steadily refused to see meor any of us--just shut herself out from her friends. "

"I wish she would have you about her; it would do her good; and surelyMrs. Caukins can't leave her household cares to stay with her long, norcan she be running back and forth to attend to her. I am going to makethe attempt to see her, and if I succeed I will tell her that you areready to come at any minute--and only waiting to come to her. "

"Do; and won't you tell Ellen I will come down and see her thisafternoon? Poor girl, she has been so terrified with the events of theselast weeks that I have feared she would not stay. If I'm here, I feelsure she would remain. "

"If Mrs. Googe will not heed your request, I do hope you will make ityour mission work to induce Ellen to stay. "

"Indeed, I will; I thought she might stay the more willingly if I werewith her. "

"I'm sure of it, " Father Honoré said heartily. 

"Are you going in now?"

"Yes. "

"Well, please tell Ellen that if Mrs. Googe wants me, she is to come upat once to tell me. Good morning. "

She walked rapidly down the road beside the house. Father Honoré turnedto look after her. How many, many lives there were likethat!--unselfish, sacrificing, loving, helpful, yet unknown, unthoughtof. He watched the slight figure, the shoulders bowed already a little, but the step still firm and light, till it passed from sight. Then heentered the kitchen and encountered Mrs. Caukins. 

"I never was so glad to see any living soul as I am you, Father Honoré, "was her greeting; she looked up from the lemon she was squeezing; "Idon't dare to leave her till she gets a regular nurse. It's enough tobreak your heart to see her lying there staring straight before her andnot saying a word--not even to the doctor. I told the Colonel when hewas here a little while ago that I couldn't stand it much longer; it'sgetting on my nerves--if she'd only say _something_, I don't care what!"

She paused in concocting the lemonade to wipe her eyes on a corner ofher apron. 

"Mrs. Caukins, I wish you would say to Mrs. Googe that I am here andwould like to speak with her before I leave town this afternoon. Youmight say I expect to be away for a few days and it is necessary that Ishould see her now. "

"You don't mean to say you're going to leave us right in the lurch, 'fore we know anything about Champney!--Why, what will the Colonel dowithout you? You've been his right hand man. He's all broken up; thatone night's work nearly killed him, and he hasn't seemed himselfsince--"

Father Honoré interrupted this flow of ejaculatory torrent. 

"I've spoken to the Colonel about my going, Mrs. Caukins. He agrees withme that no harm can come of my leaving here for a few days just at thistime. "

"I'll tell her, Father Honoré; I'm going up this minute with thelemonade; but it's ten to one she won't see you; she wouldn't see therector last week--oh, dear me!" She groaned and left the room. 

She was back again in a few minutes, her eyes wide with excitement. 

"She says you can come up, Father Honoré, and you'd better go up quickbefore she gets a chance to change her mind. "

He went without a word. When Mrs. Caukins heard him on the stair andcaught the sound of his rap on the door, she turned to Ellen and spokeemphatically, but with trembling lips:

"I don't believe the archangel Gabriel himself could look at you morecomforting than Father Honoré does; if _he_ can't help her, the Lordhimself can't, and I don't mean that for blasphemy either. Poorsoul--poor soul"--she wiped the tears that were rolling down hercheeks, --"here I am the mother of eight children and never had to lose anight's sleep on account of their not doing right, and here's Aurorawith her one and can't sleep nor eat for the shame and trouble he'sbrought on her and all of us--for I'm a Googe. Life seems sometimes toget topsy-turvy, and I for one can't make head nor tail of it. TheColonel's always talking about Nature's 'levelling up, ' but I don't seeany 'levelling'; seems to me as if she was turning everything up on edgepretty generally. --Give me that rice I saw in the pantry, Ellen; I'mgoing to make her a little broth; I've got a nice foreshoulder piece athome, and it will be just the thing. "

Ellen, rejoicing in such talkative companionship, after the three weeksof dreadful silence in the house, did her bidding, at the same timetaking occasion to ask some questions on her own part, among them onewhich set Mrs. Caukins speculating for a week: "Who do you supposekilled Rag?"

Aurora was in bed, but propped to a sitting position by pillows. WhenFather Honoré entered she started forward. 

"Have you heard anything?" Her voice was weak from physical exhaustion. 

"No, Mrs. Googe--"

She sank back on the pillows; he drew a chair to the bedside. 

"--But I have decided to go down to New York and search for myself. Ihave a feeling he is there, not in Maine or Canada; and I know that cityfrom Washington Heights to the Battery. "

"You think he'll be found?" She could scarcely articulate the words;some terror had her by the throat; her eyes showed deadly fear. 

"Yes, I think he will. "

"But she won't do anything--I--I went to her--"

"Don't exert yourself too much, Mrs. Googe, but if you can tell me whomyou mean, to whom you have applied, it might help me to actunderstandingly. "

"To his aunt--I went last night. "

"Mrs. Champney?"

She closed her eyes and made a motion of assent. 

"And she will do nothing?"

"No. "

"I fail to understand this. Surely she might give of her abundance tosave one who is of her own blood. Would it do any good, do you think, for me to see her? I'll gladly go. "

She shook her head. "You don't understand. "

He waited in silence for some further word; for her to open her eyes atleast. But none was forthcoming; the eyes remained closed. After a whilehe said gently:

"Perhaps I might understand, if you felt willing to tell me, if theeffort is not too great. "

She opened her eyes and fixed them apathetically on the strong helpfulface. 

"I wonder if you could understand--I don't know--you're not a woman--"

"No, but I am human, Mrs. Googe; and human sympathy is a greatenlightener. "

"The weight here--and here!" She raised one hand to her head, the othershe laid over her heart. "If I could get rid of that for one hour--Ishould be strong again--to live--to endure. "

Father Honoré was silent. He knew the long pent stream of grief andmisery must flow in its own channel when once it should burst itsbounds. 

"My son must never know--you will give me your word?"

"I give you my word, Mrs. Googe. "

She leaned forward from her pillows, looked anxiously at the door, whichwas open into the hall, then whispered:

"She said--my son was Louis Champney's--bastard;--_you_ don't believeit, do you?"

For the space of a second Father Honoré shrank within himself. He couldnot tell at that moment whether he had here to do with an overwroughtbrain, with a mind obsessed, or with an awful fact. But he answeredwithout hesitation and out of his inmost conviction:

"No, I do not believe it, Mrs. Googe. "

"I thought you wouldn't--Octavius didn't. " She sighed profoundly as ifrelieved from pain. "That's why she hates me--why she will not help. "

"In that case I will go to Mr. Van Ostend. I asked to see you that Imight tell you this. "

"Will you--oh, will you?" She sighed again--a sigh of great physicalrelief, for she placed her hand again over her heart, pressing it hard. 

"That helps here, " she said, passing her other hand over her forehead;"perhaps I can tell you now, before you go--perhaps it will help more. "

Her voice grew stronger with every full breath she was now able to draw. Gradually a look of comprehension replaced the apathetic stare. Shelooked squarely at the priest for the first time since his entrance. Father Honoré could but wonder if the thought behind that look wouldfind adequate expression. 

"You haven't said 'God' to me once since that--that night. Don't speakto me about Him now, will you? He's too far away--it doesn't meananything to me. "

"Mrs. Googe, there comes a time in most lives when God seems so far awaythat we can find Him only through the Human;--perhaps such a time hascome in your life. "

"I don't know; I never thought much about that. But--my god was human, oh, for so many years!--I loved Louis Champney. "

Again there was a long inhalation and exhalation. It seemed as if eachadmission, which she forced herself to make, loosened more and more thetension of the long-racked nerves; as a result the muscles of the throatrelaxed, the articulation grew distinct, the voice stronger. 

"--And he loved me--better than life itself. I was so young when itbegan--only sixteen. My husband's father took me into his home then tobring up; I was an orphan. And Louis Champney loved me then andalways--but Almeda Googe, my husband's sister, loved him too--in herway. Her own father could do nothing with her awful will--it crushedeverybody that came in contact with it--that opposed it; it crushedme--and in the end, Louis. "

She took a little of the lemonade to moisten her lips and went on:

"She was twelve years older than he. She took him when he was incollege; worked on him, lied to him about me; told him I loved herbrother; worked backwards, forwards, underhanded--any way to influencehim against me and get her hold upon him. He went to Europe; shefollowed; wrote lying letters to her brother--said she was engaged to bemarried to Louis before her return; told Louis I was going to marry herbrother, Warren Googe--in the end she had her way, and always has hadit, and will have it. I married Warren Googe; she was forty when shemarried Louis at twenty-eight. "

She paused, straightened herself. Something like animation came into herface. 

"It does me good to speak--at last. I've never spoken in all theseyears--and I can tell you. My child was born seven months after myhusband's death. Louis Champney came to see me then--up here, in thisroom; it was the first time we had dared to see each other alone--butthe baby lay beside me; _that kept us_. He said but little; but he tookup the child and looked at him; then he turned to me. 'This should havebeen our son, Aurora, ' he said, and I--oh, what will you think of me!"She dropped her head into her hands. 

"I knew in my heart that during all those months I was carrying WarrenGooge's child, I had only one thought: 'Oh, if it were only Louis' andmine!' And because I was a widow, I felt free to dwell upon that onethought night and day. Louis' face was always before me. I came inthought to look upon him as the true father of my boy--not that otherfor whom I had had no love. And I took great comfort in thatthought--and--and--my boy is the living image of Louis Champney. "

She withdrew her hands, clasping them nervously and rubbing them in eachother. 

"Oh, I sinned, I sinned in thought, and I've been punished, but therewas never anything more--and last night I had to hear that from her!"

For a moment the look of deadly fear returned to the eyes, but only fora moment; her hands continued to work nervously. 

"Never anything more; only that day when he took my boy in his arms andsaid what he did, we both knew we could not see much of each other forthe rest of our lives--that's why I've kept so much to myself. He kissedthe baby then, laid him in my arms and, stooping, kissed me once--onlyonce--I've lived on that--and said: 'I will do all I can for this boy. 'And--and"--her lips trembled for the first time--"that little baby, asit lay on my breast, saved us both. It was renunciation--but it made mehard; it killed Louis. 

"I saw Louis seldom and always in the presence of my boy. But AlmedaChampney was not satisfied with what she had done; she transferred herjealousy to my son. She was jealous of every word Louis spoke to him;jealous of every hour he was with him. When Louis died, still young--myson was left unprovided for. That was Almeda Champney's work--shewouldn't have it. 

"Then I sold the first quarry for means to send Champney to college; andI sold the rest in order to start him well in business, in the world. But I know that at the bottom of my ambition for him, was the desirethat he might succeed in spite of the fact that his aunt had kept fromhim the property which Louis Champney intended to be his. My ambitionhas been overweening for Champney's material success--I have urged himon, when I should have restrained. I have aided him to the extent of myability to attain his end. I longed to see him in a position that, financially, would far out-shine hers. I felt it would compensate inpart. I loved my son--and I loved in him Louis Champney. I alone am toblame for what has come of it--I--his mother. "

Her lips trembled excessively. She waited to control them before shecould continue. 

"Last night, when I begged her to help me, she answered me with what Itold you. I could bear no more--"

She leaned back on the pillows, exhausted for a while with her greateffort, but the light of renewed life shone from every feature. 

"I am better now, " she said, turning to Father Honoré the dark holloweyes so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her. 

While this page in human history was being laid open before him, FatherHonoré said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in itsstill depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a humansoul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his ownexistence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympatheticexpression. And he was honest enough to withhold all attempt at such. 

"I fear you are very tired, " he said, and rose to go. 

"No, no; I am better already. The telling has done me such good. I shallsoon be up and about. When do you go?"

"This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost anytime; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought youwould prefer to know from day to day. "

"You are good--but I can say nothing. " The tears welled at last andoverflowed on her cheeks. 

"Don't say that--I beg of you. " He spoke almost sharply, as if hurtphysically. "Nothing is needed--and I hope you will let Sister Ste. Croix come in for a few days and care for you. She wants to come. "

"Tell her to come. I think I am willing to see any one now--somethinghas given way here;" she pressed her hand to her head; "it's a greatrelief. "

"Good-bye. " He held out his hand and she placed hers in it; the tearskept rolling down her cheeks. 

"Tell my darling boy, when you see him, that it was my fault--and I lovehim so--oh, how I love him--" Her voice broke in a sob. 

Father Honoré left the room to cover his emotion. He spoke to Ellen fromthe hall, and went out at the front door in order to avoid Mrs. Caukins. He had need to be alone. 

 * * * * *

That afternoon at the station, Octavius Buzzby met him on the platform. 

"Mr. Buzzby, is there any truth in the rumor I heard, as I came to thetrain, that Mrs. Champney has had a stroke?"

The face of Champ-au-Haut's factotum worked strangely before he madeanswer. 

"Yes, she's had a slight shock. The doctor told me this morning that heknew she'd had the first one over three years ago; this is the second. I've come down for a nurse he telegraphed for; I expect her on the nexttrain up--and, Father Honoré--" he hesitated; his hands were workingnervously in each other. 

"Yes, Mr. Buzzby?"

"I come down to see you, too, on purpose--"

"To see me?" Father Honoré looked his surprise; his thoughts leaped to apossible demand on Mrs. Champney's part for his presence atChamp-au-Haut--she might have repented her words, changed her mind;might be ready to help her nephew. In that case, he would wait for themidnight train. 

The man of Maine's face was working painfully again; he was strugglingfor control; his feelings were deep, tender, loyal; he was capable ofany sacrifice for a friend. 

"Father Honoré--I don't want to butt in anywhere--into what ain't mybusiness, but I do want to know if you're going to New York?"

"Yes, I am. "

"Are you going to try to see _him_?"

"I'm going to try to find him--for his mother's sake and his own. "

Octavius Buzzby grasped his hand and wrung it. "God bless you!" Hefumbled with his left hand in his breast pocket and drew forth apackage. "Here, you take this--it's honest money, all mine--you use itfor Champney--to help out, you know, in any way you see fit. "

Father Honoré was so moved he could not speak at once. 

"If Mr. Googe could know what a friend he has in you, Mr. Buzzby, " hesaid at last, "I don't think he could wholly despair, whatever mightcome, "--he pressed the package back into Octavius' hand, --"keep it withyou, it's safer; and I promise you if I need it I will call on you. "Suddenly his indignation got the better of him--"But this isoutrageous!"--he spoke in a low voice but vehemently, --"Mrs. Champney isabundantly able to do this for her nephew, whereas you--"

"You're right, sir, it's a damned outrage--I beg your pardon, FatherHonoré, I hadn't ought to said that, but I've seen so much, and I'm allbroke up, I guess, with what I've been through since yesterday. I wentto her myself then and made bold to ask her to help with her richesthat's bringing her in eight per cent, and told her some plain truths--"

"You went--!" Father Honoré exclaimed; he had almost said "too, " butcaught himself in time. 

"Yes, I went, and all I got was an insult for my pains. She's ashe-dev--I beg your pardon, sir; it would serve me right if the Almightystruck me dumb with a stroke like hers, only hers don't affect herspeech any, Aileen says--I guess her tongue's insured against shock forlife, but it hadn't ought to be, sir, not after the blasphemy it'suttered. But I ain't the one to throw stones, not after what I've justsaid in your presence, sir, and I do beg your pardon, I know what's dueto the clo--"

The train, rounding the curve, whistled deafeningly. 

Father Honoré grasped both Octavius' hands; held them close in a firmcordial grip; looked straight into the small brown eyes that were filledwith tears, the result of pure nervousness. 

"We men understand each other, Mr. Buzzby; no apology is necessary--letme have your prayers while I am away, I shall need them--good-bye--" Heentered the car. 

Octavius Buzzby lifted his hat and stood bareheaded on the platform tillthe train drew out. 

PART FOURTH

Oblivion

I

"I have called to see Mr. Van Ostend, by appointment, " said FatherHonoré to the footman in attendance at the door of the mansion on theAvenue. 

He was shown into the library. Mr. Van Ostend rose from the armchair togreet him. 

"I am glad to see you, Father Honoré. " He shook hands cordially and drewup a chair opposite to his own before the blazing hearth. "Be seated; Ihave given orders that we are not to be interrupted. I cannot pretendignorance as to the cause of your coming--a sad, bad matter for us all. Have you any news?"

"Only that he is here in New York. "

Mr. Van Ostend looked startled. "Here? Since when? My latest advice wasthis afternoon from the Maine detectives. "

"I heard yesterday from headquarters that he had been traced here, buthe must be in hiding somewhere; thus far they've found no trace of him. I felt sure, from the very first, he would return; that is why I camedown. He couldn't avoid detection any longer in the country, nor couldhe hold out another week in the Maine wilderness--no man could stand itin this weather. "

"How long have you been here, Father Honoré?"

"Three days. I promised Mrs. Googe to do what I could to find him; themother suffers most. "

"I know--I know; it's awful for her; but, for God's sake, what did he doit for!"

"Why do we all sin at times?"

"Yes, yes--I know; that's your point of view, but that does not answerme in this case. He had every opportunity to work along legitimate linestowards the end he professed to wish to attain--and he had the abilityto attain it; I know this from my experience with him. What could havepossessed him to put himself in the place of a sneak thief--he, born agentleman, with Champney blood in his veins?"

Father Honoré did not answer his question which was more an indignantejaculation. 

"You spoke of my 'point of view, ' Mr. Van Ostend. I think I know whatthat implies; you mean from the point of view of the priesthood?"

The man on the opposite side of the fire-lighted hearth looked at him insurprise. "Yes, just that; but I intended no reflection on your opinion;perhaps I ought to say frankly, that it implied a doubt of your powersof judgment in a business matter like the one in question. Naturally, itdoes not lie in your line. "

Father Honoré smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps you may recall that oldsaying of the Jew, Nathan the Wise: 'A man is a man before he is eitherChristian or Jew. ' And we are men, Mr. Van Ostend; men primarily beforewe are either financier or priest. Let us speak as man to man; put asideall points of view entailed by difference of training, and meet on thecommon ground of our manhood, I am sure the perspective andretrospective ought to be in the same line of vision from thatstandpoint. "

Mr. Van Ostend was silent. He was thinking deeply. The priest saw this, and waited for the answer which he felt sure would be well thought outbefore it found expression. He spoke at last, slowly, weighing hiswords:

"I am questioning whether, with the best intentions as men to meet inthe common plane of our manhood, to see from thence alike in a certaindirection, you and I, at our age, can escape from the moulded lines ofour training into that common plane. "

"I think we can if we keep to the fundamentals of life. "

"We can but try; but there must be then an absolutely uncloudedexpression of individual opinion on the part of each. " His assertionimplied both a challenge and a doubt. "What is your idea of the reasonfor his succumbing to such a temptation?"

"I believe it was the love of money and the power its acquisitioncarries with it. I know, too, that Mrs. Googe blames herself for havingfostered this ambition in him. She would only too gladly place anythingthat is hers to make good, but there is nothing left; it all went. " Hestraightened himself. "What I have come to you for, Mr. Van Ostend, isto ask you one direct question: Are you willing to make good the amountof the embezzlement to the syndicate and save prosecution in thisspecial case--save the man, Champney Googe, and so give him anotherchance in life? You know, but not so well, perhaps, as I, what years ina penitentiary mean for a man when he leaves it. "

"Are you aware that you are asking me to put a premium on crime?" Mr. Van Ostend asked coldly. He looked at the priest as if he thought he hadtaken leave of his senses. 

"That is one way of putting it, I admit; but there is another. Let meput it to you: if you had had a son; if he were fatherless; if he hadfallen through emulation of other men, wouldn't you like to know thatsome man might lend a hand for the sake of the mother?"

"I don't know. Stealing is stealing, whether my son were the thief oranother man's. Why shouldn't a man take his punishment? You know theeveryday argument: the man who steals a loaf of bread gets nine months, and the man who steals a hundred thousand gets clear. If the law is forthe one and not for the other, the result is, logically, anarchy. Besides, the man, not he of the street who steals because he is hungry, but the one who has every advantage of education and environment to makehis way right in life, goes wrong knowingly. Are we in this case tocoddle, to sympathize, to let ourselves be led into philanthropic drivelover 'judge not that ye be not judged'? I cannot see it so. "

"You are right in your reasoning, but you are reasoning according to thecommon law, man-made; and I said we could agree only if we keep to thefundamentals of life. "

"Well, if the law isn't a fundamental, what is?"

"I heard Bishop Brooks once say: 'The Bible _was_ before ever it waswritten. ' And perhaps I can best answer your question by saying the lawof the human existed before the law of which you are thinking was everwritten. Love, mercy, long-suffering _were_ before the law formulated'an eye for an eye, ' or this world could not have existed to thepresent time for you and me. It is in recognition of that, in dealingwith the human, that I make my appeal to you--for the mother, first andforemost, who suffers through the son, her first-born and only child, asyour daughter is your only--" Mr. Van Ostend interrupted him. 

"I must beg you, Father Honoré, not to bring my daughter's name intothis affair. I have suffered enough--enough. "

"Mr. Van Ostend, pardon me the seeming discourtesy in your own house, but I am compelled to mention it. After you have given your finaldecision to my importuning, there can be no further appeal. The man, ifliving, must go to prison. Mrs. Champney positively refuses to help hernephew in any way. She has been approached twice on the subject ofadvancing four-fifths of the hundred thousand; she can do it, but shewon't. She is not a mother; neither has she any real love for hernephew, for she refuses to aid him in his extremity. I mentioned yourdaughter, because you must know that her name has been in the pastconnected with the man for whom I am asking the boon of another chancein life. I have felt convinced that for her sake, if for no other, youwould make this sacrifice. "

"My daughter, I am glad to inform you, never cared for the man. She istoo young, too undeveloped. It is the one thing that makes it possiblefor me to contemplate what he has done with any degree of sanity. Had hewon her affections, had she loved him--" He paused: it was impossiblefor him to proceed. 

"Thank God that she was spared that!" Father Honoré ejaculated under hisbreath. Mr. Van Ostend looking at him keenly, perceived that he wasunder the influence of some powerful emotion. He turned to him, a mutequestion on his lips. Father Honoré answered that mute query withintense earnestness, by repeating what, apparently, he had said tohimself:

"I thank my God that she never cared for him in that way, for otherwiseher life would have been wrecked; nor could you, who would lay down yourlife for her happiness, have spared or saved her, --her young affections, her young faith and joy in life, all shattered, and Life the iconoclast!That is the saddest part of it. It is women who suffer most and always. In making this appeal to you, I have had continually in mind his mother, and you, the father of a woman. I know how your pride must have sufferedin the knowledge that his name, even, has been connected with hers--butyour suffering is as naught compared with that mother's who, at thisvery moment, is waiting for some telegram from me that shall tell herher son is found, is saved. But I will not over urge, Mr. Van Ostend. Ifyou feel you cannot do this, that it is a matter of principle with youto refuse, there is no need to prolong this interview which is painfulto us both. I thank you for the time you have given me. " He rose to go. Mr. Van Ostend did likewise. 

At that moment a girl's joyous voice sounded in the hall just outsidethe door. 

"Oh, never mind that, Beales; papa never considers me an interruption. I'm going in, anyway, to say good night; I don't care if all Wall Streetis there. Has the carriage come?"

There was audible the sound of a subdued protest; then came a series ofquick taps on the door and the sound of the gay voice again:

"Papa--just a minute to say good night; if I can't come in, do you comeout and give me a kiss--do you hear?"

The two men looked at each other. Mr. Van Ostend stepped quickly to thedoor and, opening it, stood on the threshold. Something very like adiaphanous white cloud enwrapped him; two thin arms, visible through it, went suddenly round his neck; then his arms enfolded her. 

"Oh, Papsy dear, don't hug me so hard! You'll crush all my flowers. Bensent them; wasn't he a dear? I've promised him the cotillon to-night forthem. Good night. " She pecked at his cheek again as he released her; thecloud of white liberty silk tulle drifted away from the doorway and leftit a blank. 

Mr. Van Ostend closed the door; came back to the hearth; stood there, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his head bowed. For a fewminutes neither man spoke. When the clock on the mantel chimed a quarterto nine, Father Honoré made a movement to go. Mr. Van Ostend turnedquickly to him and put out a detaining hand. 

"May I ask if you are going to continue the search this evening; it's abad night. "

"Yes; I've had the feeling that, after he has been so long in hiding, he'll have to come out--he must be at the end of his strength. I amgoing out with two detectives now; they have been on the case with me. This is quite apart from the general detective agency's work. "

"Father Honoré, " Mr. Van Ostend spoke with apparent effort, "I know I amright in my reasoning--and you are right in your fundamentals. We bothmay be wrong in the end, you in appealing to me for this aid to restrainprosecution, and I in giving it. Time alone will show us. But if we are, we must take the consequences of our act. If, by yielding, I make iteasier for another man to do as Champney Googe has done, may God forgiveme; I could never forgive myself. If you, in asking this, have erred infreeing from his punishment a man who deserves every bit he can get, youwill have to reckon with your own conscience. --Don't misunderstand me. No spirit of philanthropy influences me in my act. Don't credit me withany 'love-to-man' attitude. I am going to advance the sum necessary toavoid prosecution if you find him; but I do it solely on that mother'saccount, and"--he hesitated--"because I don't want her, whom you havejust seen, connected, even remotely, by the thought of what apenitentiary term implies. I don't want to entertain the thought thateven the hem of _my_ child's garment has been so much as touched by ahand that will work at hard labor for seven, perhaps fifteen, years. AndI want you to understand that, in yielding, my principle remainsunchanged. I owe it to you to say this much, for you have dealt with meas man to man. "

"Mr. Van Ostend, we may both be in the wrong, as you say; if it proveso, I shall be the first to acknowledge my error to you. My one thoughthas been to save that mother further agony and to give a man, stillyoung, another chance. "

"I've understood it so. "

He went to his writing table, sat down at it, and, for a moment, busiedhimself with making out his personal check for one hundred thousanddollars payable to the Flamsted Granite Quarries Company. He handed itto Father Honoré to look at. The priest read it. 

"Whatever bail is needed, if an arrest should follow now, " said Mr. VanOstend further and significantly, "I will be responsible for. "

The two men clasped hands and looked understandingly into each other'seyes. What each read therein, what each felt in the other's palm beats, they realized there was no need to express in words. 

"Let me hear, Father Honoré, so soon as you learn anything definite;I'll keep you posted so far as I hear. "

"I will. Good night, Mr. Van Ostend. "

 * * * * *

On reaching the iron gates to the courtyard, the priest stepped aside togive unimpeded passage to a carriage just leaving the house. As itpassed him, the electric light flashed athwart the bowed glass front, already dripping with sleet, and behind it he caught a glimpse of agirl's delicate face that rose from out the folds of a chinchilla wrap, like a flower from its sheath. She was chatting gaily with her maid. 

II

The night was wild. New York can show such in late November. A gale fromthe northeast was driving before it a heavy sleet that froze as itfell, coating the overhead wires and glazing the asphalt and sidewalks. 

It lacked an hour of midnight. From Fleischmann's bakery, the goal ofeach man among the shivering hundreds lined up on Tenth Street, thelight streamed out upon a remnant of Life's jetsam--that which issubmerged, which never comes to the surface unless drawn there by somesearching and rescuing hand; that which the home-sheltered never see bydaylight, never know, save from hearsay. In the neighboring rectory ofGrace Church one dim light was burning in an upper room. The marblechurch itself looked a part of the winter scene; its walls andpinnacles, already encrusted with ice crystals, glittered fantasticallyin the rays of the arc-light; beneath them, the dark, shuffling, huddling line of humanity moved uneasily in the discomfort of the keenwind. 

At twelve o 'clock, each unknown, unidentified human unit in that line, as he reaches the window, puts forth his hand for the loaf, andthrusting it beneath his coat, if he be so fortunate as to have one, orunder his arm, vanishes. . . . 

Whither? As well ask: Whence came he?

Well up towards the bakery, because the hour was early, stood ChampneyGooge, unknown, unidentified as yet by three men, Father Honoré and twodetectives, who from the dark archway of a sunken area farther down thestreet were scanning this bread-line. The man for whom they weresearching held his head low. An old broad-brimmed felt hat was jammedover his forehead, almost covering his eyes. The face beneath its shadowwas sunken, drawn; the upper lip, chin, and cheeks covered with a threeweeks' growth of hair that had been blackened with soot. The long periodof wandering in the Maine wilderness had reduced his clothes to aminimum. His shoes were worn, the leather split, showing bare flesh. Like hundreds of others in like case, he found himself forced into thisline, even at the risk of detection, through the despairing desperationof hunger. There was nothing left for him but this--that is, if he werenot to starve. And after this, there remained for him but one thing, onechoice out of three final ones--he knew this well: flight andexpatriation, the act of grace by which a man frees himself from thislife, or the penitentiary. Which should it be?

"Never that last, never!" he said over and over again to himself duringthis last month. "Never, never _that_!"

It was the horror of that which spurred him to unimaginable exertion inthe wilderness in order to escape the detectives on his track; to putthem off the scent; to lead them to the Canada border and so induce themto cross it in their search. He had succeeded; and thereafter his onethought was to get to New York, to that metropolis where the human unitis reduced to the zero power, and can dive under, even vanish, toreappear only momently on the surface to breathe. But having reached thecity, by stolen rides on the top of freight cars, and plunging againinto its maelstrom, he found himself still in the clutch of thisunnamable horror. Docks, piers, bridges, stations were become meredetective terminals to him--things to be shunned at all cost. The longperspective of the avenues, the raking view from river to river in thecross streets, afforded him no shelter from watching eyes--in everypassing glance he read his doom; these, too, were things to be avoidedat all hazard. 

For four nights, since he sought refuge in New York, he had crawled intoan empty packing-box in a black alley behind a Water Street wholesalehouse. Twice, during this time, he had made the attempt to board asstowaway an outward-bound steamship and sailing vessel for a SouthAmerican port; but he had failed, for the Eyes were upon him--always theEyes wherever he went, whenever he looked, Eyes that were spotting him. In the weakness consequent upon prolonged fasting and the protractedexposure during his journey from Maine, this horror was becoming anobsession bordering on delirium. It was even now beginning to dull thetwo senses of sight and hearing--at least, he imagined it--as he stoodin line waiting for the loaf that should keep him another day, keep himfor one of two alternatives: flight, if possible to South America, or . . . 

As he stood there, the fear that his sight might grow suddenly dim, thathe might in consequence fail in recognition of those Eyes so constantlyon the lookout for him, suddenly increased. He grew afraid, at last, tolook up--What if the Eyes should be there! He bore the ever-increasinghorror as long as he could, then--better starve and have done with itthan die like a dog from sheer fright!--he stepped cautiously, softly, starting at the crackle of the ice under his tread, off the curbstoneinto the street. So far he was safe. He kept his head low, and walkedcarelessly towards Third Avenue. When nearing the corner he determinedhe would look up. He took the middle of the street. It cost him asupreme effort to raise his eyes, to look stealthily about him, behind, before, to right, to left--

_What was that in the dark area archway!_ His sight blurred for themoment, so increasing the blackness of impending horror; then, under theinfluence of this last applied stimulus, his sight grew preternaturallykeen. He discerned one moving form--two--three; to his over-strainednerves there seemed a whole posse behind them. Oh, the Eyes, the Eyesthat were so constantly on him! Could he never rid himself of them! Hebent his head to the sleeting blast and darted down the middle of thestreet to Second Avenue. 

_He knew now the alternative. _

After a possible five seconds of hesitation the three men gave chase. Itwas the make of the man, his motion as he started to run, the runningitself as Champney took the middle of the street, by which Father Honorémarked him. It was just such a start, just such running, as the priesthad seen many a time on the football field when the goal, which shoulddecide for victory, was to be made. He recognized it at once. 

"That's he!" He spoke under his breath to the two men; the three startedin pursuit. 

But Champney Googe was running to goal, and the old training stood himin good stead. He was across Second Avenue before the men were half waydown Tenth Street; down Eighth Street towards East River he fled, but atFirst he doubled on his tracks and eluded them. They lost him as heturned into Second Avenue again; not a footstep showed on theice-coated pavement. They stopped at a telephone station to notify thepolice at the Brooklyn Bridge terminals, then paused to draw a longbreath. 

"You're sure 't was him?" One of the detectives appealed to FatherHonoré. 

"Yes, I'm sure. "

"He give us the slip this time; he knew we was after him, " the otherpanted rather than spoke, for the long run had winded him. "I never seesuch running--and look at the glare of ice! He'd have done me up inanother block. "

"Well, the hunt's up for to-night, anyway. There's no use tobogganninground after such a hare at this time of night, " said the other, wipingthe wet snow from the inside of his coat collar. 

"We've spotted him sure enough, " said the first, "and I think, sir, withdue notifications at headquarters for all the precincts to-night, we canrun him down and in to-morrow. If you've no more use for me, I'll juststep round to headquarters and get the lines on him beforedaylight--that is, if they'll work. " He looked dubiously at the saggingice-laden wires. 

"You won't need me any longer?" The second man spoke inquiringly, as ifhe would like to know Father Honoré's next move. 

"I don't need you both, but I'd like one of you to volunteer to keep mecompany, for a while, at least. I can't give up this way, although Iknow no more of his whereabouts than you do. I've a curious unreasoningfeeling that he'll try the ferries next. "

"He can't get at the bridge--we've headed him off there, and it's a badnight. It's been my experience that this sort don't take to water, notnaturally, on such nights as this. We might try one of the Bowerylodging houses that I know this sort finds out sometimes. I'll go withyou, if you like. "

"Thank you, I want to try the ferries first; we'll begin at the Batteryand work up. How long does the Staten Island boat run?"

"Not after one; but they'll be behind time to-night; it's getting to bea smothering snow. I don't believe the elevated can run on time either, and we've got three blocks to walk to the next station. "

"We'd better be going, then. " Father Honoré bade the other man goodnight, and the two walked rapidly to the nearest elevated station onSecond Avenue. It was an up-town train that rolled in covered with sleetand snow, and they were obliged to wait fully a quarter of an hourbefore a south bound one took them to the Battery. 

The wind was lessening, but a heavy snowfall had set in. They made theirway across the park to the "tongue that laps the commerce of the world. "

Where was that commerce now? Wholly vanished with the multiple daytimeactivities that centre near this spot. The great fleet of incoming andout-going ocean liners, of vessels, barges, tows, ferries, tugs--wherewere they in the drifting snow that was blotting out the night in opaquewhite? The clank and rush of the elevated, the strident grinding of thetrolleys, the polyglot whistling and tooting of the numerous small rivercraft, the cries of 'longshoremen, the roaring basal note ofmetropolitan mechanism--all were silenced. Nothing was to be heard, atthe moment of their arrival, but the heavy wash of the harbor watersagainst the sea wall and its yeasting churn in the ferry slip. 

Near the dock-house they saw some half-obliterated tracks in the snow. Father Honoré bent to examine them; it availed him nothing. He looked athis watch; at the same moment he heard the distant hoarse half-smotheredwhistle repeated again and again and the deadened beat of the paddlewheels. Gradually the boat felt her way into the slip. The snow wasfalling heavily. 

"We will wait here until the boat leaves, " said Father Honoré, steppinginside to a dark wind-sheltered angle of the house. 

"It's a wild goose chase we're on, " muttered his companion after awhile. The next moment he laid a heavy hand on the priest's arm, gripping it hard, every muscle tense. 

A heavy brewery team, drawn by noble Percherons, rumbled past them downthe slip. On it, behind the driver's seat, was the figure of a man, crouched low. Had it not been for the bandaged arm and the unnaturalcontour it gave to the body's profile, they might have failed torecognize him. The two stood motionless in the blackness of the innerangle, pressing close to the iron pillars as their man passed them at adistance of something less than twelve feet. The warning bell rang; theyhurried on board. 

After the boat was well out into the harbor, the detective entered thecabin to investigate. He returned to report to Father Honoré that theman was not inside. 

"Outside then, " said the priest, drawing a sharp short breath. 

The two made their way forward, keeping well behind the team. FatherHonoré saw Champney standing by the outside guard chain. He was whitenedby the clinging snow. The driver of the team sang out to him: "I say, pardner, you'd better come inside!"

He neither turned nor spoke, but, bracing himself, suddenly crouched tothe position for a standing leap, fist clenched. . . . 

A great cry rang out into the storm-filled night:

"Champney!"

The two men flung themselves upon him as he leaped, and in the ensuingstruggle the three rolled together on the deck. He fought them like amadman, using his bandaged arm, his feet, his head. He was powerful withthe fictitious strength of desperation and thwarted intent. But the twomen got the upper hand, and, astride the prostrate form, the detectiveforced on the handcuffs. At the sound of the clinking irons, theprisoner suffered collapse then and there. 

"Thank God!" said Father Honoré as he lifted the limp head andshoulders. With the other's aid he carried him into the cabin and laidhim on the floor. The priest took off his own wet cloak, then his coat;with the latter he covered the poor clay that lay apparentlylifeless--no one should look upon that face either in curiosity, contempt, or pity. 

The detective went out to interview the driver of the team. 

"Where'd you pick him up?"

"'Long on West Street, just below Park Place. I see by the way he spokehe'd broke his wind--asked if I was goin' to a ferry an' if I'd give hima lift. I said 'Come along, ' and asked no questions. He ain't the firstI've helped out o' trouble, but I guess I've got him in sure enough thistime. "

"You're going to put up on the Island?"

"Yes; but what business is it o' a decent-looking cove like youse, I'dlike to know. "

"Well, it's this way: we've got to get this man back to New Yorkto-night; it's the boat's last trip and there ain't a chance of gettinga cab or hack in this blizzard, and at this time of night, to get him upfrom the ferry. If you'll take the job, I'll give you fifteen dollarsfor it. "

"That ain't so easy earned in a reg'lar snow-in; besides, I don't wantto be a party to gettin' him furder into your grip by takin' him over. "

"Oh, that's all right. He's got a friend with him who'll see to him forthe rest of the night. "

"Well, I don't mind then. It's goin' on one now, an' I might as wellmake a night o' it on t' other side. It's damned hard on the hosses, though, an' it's ten to one I don't get lifted myself by one o' themcussed cruelty to animil fellers that sometimes poke their noses intothe wrong end o' their business. --Make it twenty an' it is done. "

The detective smiled. "Twenty it is. " He patted the noble Percherons andfelt their warmth under the blankets. "You're not the kind they'reafter. What have you got in your team?"

"Nothing but the hosses' feed-bags. "

"That'll do. We'll put him in now in case any one comes on at StatenIsland for the return trip. You don't know nothing about _this_, youknow. " He looked at him knowingly. 

"All right, Cap'n; I'd be willin' to say I was a bloomin' idjot for twosaw-horses. Come, rake out. "

The detective laughed. "Here's ten to bind the bargain--the rest whenyou've landed him. "

III

The brewery team made its way slowly up from the ferry owing to thedrifting snow and icy pavements. From time to time a plough ran on theelevated, or on the trolley tracks, and sent the snow in fan-like spurtsfrom the fender. The driver drew rein in a west-side street off lowerSeventh Avenue. It was a brotherhood house where the priest had taken aroom for an emergency like the present one. He knew that within thesewalls no questions would be asked, yet every aid given, if required, injust these circumstances. The man beneath the horse-blankets was stillunconscious when they lifted him out, and carried him up to a large roomin the topmost story. The detective, after removing the handcuffs, askedif he could be of any further use that night. He stepped to the side ofthe cot and looked searchingly into the passive face on the pillow. 

"No; he's safe here, " Father Honoré replied. "You will notify the policeand the other detectives. I will go bail for him if any should beneeded; but I may as well tell you now that the case will probably nevercome to trial; the amount has been guaranteed. " He wrote a telegram andhanded it to the man. "Would you do me the favor to get this off asearly as you can?"

"Humph! Poor devil, he's got off easy; but from his looks and the tusslewe had with him, I don't think he'll be over grateful to you forbringing him through this. I've seen so much of this kind, that I'vecome to think it's better when they drop out quietly, no fuss, like ashe wanted to. "

"I can't agree with you. Thank you for your help. "

"Not worth mentioning; it's all in the night's work, you know. Goodnight. I'll send the telegram just as soon as the wires are working. Youknow my number if you want me. " He handed him a card. 

"Thank you; good night. "

When the door closed upon him, Father Honoré drew a long breath that washalf a suppressed groan; then he turned to the passive form on the cot. There was much to be done. 

He administered a little stimulant; heated some water over a small gasstove; laid out clean sheets, a shirt, some bandages and a few surgicalinstruments from a "handy closet, " that was kept filled with simplehospital emergency requirements, and set to work. He cut the shoes fromthe stockingless feet; cut away the stiffened clothing, what there wasof it; laid bare the bandaged arm; it was badly swollen, stiff andinflamed. He soaked from a clotted knife-wound above the elbow the pieceof cloth with which it had first been bound. He looked at the discoloredrag as it lay in his hand, startled at what he saw: a handkerchief--asmall one, a woman's! With sickening dread he searched in the corners;he found them: A. A. , wreathed around with forget-me-nots, all indelicate French embroidery. 

"My God, my God!" he groaned. He recalled having seen Aileenembroidering these very handkerchiefs last summer up under the pines. One of the sisterhood, Sister Ste. Croix, was with her givinginstruction, while she herself wrought on a convent-made garment. 

What did it mean? With multiplied thoughts that grasped helplesslyhither and thither for some point of attachment, he went on with hiswork. Two hours later, he had the satisfaction of knowing the man beforehim was physically cared for as well as it was possible for him to beuntil he should regain consciousness. His practised eye recognized thisto be a case of collapse from exhaustion, physical and mental. NowNature must work to replenish the depleted vitality. He could trust herup to a certain point. 

He sat by the cot, his elbows on his knees, his head dropped into hishands, pondering the mystery of this life before him--of all life, ofdeath, of the Beyond; marvelling at the strange warp and woof ofcircumstance, his heart wrung for the anguish of that mother far away inthe quarries of The Gore, his soul filled with thankfulness that she wasspared the sight of _this_. 

The gray November dawn began to dim the electric light in the room. Hewent to a window, opened the inner blinds and looked out. The storm wasnot over, but the wind had lessened and the flakes fell sparsely. Helooked across over the neighboring roofs weighted with snow; the wireswere down. A muffled sound of street traffic heralded the beginning day. As he turned back to the cot he saw that Champney's eyes were open; butthe look in them was dazed. They closed directly. When they openedagain, the full light of day was in the room; semi-consciousness hadreturned. He spoke feebly:

"Where am I?"

"Here, safe with me, Champney. " He leaned over him, but saw that he wasnot recognized. 

"Who are you?"

"Your friend, Father Honoré. "

"Father Honoré--" he murmured, "I don't know you. " He gave a convulsivestart--"Where are the Eyes gone?" he whispered, a look of horrorcreeping into his own. 

"There are none here, none but mine, Champney. Listen; you are safe withme, safe, do you understand?"

He gave no answer, but the dazed look returned. He moistened his parchedlips with his tongue and swallowed hard. Father Honoré held a glass ofwater to his mouth, slipping an arm and hand beneath his head to raisehim. He drank with avidity; tried to sit up, but fell back exhausted. The priest busied himself with preparing some hot beef extract on thelittle stove. When it was ready he sat down by the cot and fed it to himspoonful by spoonful. 

"Thank you, " Champney said quietly when the priest had finished hisministration. He turned a little on his side and fell asleep. 

The sleep was that which follows exhaustion; it was profound andbeneficial. Evidently no distress of mind or body marred it, and forevery sixty minutes of the blessed oblivion, there was renewed activityin nature's ever busy laboratory to replenish the strength that had beensacrificed in this man's protracted struggle to escape his doom, and, bymeans of it, to restore the mental balance, fortunately not too longlost. . . . 

When he awoke, it was to full consciousness. The sun was setting. Behindthe Highlands of the Navesink it sank in royal state: purple, scarlet, and gold. Upon the crisping blue waters of Harbor, Sound, and River, thereflection of its transient glory lay in quivering windrows of gorgeouscolor. It crimsoned faintly the snow that lay thick on the multitude ofcity roofs; it blazoned scarlet the myriad windows in the towers andskyscrapers; it filled the keen air with wonderful fleeting lights thatbewildered and charmed the unaccustomed eyes of the metropolitanmillions. 

Champney waited for it to fade; then he turned to the man beside him. 

"Father Honoré--" he half rose from the cot. The priest bent over him. Champney laid one arm around his neck, drew him down to him and, for amoment only, the two men remained cheek to cheek. 

"Champney--my son, " was all he could say. 

"Yes; now tell me all--the worst; I can bear it. "

 * * * * *

"I can't see my way, yet. " These were the first words he spoke afterFather Honoré had finished telling him of his prospective relief fromsentence and the means taken to obtain it. He had listened intently, without interruption, sitting up on the cot, his look fixed unwaveringlyon the narrator. He put his hand to his face as he spoke, covering hiseyes for a moment; then he passed it over the three weeks' stubble onhis cheeks and chin. 

"Is it possible for me to shave here? I must get up--out of this. Ican't think straight unless I get on my feet. "

"Do you feel strong enough, Champney?"

"I shall get strength quicker when I'm up. Thank you, " he said, asFather Honoré helped him to his feet. He swayed as if dizzy on crossingthe room to a small mirror above a stand. Father Honoré placed the hotwater and shaving utensils before him. He declined his furtherassistance. 

"Are there--are there any clothes I could put on?" He askedhesitatingly, as he proceeded to shave himself awkwardly with his onefree hand. 

"Such as they are, a plenty. " Father Honoré produced a common tweed suitand fresh underwear from the "handy closet. " These together with someother necessaries from a drawer in the stand supplied a full equipment. 

"Can I tub anywhere?" was his next question after he had finishedshaving. 

"Yes; this bath closet here is at your disposal. " He opened a door intoa small adjoining hall-room. Champney took the clothes and went in. Whilehe was bathing, Father Honoré used the room telephone to order in asubstantial evening meal. After the noise of the splashing ceased, heheard a half-suppressed groan. He listened intently, but there was nofurther sound, not even of the details of dressing. 

A half-hour passed. He had taken in the tray, and was becoming anxious, when the door opened and Champney came in, clean, clothed, but with alook in his eyes that gave the priest all the greater cause for anxietybecause, up to that time, the man had volunteered no informationconcerning himself; he had received what the priest said passively, without demonstration of any kind. There had been as yet no spiritualvent for the over-strained mind, the over-charged soul. The priest knewthis danger and what it portended. 

He ate the food that was placed before him listlessly. Suddenly hepushed the plate away from him across the table at which he was sitting. "I can't eat; it nauseates me, " he said; then, leaning his folded armson the edge, he dropped his head upon them groaning heavily in an agonyof despair, shame, remorse: "God! What's the use--what's the use!There's nothing left--nothing left. "

Father Honoré knew that the crucial hour was striking, and his prayerfor help was the wordless outreaching of every atom of his consciousnessfor that One more powerful than weak humanity, to guide, to aid him. 

"Your manhood is left. " He spoke sternly, with authority. This was notime for pleading, for sympathy, for persuasion. 

"My manhood!" The bitterest self-contempt was voiced in those two words. He raised his head, and the look he gave to the man opposite bordered onthe inimical. 

"Yes, your manhood. Do you, in your supreme egotism, suppose that you, Champney Googe, are the only man in this world who has sinned, suffered, gone under for a time? Are you going to lie down in the ditch like acraven, simply because you have failed to withstand the first assaultsof the devil that is in you? Do you think, because you have sinned, there is no longer a place for you and your work in this world where allmen are sinners at some time in their lives? I tell you, ChampneyGooge, --and mark well what I say, --your sin, as sin, is not sodespicable as your attitude towards your own life. Why, man, you'realive--"

"Yes, alive--thanks to you; but knocked out after the first round, " hemuttered. The priest noted, however, that he still held his head erect. He took fresh courage. 

"And what would you say of a man who, because he has been knocked out inthe first round, does not dare to enter the ring again? So far as I'veseen anything of life, it is a man's duty to get on his feet as quicklyas he can--square away and at it again. "

"There's nothing left to fight--it's all gone--my honor--"

"True, your honor's gone; you can't get that back; but you can putyourself in the running to obtain a standard for your future honor. Champney, listen;" he drew his chair nearer to him that the table mightnot separate them; "hear me, a man like yourself, erring, because human, who has sinned, suffered--let me speak out of my own experience. Putaside regret; it clogs. Regret nothing; what's done is done past recall. Live out your life, no matter what the struggle. Count this life asyours to make the best of. Live, I say; live, work, make good; it is inany man's power who has received a reprieve like yours. I know whereof Iam speaking. I'll go further: it would be in your power even if you hadbeen judged and committed. "

The man, to whom he was appealing, shuddered as he heard the word"committed. "

"_That_ would be death, " he said under his breath; "last night wasnothing, nothing to that--but you can't understand--"

"Better, perhaps, than you think. But what I want you to see is thatthere is something left to live for; Champney--your mother. " He hadhesitated to speak of her, not knowing what the effect might be. 

Champney started to his feet, his hand clenched on the table edge. Hebreathed short, hard. "O God, O God! Why didn't you let me go? How can Iface her and live!" He began to pace the room with rapid jerky steps. Father Honoré rose. 

"Champney Googe, "--he spoke calmly, but with a concentrated energy oftone that made its impression on the man addressed, --"when you lay therelast night, " he motioned towards the cot, "I thanked my God that shewas not here to see you. I have telegraphed her that you are alive. Inthe hope that you yourself might send some word, either directly orthrough me, I have withheld all detail of your condition, all furthernews; but, for her sake, I dare not keep her longer in suspense. Give mesome word for her--some assurance from yourself that you will live forher sake, if not for your own. Reparation must begin here and _now_, andno time be lost; it's already late. " He looked at his watch. 

Champney turned upon him fiercely. "Don't force me to anything. I can'tsee my way, I tell you. You have said I was a man. Let me take my standon that assurance, and act as one who must first settle a long-standingaccount with himself before he can yield to any impulse of emotion. Goto bed--do; you're worn out with watching with me. I'll sit here by thewindow; _I promise you_. There's no sleep in me or for me--I want to bealone--alone. "

It was an appeal, and the priest recognized in it the cry of theindividual soul when the full meaning of its isolation from humankind isfirst revealed to it. He let him alone. Without another word he drew offhis boots, turned out the electric light, opened the inner blinds, andlaid himself down on the cot, worn, weary, but undaunted in spirit. Attimes he lost himself for a few minutes; for the rest he feigned thesleep he so sorely needed. The excitation of his nerves, however, kepthim for the greater part of the night conscious of all that went on inthe room. 

Champney sat by the window. During that night he never left his seat. Father Honoré could see his form silhouetted against the blank of thepanes; his head was bowed into his hands. From time to time he drewdeep, deep, shuddering breaths. The struggle going on in that humanbreast beside the window, the priest knew to be a terrible one--aspiritual and a mental hand-to-hand combat, against almost over-poweringodds, in the arena of the soul. 

The sun was reddening the east when Champney turned from the window, rose quietly, and stepped to the side of the cot. He stood there a fewminutes looking down on the strong, marked face that, in the morninglight, showed yellow from watching and fatigue. Father Honoré knew hewas there; but he waited those few minutes before opening his eyes. Helooked up then, not knowing what he was to expect, and met Champney'sblue ones looking down into his. That one look was sufficient to assurehim that the man who stood there so quietly beside him was the ChampneyGooge of a new birth. The "old man" had been put away; he was ready forthe race, "_forgetting those things that are behind_. "

"I've won out, " he said with a smile. 

The two men clasped hands and were silent for a few minutes. ThenChampney drew a chair to the cot. 

"I'd like to talk with you, if you don't mind, " he said. 

IV

In the priest's soul there was rejoicing. He was anticipating thevictorious outcome of the struggle to which, in part, he had beenwitness. But he acknowledged afterwards that he had had not the faintestconception, not the remotest intimation of the actual truth. It remainedfor Champney Googe to enlighten him. 

"I've been digging for the root of the whole matter, " he began simply. His hand was clenched and pressed hard on his knee, otherwise he showedno sign of the effort that speech cost him. "I've been clearing away allobstructions, trying to look at myself outside of myself; and I findthat, ever since I can remember, I've had the ambition to be rich--andrich for the power it apparently gives over other men, for the amplitudeof one kind of living it affords, for the extension of the lines ofpersonal indulgence and pleasure seemingly indefinitely, for theposition it guarantees. There has been but one goal always: the makingof money. 

"I rebelled at first at the prospect of the five years' apprenticeshipin Europe. I can see now that those six years, as they proved to be, fostered my ambition by placing me in direct and almost daily contactwith those to whom great wealth is a natural, not an acquired thing. "(Father Honoré noted that throughout his confession he avoided themention of any name, and he respected him for it. ) "On my return, asyou know, I was placed in a position of great responsibility, as wellas one affording every opportunity to further my object in life. I beganto make use of these opportunities at once; the twenty thousand receivedfrom the quarry lands I invested, and in a short time doubled the sum. Iwas in a position to gain the inside knowledge needed to manipulatemoney with almost a certainty of increment; this knowledge, I was givento understand, I might use for any personal investment of funds; I tookadvantage of the privilege. 

"I soon found that to operate successfully and largely, as I needed toin order to gain my end and gain it quickly, I must have a larger amountof cash. For this reason, I re-invested the forty thousand on thestrength of my knowledge of a rise that was to be brought about incertain stocks within two months. This rise was guaranteed, youunderstand; guaranteed by three influential financiers. It would doublemy investment. They let it be known in a quiet way and in certainquarters, that this rise would occur at about such a date, and thenforced the market up till they themselves had a good surplus. All this Iknow for a fact, because I was on the inside. Just at this time thesyndicate intrusted to me three hundred thousand as a workable marginfor certain future investments. My orders were to invest in thisprepared stock only _after_ October fifteenth. Meanwhile themanipulation of this amount was in my hands for eight weeks. 

"I knew the forty thousand I had purposely invested in these stockswould double itself by the fifteenth of October; this was the date set. I knew this because I had the guaranty of the three men behind me; and, knowing this, I took a hundred thousand of the sum intrusted to me, inorder to make a deal with a Wall Street firm which would net me twentythousand within two weeks. 

"I knew perfectly well what I was doing--but there was never anyintention on my part of robbery or embezzlement. I knew the sum eightythousand, from my personal investment of forty thousand, was due onOctober fifteenth; this, plus the twenty thousand due from the WallStreet deal, would insure the syndicate from any loss. In fact, theywould never know that the money had been used by me to antedate theinvestment of the three hundred thousand--a part of the net yearlyworking profits from the quarries--intrusted to me. "

He paused for a moment to pass his hand over his forehead; his eyebrowscontracted suddenly as if he were in pain. 

"The temptation to take this money, although knowing well enough it wasnot mine to take, was too great for me. It was the resultant of everyforce of, I might say, my special business propulsion. This temptationlay along the lines on which I had built up my life: the pursuance of aline of action by which I might get rich quick. --Then came the crash. That special guaranteed stock broke--never to rally in time to saveme--sixty-five points. The syndicate sent out warning signals to me thatI was just in time to save any part of the three hundred thousand frominvestment in those stocks. Of course, I got no return from the fortythousand of my personal investment, and the hundred thousand I had usedfor the deal went down too. So much for the guaranty of themulti-millionaires. --Just then, when everything was chaotic and a bigpanic threatened, came a call from the manager of the quarries forimmediate funds; the men were getting uneasy because pay was two weeksoverdue. The syndicate told me to apply the working margin of threehundred thousand at once for this purpose. Of course there was ashortage; it was bound to be discovered. I tried to procrastinate--triedto put off the payment of the men; then came the threatened strike onaccount of non-payment of wages. I knew it was all up with me. When Isaw I must be found out, I fled--

"I never meant to rob them--to rob any one, never--never--" His voicebroke slightly on those words. 

"I believe you. " Father Honoré spoke for the first time. "Not one man inten thousand begins by meaning to steal. "

"I know it; that's what makes the bitterer cud-chewing. "

"I know--I know. " The priest spoke under his breath. He was sitting onthe side of the cot, and leaned forward suddenly, his elbows on hisknees, his chin resting in his palms, his eyes gazing beyond Champney tosomething intangible, some inner vision that was at that momentprojecting itself from the sensitive plate of consciousness upon theblank of reality. 

Champney looked at him keenly. He was aware that, for the moment, FatherHonoré was present with him only in the body. He waited, beforespeaking, until the priest's eyes turned slowly to his; his positionremained the same. Champney went on:

"All that you have done to obtain this reprieve, has been done forme--for mine--"; his voice trembled. "A man comes to know the measure ofsuch sacrifice after an experience like mine--I have no words--"

"Don't, Champney--don't--"

"No, I won't, because I can't--because nothing is adequate. I thought itall out last night. There is but one way to show you, to prove anythingto you; I am going to do as you said: make good my manhood--"

Father Honoré's hand closed upon Champney's. 

"--And there is but one way in which I can make it good. I can take onlya step at a time now, but it's this first step that will start meright. "

He paused a moment as if to gather strength to voice his decision. 

"I should disown my manhood if I shirked now. The horror of prospectiveyears of imprisonment has been more to me than death--I welcomed _that_as the alternative. But now, the manhood that is left in me demands thatif I am willing to live as a man, I must take my punishment like a man. I am going to let things take their usual course; accept no relief fromthe money guaranteed to reimburse the syndicate; plead guilty, and letthe sentence be what it may: seven, fifteen, or twenty years--it's allone. "

He drew a long breath as of deliverance. The mere formulating of hisdecision in the presence of another man gave him strength, almostassurance to act for himself in furthering his own commitment. But thepriest bowed his head into his hands and a groan burst from his lips, soladen with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that evenChampney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm. 

"Father Honoré, what is it? Don't take it so hard. " He laid his hand onhis shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man candecide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in myplace?"

"Oh, would to God I had!--would to God I had!" he groaned rather thanspoke. 

Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in hisself-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. Hewas realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, hehad, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; thecurtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that othersnow occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who, active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpfulwherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, afriend to all humanity because human, _his_ friend--his mother's, wassuffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without therelief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity hespoke:

"What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man--as ithas helped me?"

Father Honoré regained his control before Champney ceased questioning. 

"I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, afterwhat you have said--told me. I can preach--oh yes! But the practice--thepractice--" He wiped the sweat from his forehead. 

"What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thoughtnever to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing todo in the circumstances--it has taken the whole courage of a man; but Inever for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. Itonly goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive ofthe workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know--and findourselves utterly confounded, as I am now. " He was silent for a fewminutes, apparently deep in meditation. 

"Had I done, when I was twenty years old, as you are going to do, Ishould have had no cause to regret; all my life fails to make good inthat respect. --When I was a boy, an orphan, my heartstrings woundthemselves about a little girl in France who was kind to me. I may aswell tell you now that the thought of that child was one of the motivesthat induced me to investigate Aileen's case, when we saw her that nightat the vaudeville. "

He looked at Champney, who, at the mention of Aileen's name, had startedinvoluntarily. "You remember that night?" Champney nodded. How well heremembered it! But he gave no further sign. 

"I was destined for the priesthood later on, but that did not stifle thelove in my heart for the young girl. It was in my novitiate years. Inever dared ask myself what the outcome of it all would be; I wanted tofinish my novitiate first. I knew she loved me with a charming, open, young girl's love that in the freedom of our household life--hergrandfather was my great-uncle on my mother's side--found expression ina sisterly way; and in the circumstances I could not tell her of mylove. It was the last year of my novitiate when I discovered the factthat a young man, in the employ of her grandfather, was paying herattention with the intention of asking her of him in marriage. The merethought of the loss of her drove me half mad. I took the firstopportunity, when at home for the holidays, to tell her my love, and Ithreatened, that, if she gave herself to another, I would endall--either for myself or for him. The girl was frightened, indignant, horrified almost, at the force of the passion that was consuming me;she repelled me--that ended it; I took it for granted that she lovedthat other. I lay in wait for him one night as he was going to thehouse; taunted him; heaped upon him such abuse as makes a man another'smurderer; I goaded him into doing what I had intended. He struck me inthe face; closed with me, and I fought him; but he was wrestling with amadman. We were on the cliff at Dieppe; the night was dark;intentionally I forced him towards the edge. He struggled manfully, trying to land a blow on my head that would save him; he wrestled withme and he was a man of great strength; but I--I knew I could tire himout. It was dark--I knew when he went over the edge, but I could seenothing, I heard nothing. . . . 

"I fled; hid myself; but I was caught; held for a time awaiting theoutcome of the man's hurt. Had he died it would have been manslaughter. As it was I knew it was murder, for there had been murder in my heart. He lived, but maimed for life. The lawyer, paid for by my great-uncle, set up the plea of self-defence. I was cleared in the law, and fled toAmerica to expiate. I know now that there was but one expiation forme--to do what you are to do; plead guilty and take my punishment like aman. I failed to do it--and _I_ preach of manhood to you!"

There was silence in the room. Champney broke it and his voice wasalmost unrecognizable; it was hoarse, constrained:

"But your love was noble--you loved her with all the manhood that was inyou. "

"God knows I did; but that does not alter the fact of my consequentcrime. "

He looked again at Champney as he spoke out his conviction, and his ownemotion suffered a check in his amazement at the change in thecountenance before him. He had seen nothing like this in the thirty-twohours he had been in his presence; his jaw was set; his nostrils whiteand sharpened; the pupils of his eyes contracted to pin points; and intothe sallow cheeks, up to the forehead knotted as with intense pain, intothe sunken temples, the blood rushed with a force that threatenedphysical disaster, only to recede as quickly, leaving the face ghastlywhite, the eyelids twitching, the muscles about the mouth quivering. 

Noting all this Father Honoré read deeper still; he knew that ChampneyGooge had not told him the whole, possibly not the half--_and neverwould tell_. His next question convinced him of that. 

"May I ask what became of the young girl you loved?--Don't answer, if Iam asking too much. "

"I don't know. I have never heard from her. I can only surmise. But Idid receive a letter from her when I was in prison, before my trial--shewas summoned as witness; and oh, the infinite mercy of a loving woman'sheart!" He was silent a moment. 

"She took so much blame upon herself, telling me that she had not knownher own heart; that she tried to think she loved me as a brother; thatshe had been willing to let it go on so, and because she had not beenbrave enough to be honest with herself, all this trouble had come uponme whom she acknowledged she loved--upon her and her household. Shebegged me, if acquitted, never to see her, never to communicate with heragain. There was but one duty for us both she said, guilty as we bothwere of what had occurred to wreck a human being for life; to go each_the way apart_ forever--I mine, she hers--to expiate in good works, inloving kindness to those who might need our help. . . . 

"I have never known anything further--heard no word--made no inquiry. Atthat time, after my acquittal, my great-uncle, a well-to-do baker, settled a sum of money on the man who had been in his employ; theinterest of it would support him in his incapacity to do a man's workand earn a decent livelihood. My uncle said then I was never again todarken his doors. He desired me to leave no address; to keep secret tomyself my destination, and forever after my whereabouts. I obeyed to theletter--now enough of myself. I have told you this because, as a man, Ihad not the face to sit here in your presence and hear your decision, without showing you my respect for your courage--and I have taken thisway to show it. "

He held out his hand and Champney wrung it. "You don't know all, or youwould have no respect, " he said brokenly. 

The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they bothfelt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strainwould be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, intacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the thingsthat were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": theylaid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decisioninvolved. 

"There is one thing I cannot do, " he spoke with decision; "that is tosee my mother before my commitment--or after. It is the only thing thatwill break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to gothrough this thing. "

The priest knew better than to protest. 

"Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I willwrite her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seenme through. I want _you_ to go up with me--to the very doors; and I wantyours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: Idon't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicatewith me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term, whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as anidentity, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mothershould fall ill, write me at once. --How she will live, I don't know! Idare not think--it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; shehas you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want, and there's the house; it's in her name. "

He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go towork; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned. --I suppose theclothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over. "

He spoke indifferently and went into the adjoining bath closet whereFather Honoré, not liking to dispose of them until Champney should havespoken of them at least, had left the clothes in a bundle. He had putthe little handkerchief, discolored almost beyond recognition, in withthem. Champney came out in a few minutes. 

"They're no good, " he said. "I'll have to wear these, if I may. Ibelieve it's one of the regulations that what a man takes in of his own, is saved for him to take out, isn't it?"

"Yes. " An hour later when Father Honoré disposed of the bundle to thejanitor, he knew that Aileen's handkerchief had been abstracted--and heread still deeper into the ways of the human heart. . . . 

 * * * * *

Within ten days sentence was passed: seven years with hard labor. 

There was no appeal for mercy, and speedy commitment followed. Aparagraph in the daily papers conveyed a knowledge of the fact to theworld in general; and within ten days, the world in general, as usual, forgot the circumstance; it was only one of many. 

PART FIFTH

Shed Number Two

I

"It's a wonder ye're not married yet, Aileen, an' you twenty-six. "

It was Margaret McCann, the "Freckles" of orphan asylum days, who spoke. Her utterance was thick, owing to the quantity of pins she wasendeavoring to hold between tightly pressed lips. She was standing on achair putting up muslin curtains in her new home at The Gore, or QuarryEnd Park, as it was now named, and Aileen had come to help her. 

"It's like ye're too purticular, " she added, her first remark not havingmet with any response. She turned on the chair and looked down upon herold chum. 

She was sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of fresh-cut muslin;the latest McCann baby was tugging with might and main at her apron invain endeavor to hoist himself upon his pudgy uncertain legs. Aileen waslaughing at his efforts. Catching him suddenly in her arms, she coveredthe little soft head, already sprouting a suspicion of curly red hair, with hearty kisses; and Billy, entering into the fun, crowed andgurgled, clutching wildly at the dark head bent above him and managingnow and then, when he did not grasp too wide of the mark, to bury hischubby creased hands deep in its heavy waves. 

"Oh, Maggie, you're like all the rest! Because you've a good husband ofyour own, you think every other girl must go and do likewise. "

"Now ye're foolin', Aileen, like as you used to at the asylum. But Imind the time when Luigi was the wan b'y for you--I wonder, now, youcouldn't like him, Aileen? He's so handsome and stiddy-like, an' doin'so well. Jim says he'll be one of the rich men of the town if he kapeson as he's begun. They do say as how Dulcie Caukins'll be cuttin' youout. "

"I didn't love him, Maggie; that's reason enough. " She spoke shortly. Maggie turned again from her work to look down on her in amazement. 

"You was always that way, Aileen!" she exclaimed impatiently, "thinkin'nobody but a lord was good enough for you, an' droppin' Luigi as soon asever you got in with the Van Ostend folks; and as for 'love'--let megive you as good a piece of advice as you'll get between the risin' of aMay sun and its settin':--if you see a good man as loves you an' iswillin' to marry you, take him, an' don't you leave him the chanct toget cool over it. Ye'll love him fast enough if he's good to you--likemy Jim, " she added proudly. 

"Oh, your Jim! You're always quoting him; he isn't quite perfection evenif he is 'your Jim. '"

"An' is it parfection ye're after?" Maggie was apt in any state ofexcitement to revert in her speech to the vernacular. "'Deed an' ye'lllook till the end of yer days an' risk dyin' a downright old maid, ifit's parfection ye're after marryin' in a man! An' I don't need a gellas has niver been married to tell me my Jim ain't parfection nayther!"

Maggie resumed her work in a huff; Aileen smiled to herself. 

"I didn't mean to say anything against your husband, Maggie; I was onlyspeaking in a general way. "

"An' how could ye mane anything against me husband in a gineral or apurticular way? Sure I know he's got a temper; an' what man of annysinse hasn't, I'd like to know? An' he's not settled-like to work inanny wan place, as I'd like to have him be. But Jim's young; an' a man, he says, can't settle to anny regular work before he's thirty. He saysall the purfessional men can't get onto their feet in a business waytill they be thirty; an' stone-cuttin', Jim says, is his purfession likeas if 't was a lawyer's or a doctor's or a priest's; an' Jim says heloves it. An' there ain't a better worker nor Jim in the sheds, so theboss says; an' if he will querrel between whiles--an' I'm not denyin' hedon't--it's sure the other man's fault for doin' something mane; Jimcan't stand no maneness. He's a good worker, is Jim, an' a good husband, an' a lovin' father, an' a good provider, an' he don't drink, an' heain't the slithery kind--if he'd 'a' been that I wouldn't married him. "

There was a note of extreme authority in what Maggie in her excitementwas giving expression to. Now that Jim McCann was back and at work inthe sheds after a seven years absence, it was noted by many, who knewhis wife of old, that, in the household, it was now Mrs. McCann who hadthe right of way. She was evidently full of her subject at the presentmoment and, carried away by the earnestness of her expressedconvictions, she paid no heed to Aileen's non-responsiveness. 

"An' I'm that proud that I'm Mrs. James Patrick McCann, wid a good houseover me head, an' a good husband to pay rint that'll buy it on theinsthalment plan, an' two little gells an' a darlin' baby to fill it, that I be thankin' God whiniver Jim falls to swearin'--an' that's iveryhour in the day; but it's only a habit he can't be broke of, for FatherHonoré was after talkin' wid him, an' poor Jim was that put out widhimself, that he forgot an' swore his hardest to the priest that he'dlave off swearin' if only he knew whin he was doin' it! But he had togive up tryin', for he found himself swearin' at the baby he loved himso. An' whin he told Father Honoré the trouble he had wid himself an'the b'y, that darlin' man just smiled an' says:--'McCann, there's otherways of thankin' God for a good home, an' a lovin' wife, and a foine b'ylike yours, than tellin' yer beads an' sayin' your prayers. '--He saidthat, he did; an' I say, I'm thankin' God ivery hour in the day thatI've got a good husband to swear, an' a cellar to fill wid fuel an'potaters, an' a baby to put to me breast, an'--an'--it's the same I'mwishin' for you, me dear. "

There was a suspicious tremble in Maggie's voice as she turned again toher work. 

Aileen spoke slowly: "Indeed, I wish I had them all, Maggie; but thosethings are not for me. "

"Not for you!" Maggie dashed a tear from her eyes. "An' why not for you, I'd like to know? Isn't ivery wan sayin' ye've got the voice fit for theoppayra? An' isn't all the children an' the quarrymen just mad over yerteachin' an' singin'? An' look at what yer know an' can do! Didn't wanof the Sisters tell me the other day: 'Mrs. McCann, ' says she, 'AileenArmagh is an expurrt in embroidery, an' could earn her livin' by it. 'An' wasn't Mrs. Caukins after praisin' yer cookin' an' sayin' you beatthe whole Gore on yer doughnuts? An' didn't the Sisters come askin' methe other day if I had your receipt for the milk-rice? Jim says there'sa man for ivery woman if she did but know it. --There now, I'm glad tosee yer smilin' an' lookin' like yer old self! Just tell me if thecurtains be up straight? Jim can't abide annything that ain't on thesquare. Straight, be they?"

"Yes, straight as a string, " said Aileen, laughing outright at Freckles'eloquence--the eloquence of one who was wont to be slow of speech beforematrimony loosened her tongue and home love taught her the right word inthe right place. 

"Straight, is it? Then I'll mount down an' we'll sit out in the kitchenan' hem the rest. It's Doosie Caukins has begged the loan of the twolittle gells for the afternoon. The twins seem to me most like myown--rale downright swate gells, an' it's hopin' I am they'll do wellwhen it' comes to their marryin'. "

Aileen laughed merrily at the matrimonial persistence of her old chum'sthoughts. 

"Oh, Maggie, you are an incorrigible matchmaker!"

She picked up the baby and the yards of muslin she had been measuringfor window lengths; leaving Maggie to follow, she went out into thekitchen and deposited Billy in the basket-crib beside her chair. Maggiejoined her in a few minutes. 

"It seems like old times for you an' me to be chattin' together again sofriendly-like--put a finger's length into the hem of the long ones; doyou remember when Sister Angelica an' you an' me was cuddled together towatch thim dance the minute over at the Van Ostends'?--Och, youdarlin'!"

She rose from her chair and caught up the baby who was holding out botharms to her and trying in his semi-articulate way to indicate hispreference of her lap to the basket. 

"What fun we had!" Aileen spoke half-heartedly; the mention of that nameintensified the pain of an ever present thought. 

"An' did ye read her marriage in the papers, I guess 't was a yeargone?"

Aileen nodded. 

"Jim read it out to me wan night after supper, an' I got so homesick ofa suddin' for the Caukinses, an' you, an' the quarries, an' Mrs. Googe--it was before me b'y come--that I fell to cryin' an' nearly criedme eyes out; an' Jim promised me then and there he'd come back toFlamsted for good and all. But he couldn't help sayin': 'What the divilare ye cryin' about, Maggie gell? I was readin' of the weddin' to ye, and thinkin' to hearten ye up a bit, an' here ye be cryin' fit to breakyer heart, an' takin' on as if ye'd niver had a weddin' all by yerself!'An' that made me laugh; but, afterwards, I fell to cryin' the harder, an' told him I couldn't help it, for I'd got such a good lovin' husband, an' me an orphan as had nobody--

"An' then I stopped, for Jim took me in his arms--he was in therockin'-chair--and rocked back an' forth wid me like a mother does wid asix-months' child, an' kept croonin' an' croonin' till I fell asleep widmy head on his shoulder--" Mrs. McCann drew a long breath--"Och, Aileen, it's beautiful to be married!"

For a while the two worked in silence, broken only by little BillyMcCann, who was blissfully gurgling emphatic endorsement of everythinghis mother said. The bright sunshine of February filled the barren Gorefull to the brim with sparkling light. From time to time the sharpcrescendo _sz-szz-szzz_ of the trolleys, that now ran from The Cornersto Quarry End Park at the head of The Gore, teased the still cold air. Maggie was in a reminiscent mood, being wrought upon unwittingly by thesunny quiet and homey kitchen warmth. She looked over the head of herbaby to Aileen. 

"Do you remember the B'y who danced with the Marchioness, and when theywas through stood head downwards with his slippers kicking in the air?"

"Yes, and the butler, and how he hung on to his coat-tails!"

Maggie laughed. "I wonder now could it be _the_ B'y--I mane the man shemarried?"

Aileen looked up from her work. "Yes, he's the one. "

"An' how did you know that?" Maggie asked in some surprise. 

"Mrs. Champney told me--and then I knew she liked him. "

"Who, the Marchioness?"

"Yes; I knew by the way she wrote about him that she liked him. "

"Well, now, who'd 'a' thought that! The very same B'y!" she exclaimed, at the same time looking puzzled as if not quite grasping the situation. "Why, I thought--I guess 't was Romanzo wrote me just about thattime--that she was in love with Mr. Champney Googe. " Her voice sank to awhisper on the last words. "Wouldn't it have been just awful if shehad!"

"She might have done a worse thing than to love him. " Aileen's voice washard in spite of her effort to speak naturally. 

Maggie broke forth in protest. 

"Now, how can you say that, Aileen! What would the poor gell's life havebeen worth married to a man that's in for seven years! Jim says when hecomes out he can't niver vote again for prisident, an' it's ten chanctto wan that he'll get a job. "

In her earnestness she failed to notice that Aileen's face had borrowedits whiteness from the muslin over which she was bending. 

"Aileen--"

"Yes, Maggie. "

"I'm goin' to tell you something. Jim told me the other day; he wouldn'tmind my tellin' you, but he says he don't want anny wan of the fam'ly toget wind of it. "

"What is it?" Aileen looked up half fearfully. 

"Gracious, you look as if you'd seen a ghost! 'T isn't annything so raledreadful, but it gives you a kind of onaisy feelin' round your heart. "

"What is it? Tell me quick. " She spoke again peremptorily in order tocover her fear. Maggie looked at her wonderingly, and thought to herselfthat Aileen had changed beyond her knowledge. 

"There was a man Jim knew in the other quarries we was at, who got putinto that same prison for two years--for breakin' an' enterin'--an' Jimsee him not long ago; an' when Jim told him where he was workin' the mansaid just before he was comin' out, Mr. Googe come in, an' he see him_breakin' stones wid a prison gang_--rale toughs; think of that, an' hea gentleman born! Jim said that was tough; he says it's back-breakin'work; that quarryin' an' cuttin' ain't nothin' to that--ten hours a day, too. My heart's like to break for Mrs. Googe. I think of it ivery time Isee her now; an' just look how she's workin' her fingers to the bone tosupport herself widout help! Mrs. Caukins says she's got seventeenmealers among the quarrymen now, an' there'll be more next spring. Whatdo you s'pose her son would say to that?"

She pressed her own boy a little more closely to her breast; the youngmother's heart was stirred within her. "Mrs. Caukins says Mrs. Champneycould help her an' save her lots, but she won't; she's no mind to. "

"I don't believe Mrs. Googe would accept any help from Mrs. Champney--and I don't blame her, either. I'd rather starve than bebeholden to her!" The blood rushed into the face bent over the muslin. 

"Why don't you lave her, Aileen? I would--the stingy old screw!"

Aileen folded her work and laid it aside before she answered. 

"I _am_ going soon, Maggie; I've stood it about as many years as Ican--"

"Oh, but I'm glad! It'll be like gettin' out of the jail yerself, forall you've made believe you've lived in a palace--but ye're niver goin'so early?" she protested earnestly. 

"Yes, I must, Maggie. You are not to tell anyone what I've said aboutleaving Mrs. Champney--not even Jim. "

Maggie's face fell. "Dear knows, I can promise you not to tell Jim; butit's like I'll be tellin' him in me slape. It's a trick I have, he says, whin I'm tryin' to kape something from him. "

She laughed happily, and bade Billy "shake a day-day" to the prettylady; which behest Billy, half turning his rosy little face from thematernal fount, obeyed perfunctorily and then, smiling, closed hissleepy eyes upon his mother's breast. 

II

Aileen took that picture of intimate love and warmth with her out intothe keen frosty air of late February. But its effect was not to soften, to warm; it hardened rather. The thought of Maggie with her baby boy ather breast, of her cosy home, her loyalty to her husband and her lovefor him, of her thankfulness for the daily mercy of the wherewithal tofeed the home mouths, reacted sharply, harshly, upon the mood she wasin; for with the thought of that family life and family ties--the symbolof all that is sane and fruitful of the highest good in ourhumanity--was associated by extreme contrast another thought:--

"And _he_ is breaking stones with a 'gang of toughs'--breaking stones!Not for the sake of the pittance that will procure for him his dailybread, but because he is forced to the toil like any galley slave. Theprison walls are frowning behind him; the prison cell is his only home;the tin pan of coarse food, which is handed to him as he lines up withhundreds of others after the day's work, is the only substitute for thewarm home-hearth, the lighted supper table, the merry give-and-take offamily life that eases a man after his day's toil. "

Her very soul was in rebellion. 

She stopped short and looked about her. She was on the road to FatherHonoré's house. It was just four o'clock, for the long whistle wassounding from the stone sheds down in the valley. She saw the quarrymenstart homewards. Dark irregular files of them began crawling up over thegranite ledges, many of which were lightly covered with snow. Althoughit was February, the winter was mild for this latitude, and the twelvehundred men in The Gore had lost but a few days during the last threemonths on account of the weather. Work had been plenty, and the springpromised, so the manager said, a rush of business. She watched them fora while. 

"And they are going to their homes--and he is still breaking stones!"Her thoughts revolved about that one fact. 

A sudden rush of tears blinded her; she drew her breath hard. What ifshe were to go to Father Honoré and tell him something of her trouble?Would it help? Would it ease the intolerable pain at her heart, lessenthe load on her mind?

She dared not answer, dared not think about it. Involuntarily shestarted forward at a quick pace towards the stone house over by thepines--a distance of a quarter of a mile. 

The sun was nearing the rim of the Flamsted Hills. Far beyond them, themighty shoulder of Katahdin, mantled with white, caught the red gleamand lent to the deep blue of the northern heavens a faint rosereflection of the setting sun. The children, just from school, wereshouting at their rough play--snow-balling, sledding, skating andtobogganning on that portion of the pond which had been cleared of snow. The great derricks on the ledges creaked and groaned as the remainingmen made all fast for the night; like a gigantic cobweb their supportingwires stretched thick, enmeshed, and finely dark over the white expanseof the quarries. From the power-house a column of steam rose straightand steady into the windless air. 

Hurrying on, Aileen looked upon it with set lips and a hardening heart. She had come to hate, almost, the sight of this life of free toil forthe sake of love and home. 

It was a woman who was thinking these thoughts in her rapid walk to thepriest's house--a woman of twenty-six who for more than seven years hadsuffered in silence; suffered over and over again the humiliation thathad been put upon her womanhood; who, despite that humiliation, couldnot divest herself of the idea that she still clung to her girlhood'slove for the man who had humiliated her. She told herself again andagain that she was idealizing that first feeling for him, instead ofaccepting the fact that, as a woman, she would be incapable, if thecircumstances were to repeat themselves now, of experiencing it. 

Since that fateful night in The Gore, Champney Googe's name had nevervoluntarily passed her lips. So far as she knew, no one so much assuspected that she was a factor in his escape--for Luigi had kept hersecret. Sometimes when she felt, rather than saw, Father Honoré's eyesfixed upon her in troubled questioning, the blood would rush to hercheeks and she could but wonder in dumb misery if Champney had told himanything concerning her during those ten days in New York. 

For six years there had been a veil, as it were, drawn between thelovely relations that had previously existed between Father Honoré andthis firstling of his flock in Flamsted. For a year after his experiencewith Champney Googe in New York, he waited for some sign from Aileenthat she was ready to open her heart to him; to clear up the mystery ofthe handkerchief; to free herself from what was evidently troubling her, wearing upon her, changing her in disposition--but not for the better. Aileen gave no sign. Another year passed, but Aileen gave no sign, andFather Honoré was still waiting. 

The priest did not believe in forcing open the portals to the secretchambers of the human heart. He respected the individual soul and itsworkings as a part of the divinely organized human. He believed that, intime, Aileen would come to him of her own accord and seek the help sheso sorely needed. Meanwhile, he determined to await patiently thefulness of that time. He had waited already six years. 

 * * * * *

He was looking over and arranging some large photographs ofcathedrals--Cologne, Amiens, Westminster, Mayence, St. Mark's, Chester, and York--and the detail of nave, chancel, and choir. One showed theexquisite sculpture on a flying buttress; another the carving of achoir-stall canopy; a third the figure-crowded façade of a westernporch. Here was the famous rose window in the Antwerp transept; thestatue of one of the apostles in Naumburg; the nave of Cologne; theconglomerate of chapels about the apse of Mayence; the Angel's Pillar atStrasburg--they were a joy in line and proportion to the eye, in effectand spirit of purpose to the understanding mind, the receptive soul. 

Father Honoré was revelling in the thought of the men's appreciativedelight when he should show them these lovely stones--across-the-sea kinto their own quarry granite. His semi-monthly talks with the quarrymenand stone-cutters were assuming, after many years, the proportions oflectures on art and scientific themes. Already many a professor fromsome far-away university had accepted his invitation to give of his bestto the granite men of Maine. Rarely had they found a more fitting orappreciative audience. 

"How divine!" he murmured to himself, his eyes dwelling lovingly--at thesame time his pencil was making notes--on the 'Prentice Pillar in RoslynChapel. Then he smiled at the thought of the contrast it offered to hisown chapel in the meadows by the lake shore. In that, every stone, as inthe making of the Tabernacle of old, had been a free-will offering fromthe men--each laid in its place by a willing worker; and, becausewilling, the rough walls were as eloquent of earnest endeavor as thefamed 'Prentice Pillar itself. 

"I'd like to see such a one as this in our chapel!" He was talking tohimself as was his way when alone. "I believe Luigi Poggi, if he hadkept on in the sheds, would in time have given this a close second. "

He took up the magnifying glass to examine the curled edges of the stonekale leaves. 

There was a knock at the door. 

He hastily placed the photographs in a long box beside the table, and, instead of saying "Come in, " stepped to the door and opened it. 

Aileen stood there. The look in her eyes as she raised them to his, andsaid in a subdued voice, "Father Honoré, can you spare me a little time, all to myself?" gave him hope that the fulness of time was come. 

"I always have time for you, Aileen; come in. I'll start up the fire abit; it's growing much colder. "

He laid the wood on the hearth, and with the bellows blew it to aleaping flame. While he was thus occupied, Aileen looked around her. Sheknew this room and loved it. 

The stone fireplace was deep and ample, built by Father Honoré, --indeed, the entire one storey house was his handiwork. Above it hung a largewooden crucifix. On the shelf beneath were ranged some superb specimensof quartz and granite. The plain deal table, also of ample proportions, was piled at one end high with books and pamphlets. Two large windowsoverlooked the pond, the sloping depression of The Gore, the course ofthe Rothel, and the headwaters of Lake Mesantic. Some plain woodenarmchairs were set against the walls that had been rough plastered andwashed with burnt sienna brown. On them was hung an exquisiteengraving--the Sistine Madonna and Child. There were also a fewetchings, among them a copy of Whistler's _The Thames by London Bridge_, and a view of Niagara by moonlight. A mineral cabinet, filled tooverflowing with fine specimens, extended the entire length of one wall. The pine floor was oiled and stained; large hooked rugs, genuineproducts of Maine, lay here and there upon it. 

Many a man coming in from the quarries or the sheds with a grievance, aburden, or a joy, felt the influence of this simple room. Many a womanbrought here her heavy over-charged heart and was eased in itsfire-lighted atmosphere of welcome. Many a child brought hither itsspring offering of the first mitchella, or its autumn gift ofcheckerberries. Many a girl, many a boy had met here to rehearse aChristmas glee or an Easter anthem. Many a night these walls echoed tothe strains of the priest's violin, when he sat alone by the firesidewith only the Past for a guest. And these combined influences lingeredin the room, mellowed it, hallowed it, and made themselves felt to oneand all as beneficent--even as now to Aileen. 

Father Honoré placed two of the wooden chairs before the blazing fire. Aileen took one. 

"Draw up a little nearer, Aileen; you look chilled. " He noticed herextreme pallor and the slight trembling of her shoulders. 

She glanced out of the window at some quarrymen who were passing. 

"You don't think we shall be interrupted, do you?" she asked rathernervously. 

"Oh, no. I'll just step to the kitchen and give a word to Thérčse. Sheis a good watchdog when I am not to be disturbed. " He opened a door atthe back of the room. 

"Thérčse. "

"On y va. "

An old French Canadian appeared in answer to his call. He addressed herin French. 

"If any one should knock, Thérčse, just step to the kitchen porch doorand say that I am engaged for an hour, at least. "

"Oui, oui, Pčre Honoré. "

He closed the door. 

"There, now you can have your chat 'all to yourself' as you requested, "he said smiling. He sat down in the other chair he had drawn to thefire. 

"I've been over to Maggie's this afternoon--"

She hesitated; it was not easy to find an opening for her long penttrouble. 

Father Honoré spread his hands to the blaze. 

"She has a fine boy. I'm glad McCann is back again, and I hope anchoredhere for life. He's trying to buy his home he tells me. "

"So Maggie said--Father Honoré;" she clasped and unclasped her handsnervously; "I think it's that that has made me come to you to-day. "

"That?--I think I don't quite understand, Aileen. "

"The home--I think I never felt so alone--so homeless as when I wasthere with her--and the baby--"

She looked down, struggling to keep back the tears. Despite her effortsthe bright drops plashed one after the other on her clasped hands. Sheraised her eyes, looking almost defiantly through the falling tears atthe priest; the blood surged into her white cheeks; the rush of wordsfollowed:--

"I have no home--I've never had one--never shall have one--it's not forme, that paradise; it's for men and women like Jim McCann andMaggie. --Oh, why did I come here!" she cried out wildly; "why did youput me there in that house?--Why didn't Mr. Van Ostend let me alonewhere I was--happy with the rest! Why, " she demanded almost fiercely, "why can't a child's life be her own to do with what she chooses? Whyhas any human being a right to say to another, whether young or old, 'You shall live here and not there'? Oh, it is tyrannical--it is tyrannyof the worst kind, and what haven't I had to suffer from it all! It islike Hell on earth!"

Her breath caught in great sobs that shook her; her eyes flashed throughblinding tears; her cheeks were crimson; she continued to clasp andunclasp her hands. 

The peculiar ivory tint of the strong pock-marked face opposite her tookon, during this outburst, a slightly livid hue. Every word she utteredwas a blow; for in it was voiced misery of mind, suffering and hardnessof heart, despair, ingratitude, undeserved reproach, anger, defiance andthe ignoring of all facts save those in the recollection of which shehad lost all poise, all control--And she was still so young! What wasbehind these facts that occasioned such a tirade?

This was the priest's problem. 

He waited a moment to regain his own control. The ingratitude, thebitter injustice had shocked him out of it. Her mood seemed one ofdefiance only. The woman before him was one he had never known in theAileen Armagh of the last fourteen years. He knew, moreover, that hemust not speak--dare not, as a sacred obligation to his office, until heno longer felt the touch of anger he experienced upon hearing herunrestrained outburst. It was but a moment before that touch wasremoved; his heart softened towards her; filled suddenly with a pityinglove, for with his mind's eye he saw the small blood-stainedhandkerchief in his hand, the initials A. A. , the man on the cot fromwhose arm he had taken it more than six years before. Six years! How shemust have suffered--and in silence!

"Aileen, " he said at last and very gently, "whatever was done for you atthat time was done with the best intentions for your good. Believe me, could Mr. Van Ostend and I have foreseen such resulting wretchedness asthis for our efforts, we should never have insisted on carrying out ourplan for you. But, like yourself, we are human--we could not foreseethis any more than you could. There is, however, one course always opento you--"

"What?" she demanded; her voice was harsh from continued struggle withher complex emotions. She was past all realization of what she owed tothe dignity of his office. 

"You have long been of age; you are at liberty to leave Mrs. Champneywhenever you will. "

"I am going to. " The response came prompt and hard. 

"And what then?"

"I don't know--yet--;" her speech faltered; "but I want to try thestage. Every one says I have the voice for it, and I suppose I couldmake a hit in light operetta or vaudeville as well now as when I was achild. A few years more and I shall be too old. "

"And you think you can enter into such publicity without protection?"

"Oh, I'm able to protect myself--I've done that already. " She spoke withbitterness. 

"True, you are a woman now--but still a young woman--"

Father Honoré stopped there. He was making no headway with her. He knewonly too well that, as yet, he had not begun to get beneath the surface. When he spoke it was as if he were merely thinking aloud. 

"Somehow, I hadn't thought that you would be so ready to leave usall--so many friends. Are we nothing to you, Aileen? Will you makebetter, truer ones among strangers? I can hardly think so. "

She covered her face with her hands and began to sob again, butbrokenly. 

"Aileen, my daughter, what is it? Is there any new trouble preparing foryou at The Bow?"

She shook her head. The tears trickled through her fingers. 

"Does Mrs. Champney know that you are going to leave her?"

"No. "

"Has it become unbearable?"

Another shake of the head. She searched blindly for her handkerchief, drew it forth and wiped her eyes and face. 

"No; she's kinder than she's been for a long time--ever since that laststroke. She wants me with her most of the time. "

"Has she ever spoken to you about remaining with her?"

"Yes, a good many times. She tried to make me promise I would staytill--till she doesn't need me. But, I couldn't, you know. "

"Then why--but of course I know you are worn out by her long invalidismand tired of the fourteen years in that one house. Still, she has beenlenient since you were twenty-one. She has permitted you--although ofcourse you had the undisputed right--to earn for yourself in teachingthe singing classes in the afternoon and evening school, and she paysyou something beside--fairly well, doesn't she? I think you told me youwere satisfied. "

"Oh yes, in a way--so far as it goes. She doesn't begin to pay me as shewould have to pay another girl in my position--if I have any there. Ihaven't said anything about it to her, because I wanted to work off myindebtedness to her on account of what she spent on me in bringing meup--she never let me forget that in those first seven years! I want togive more than I've had, " she said proudly, "and sometime I shall tellher of it. "

"But you have never given her any love?"

"No, I couldn't give her that. --Do you blame me?"

"No; you have done your whole duty by her. May I suggest that when youleave her you still make your home with us here in Flamsted? You have noother home, my child. "

"No, I have no other home, " she repeated mechanically. 

"I know, at least, two that are open to you at any time you choose toavail yourself of their hospitality. Mrs. Caukins would be so glad tohave you both for her daughters' sake and her own. The Colonel desiresthis as much as she does and--" he hesitated a moment, "now that Romanzohas his position in the New York office, and has married and settledthere, there could be no objection so far as I can see. "

There was no response. 

"But if you do not care to consider that, there is another. About sevenmonths ago, Mrs. Googe--"

"Mrs. Googe?"

She turned to him a face from which every particle of color had faded. 

"Yes, Mrs. Googe. She would have spoken to you herself long before this, but, you know, Aileen, how she would feel in the circumstances--shewould not think of suggesting your coming to her from Mrs. Champney. Ifeel sure she is waiting for you to take the initiative. "

"Mrs. Googe?" she repeated, continuing to stare at him--blankly, as ifshe had heard but those two words of all that he was saying. 

"Why, yes, Mrs. Googe. Is there anything so strange in that? She hasalways loved you, and she said to me, only the other day, 'I would loveto have her young companionship in my house'--she will never call ithome, you know, until her son returns--'to be as a daughter to me'--"

"Daughter!--I--want air--"

She swayed forward in speaking. Father Honoré sprang and caught her orshe would have fallen. He placed her firmly against the chair back andopened the window. The keen night air charged with frost quickly revivedher. 

"You were sitting too near the fire; I should have remembered that youhad come in from the cold, " he said, delicately regarding her feelings;"let me get you a glass of water, Aileen. "

She put out her hand with a gesture of dissent. She began to breathefreely. The room chilled rapidly. Father Honoré closed the window andtook his stand on the hearth. Aileen raised her eyes to him. It seemedas if she lifted the swollen reddened lids with difficulty. 

"Father Honoré, " she said in a low voice, tense with suppressed feeling, "dear Father Honoré, the only father I have ever known, don't you know_why_ I cannot go to Mrs. Googe's?--why I must not stay too long inFlamsted?"

And looking into those eyes, that were incapable of insincerity, that, in the present instance, attempted to veil nothing, the priest read allthat of which, six years ago on that never to be forgotten Novembernight in New York, he had had premonition. 

"My daughter--is it because of Champney's prospective return within ayear that you feel you cannot remain longer with us?"

Her quivering lips gave an almost inaudible assent. 

"Why?" He dared not spare her; he felt, moreover, that she did not wishto be spared. His eyes held hers. 

Bravely she answered, bracing soul and mind and body to steadfastness. There was not a wavering of an eyelid, not a suggestion of falteringspeech as she spoke the words that alone could lift from heroverburdened heart the weight of a seven years' silence:

"Because I love him. "

The answer seemed to Father Honoré supreme in its sacrificialsimplicity. He laid his hand on her head. She bowed beneath his touch. 

"I have tried so hard, " she murmured, "so hard--and I cannot help it. Ihave despised myself for it--if only he hadn't been put _there_, I thinkit would have helped--but he is there, and my thoughts are with himthere--I see him nights--in that cell--I see him daytimes _breakingstones_--I can't sleep, or eat, without comparing--you know. Oh, if hehadn't been put _there_, I could have conquered this weakness--"

"Aileen, _no_! It is no weakness, it is strength. "

Father Honoré withdrew his hand, that had been to the broken woman asilent benediction, and walked up and down the long room. "You wouldnever have conquered; there was--there is no need to conquer. Such loveis of God--trust it, my child; don't try any longer to thrust it forthfrom your heart, your life; for if you do, your life will be but a poormaimed thing, beneficial neither to yourself nor to others. I say, cherish this supreme love for the man who is expiating in a prison; holdit close to your soul as a shield and buckler to the spirit against theworld; truly, you will need no other if you go forth from us into aworld of strangers--but why, why need you go?"

He spoke gently, but insistently. He saw that the girl was hanging uponhis every word as if he bespoke her eternal salvation. And, in truth, the priest was illumining the dark and hidden places of her life andgiving her courage to love on which, to her, meant courage to liveon. --Such were the demands of a nature, loyal, impulsive, warmlyaffectionate, sincere, capable of an all-sacrificing love that couldgive without return if need be, but a nature which, without lovedeveloping in her of itself just for the sake of love, would shrivel, become embittered, and like withered fruit on a tree drop useless to theground to be trodden under the careless foot of man. 

In the darkening room the firelight leaped and showed to Father Honoréthe woman's face transfigured under the powerful influence of his words. She smiled up at him--a smile so brave in its pathos, so winning in itstrue womanliness, that Father Honoré felt the tears bite his eyeballs. 

"Perhaps I don't need to go then. "

"This rejoices me, Aileen--it will rejoice us all, " he answered heartilyto cover his emotion. 

"But it won't be easy to stay where I am. "

"I know--I know; you speak as one who has suffered; but has not Champneysuffered too? Think of his home-coming!"

"Yes, he has suffered--in a way--but not my way. "

Father Honoré had a vision at that moment of Champney Googe's face whenhe said, "But you loved her with your whole manhood. " He made no reply, but waited for Aileen to say more if she should so choose. 

"I believed he loved me--and so I told him my love--I shall never, neverget over that!" she exclaimed passionately. "But I know now--I knewbefore he went away the last time, that I was mistaken; no man couldsay what he did and know even the first letter of love. "

Her indignation was rising, and Father Honoré welcomed it; it was anatural trait with her, and its suppression gave him more cause foranxiety than its expression. 

"He didn't love me--not really--"

"Are you sure of this, Aileen?"

"Yes, I am sure. "

"You have good reason to know that you are telling a fact in assertingthis?"

"Yes, altogether too good a reason. " There was a return of bitterness inher answer. 

Father Honoré was baffled. Aileen spoke without further questioning. Evidently she was desirous of making her position as well as Champney'splain to him and to herself. Her voice grew more gentle as shecontinued:--

"Father Honoré, I've loved him so long--and so truly, without hope, youknow--never any hope, and hating myself for loving where I was notloved--that I think I do know what love is--"

Father Honoré smiled to himself in the half-dark; this voice was stillyoung, and its love-wisdom was young-wise, also. There was hope, he toldhimself, that all would come right in the end--work together for good. 

"But Mr. Googe never loved me as I loved him--and I couldn't acceptless. "

The priest caught but the lesser part of her meaning. Even his wisdomand years failed to throw light on the devious path of Aileen's thoughtsat this moment. Of the truth contained in her expression, he had noinkling. 

"Aileen, I don't know that I can make it plain to you, but--a man'slove is so different from a woman's that, sometimes, I think such astatement as you have just made is so full of flaws that it amounts tosophistry; but there is no need to discuss that. --Let me ask you if youcan endure to stay on with Mrs. Champney for a few months longer? I havea very special reason for asking this. Sometime I will tell you. "

"Oh, yes;" she spoke wearily, indifferently; "I may as well stay thereas anywhere now. " Then with more interest and animation, "May I tell yousomething I have kept to myself all these years? I want to get rid ofit. "

"Surely--the more the better when the heart is burdened. "

He took his seat again, and with pitying love and ever increasinginterest and amazement listened to her recital of the part she played onthat October night in the quarry woods--of her hate that turned to loveagain when she found the man she had both loved and hated in the extremeof need, of the 'murder'--so she termed it in her contrition--of Rag, ofher swearing Luigi to silence. She told of herself--but of ChampneyGooge's unmanly temptation of her honor, of his mad passion for her, shesaid never a word; her two pronounced traits of chastity and loyaltyforbade it, as well as the desire of a loving woman to shield him sheloved in spite of herself. 

Of the little handkerchief that played its part in that night'sthreatened tragedy she said nothing--neither did Father Honoré;evidently, she had forgotten it. 

Suddenly she clasped her hands hard over her heart. 

"That dear loving little dog's death has lain here like a stone allthese years, " she said, and rose to go. 

"You are absolved, Aileen, " he said smiling. "It was, like many others, a little devoted life sacrificed to a great love. "

He reached to press the button that turned on the electric lights. Theirsoft brilliance caught in sparkling gleams on the points of a smallpiece of almost pure white granite among the specimens on the shelfabove them. Father Honoré rose and took it from its place. 

"This is for you, Aileen, " he said handing it to her. 

"For me?" She looked at him in wonder, not understanding what he meantby this insignificant gift at such a time. 

He smiled at her look of amazement. 

"No wonder you look puzzled. You must be thinking you have 'asked me forbread and I am giving you a stone. ' But this is for remembrance. "

He hesitated a moment. 

"You said once this afternoon, that for years it had been a hell onearth for you--a strong expression to fall from a young woman's lips;and I said nothing. Sometime, perhaps, you will see things differently. But if I said nothing, it was only because I thought the more; for justas you spoke those words, my eye caught the glitter of this piece ofgranite in the firelight, and I said to myself--'that is like whatAileen's life will be, and through her life what her character willprove to be. ' This stone has been crushed, subjected to unimaginableheat, upheaved, submerged, ground again to powder, remelted, overwhelmed, made adamant, rent, upheaved again, --and now, after ćons, it lies here so near the blue above our Flamsted Hills, worthy to beused and put to all noble uses; fittest in all the world for foundationstone--for it is the foundation rock of our earth crust--for alllasting memorials of great deed and noble thought; for all temples andholies of holies. Take it, Aileen, and--remember!"

"I will, oh, I will; and I'll try to fit myself, too; I'll try, dear, dear Father Honoré, " she said humbly, gratefully. 

He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. He opened the door. 

"Good night, Aileen, and God bless you. "

"Good night, Father Honoré. "

She went out into the clear winter starlight. The piece of granite, sheheld tightly clasped in her hand. 

 * * * * *

The priest, after closing the door, went to the pine table and opening adrawer took out a letter. It bore a recent date. It was from thechaplain of the prison and informed him there was a strong prospect ofrelease for Champney Googe at least three months before the end of histerm. Father Honoré smiled to himself. He refolded it and laid it in thedrawer. 

III

Early in the following March, on the arrival of the 3 P. M. Train fromHallsport, there was the usual crowd at The Corners' station to meet it. They watched the passengers as they left the train and commented freelyon one and another known to them. 

"I'll bet that's the new boss at the upper quarries, " said one, pointingto a short thickset man making his way up the platform. 

"Yes, that's him; and they're taking on a gang of new men with him;they're in the last car--there they come! There's going to be a regularspring freshet of 'em coming along now--the business is booming. "

They scanned the men closely as they passed, between twenty and thirtyof them of various nationalities. They were gesticulating wildly, vociferating loudly, shouldering bundle, knapsack or tool-kit. Behindthem came a few stone-cutters, mostly Scotch and Irish. The last toleave the train was evidently an American. 

The crowd on the platform surged away to the electric car to watchfurther proceedings of the newly arrived "gang. " The arrival of theimmigrant workmen always afforded fun for the natives. The men shiveredand hunched their shoulders; the raw March wind was searching. Thegesticulating and vociferating increased. To any one unacquainted withforeign ways, a complete rupture of international peace and relationsseemed imminent. They tumbled over one another into the cars and filledthem to overflowing, even to the platform where they clung to theguards. 

The man who had been the last to leave the train stood on the emptiedplatform and looked about him. He carried a small bundle. He noted thesign on the electric cars, "To Quarry End Park". A puzzled look cameinto his face. He turned to the baggage-master who was wrestling withthe immigrants' baggage:--iron-bound chests, tin boxes and trunks, sacksof heavy coarse linen filled with bedding. 

"Does this car go to the sheds?"

The station master looked up. "It goes past there, but this is theregular half-hour express for the quarries and the Park. You a strangerin these parts?"

"This is all strange to me, " the man answered. 

"Any baggage?"

"No. "

At that moment there was a rapid clanging of the gong; the motorman letfly the whirling rod; the over full cars started with a jerk--there wasa howl, a shout, followed by a struggle to keep the equilibrium; anundersized Canuck was seen to be running madly alongside with one handon the guard and endeavoring to get a foothold; he was hauled upunceremoniously by a dozen hands. The crowd watching them, cheered andjeered:

"Goin' it some, Antoine! Don't get left!"

"Keep on your pins, you Dagos!"

"Steady, Polacks--there's the strap!"

"Gee up, Johnny!" This to the motorman. 

"Gosh, it's like a soda bottle fizzin' to hear them Rooshians talkin'. "

"Hooray for you!"

The cars were off swiftly now; the men on the platforms waved theirhats, their white teeth flashing, their gold earrings twinkling, andechoed the American cheer:--

"Horray!"

The station master turned away laughing. 

"They look like a tough crowd, but they're O. K. In the end, " he said tothe man beside him who was looking after the vanishing car and itstrailer. "There's yours coming down the switch. That'll take you up toFlamsted and the sheds. " He pushed the loaded truck up the platform. 

The stranger entered the car and took a seat at the rear; there were noother passengers. He told the conductor to leave him as near as possibleto the sheds. 

"Guess you don't know these parts?" The conductor put the question. 

"This here is new to me, " the man answered; he seemed nothing loath toenter into conversation. "When was this road built?"

"'Bout five years ago. You'll see what a roadway they've made clearalong the north shore of the lake; it's bein' built up with houses justas fast as it's taken up. "

He rang the starting bell. The car gathered headway and sped noisilyalong the frozen road-bed. In a few minutes it stopped at the Flamstedstation; then it followed the shore of the lake for two miles until itreached the sheds. It stopped here and the man got out. 

"Can you tell me where the manager's office is?" he asked a workman whowas passing. 

"Over there. " He pointed with his thumb backwards across some railroadtracks and through a stone-yard to a small two-storey office building atthe end of three huge sheds. 

The man made his way across to them. Once he stopped to look at theleaden waters of the lake, rimmed with ice; and up at the leaden skythat seemed to be shutting down close upon them like a lid; and aroundat the gray waste of frozen ground, the meadows covered lightly withsnow and pools of surface ice that here and there showed the longbleached grass pricking through in grayish-yellow tufts. Beyond themeadows he saw a rude stone chapel, and near by the foundations, cappedwith wood, of a large church. He shivered once; he had no overcoat. Thenhe went on to the manager's office. He rang and opened the door. 

"Can I see the manager?"

"He's out now; gone over to the engine-house to see about the new smokestack; he'll be back in a few minutes. Guess you'll find a stool in theother room. "

The man entered the room, but remained standing, listening withincreasing interest to the technical talk of the other two men who werehalf lying on the table as they bent over some large plans--anarchitect's blue prints. Finally the man drew near. 

"May I look too?" he asked. 

"Sure. These are the working plans for the new Episcopal cathedral atA. ;" he named a well known city; "you've heard of it, I s'pose?"

The man shook his head. 

"Here for a job?"

"Yes. Is all this work to be done by the company?"

"Every stone. We got the contract eleven months ago. We're at work onthese courses now. " He turned the plates that the man might see. 

He bent over to examine them, noting the wonderful detail of arch andarchitrave, of keystone, cornice and foundation course. Each stone, varying in size and shape, was drawn with utmost accuracy, dimensionsgiven, numbered with its own number for the place of its setting intothe perfect whole. The stability of the whole giant structure wasdependent upon the perfection and right placing of each individual stonefrom lowest foundation to the keystones of the vaulting arches of thenave; the harmony of design dependent on rightly maintained proportionsof each granite block, large or small--and all this marvellous structurewas the product of the rude granite veins in The Gore! That adamantinemixture of gneiss and quartz, prepared in nature's laboratory throughoutmillions of years, was now furnishing the rock which, beneath humanmanipulation, was flowering into the great cathedral! And that perfectwhole was _ideaed_ first in the brain of man, and a sketch of ittransferred by the sun itself to the blue paper which lay on the table!

What a combination and transmutation of those forceful powers thatoriginate in the Unnamable!

The manager entered, passed into the next room and, sitting down at hisdesk, began to make notes on a pad. At a sign from the two men, thestranger followed him, cap in hand. 

The manager spoke without looking at him:--"Well?"

"I'd like a job in the sheds. "

At the sound of that voice, the manager glanced up quickly, keenly. Hesaw before him a man evidently prematurely gray. The broad shouldersbowed slightly as if from long-continued work involving much stooping. He looked at the hands; they were rough, calloused with toil, theknuckles spread, the nails broken and worn. Then he looked again intothe face; that puzzled him. It was smooth-shaven, square in outline andrather thin, but the color was good; the eyes--what eyes!

The manager found himself wondering if there were a pair to match themin the wide world. They were slightly sunken, large, blue, of a depthand beauty and clarity rarely seen in that color. Within them, as if athome, dwelt an expression of inner quiet, and sadness combined withstrength and firmness. It was not easy to look long into them withoutwanting to grasp the possessor's hand in fellowship. They smiled, too, as the manager continued to stare. That broke the spell; they wereundeniably human. The manager smiled in response. 

"Learned your trade?"

"Yes. "

"How long have you been working at it?"

"Between six and seven years. "

"Any tools with you?"

"No. "

"Union man?"

"No. "

"Hm-m. "

The manager chewed the handle of his pen, and thought something out withhimself; his eyes were on the pad before him. 

"We've got to take on a lot of new men for the next two years--as manyas we can of skilled workmen. The break will have to be made sometime. Anyhow, if you'll risk it they've got a job for you in Shed NumberTwo--cutting and squaring for a while--forty cents an hour--eight hourday. I'll telephone to the boss if you want it. "

"I do. "

He took up the desk-telephone and gave his message. 

"It's all right. " He drew out a ledger from beneath the desk. "What'syour letter?"

"Letter?" The man looked startled for a moment. 

"Yes, initial of your last name. "

"G. "

The manager found the letter, thrust in his finger, opened the pageindicated and shoved the book over the desk towards the applicant. Hehanded him his pen. 

"Write your name, your age, and what you're native of. " He indicated thecolumns. 

The man took the pen. He seemed at first slightly awkward in handlingit. The entry he made was as follows:

"Louis C. Googe--thirty-four--United States. "

The manager glanced at it. "That's a common enough name in Maine andthese parts, " he said. Then he pointed through the window. "That's theshed over there--the middle one. The boss'll give you some tools tillyou get yours. "

"Thank you. " The man put on his cap and went out. 

"Well, I'll be hanged!" was all the manager said as he looked after theapplicant. Then he rose, went to the office door and watched the manmaking his way through the stone-yards towards the sheds. "Well, boys, "he said further, turning to the two men bending over the plans, "thatsuit ain't exactly a misfit, but it hasn't seen the light of day for agood many years--and it's the same with the man. What in thunder is hedoing in the sheds! Did he say anything specially to you before I camein?"

"No; only he seemed mighty interested in the plans, examined the detailof some of them--as if he knew. "

"We'll keep our eyes on him. " The manager went back to his desk. 

IV

Perhaps the dreariest environment imaginable is a stone-cutters' shed ona bleak day in the first week in March. The large ones stretching alongthe north shore of Lake Mesantic are no exception to this statement. Ahigh wind from the northeast was driving before it particles of ice, andnow and then a snow flurry. It penetrated every crack and crevice of thehuge buildings, the second and largest of which covered a ground spaceof more than an acre. Every gust made itself both felt and heard amongthe rafters. Near the great doors the granite dust whirled in eddies. 

At this hour in the afternoon Shed Number Two was a study in black andgray and white. Gray dust several inches thick spread underfoot; allabout were gray walls, gray and white granite piles, gray columns, arches, uncut blocks, heaps of granite waste, gray workmen in grayblouses and canvas aprons covered with gray dust. In one corner toweredthe huge gray-black McDonald machine in mighty strength, its multiplerevolving arms furnished with gigantic iron fists which manipulate theunyielding granite with Herculean automatonism--an invention of thefilm-like brain of man to conquer in a few minutes the work of nature'sćons! Gray-black overhead stretched the running rails for the monsterelectric travelling crane; some men crawling out on them looked likemonkeys. Here and there might be seen the small insignificant "LewisKey"--a thing that may be held on a woman's palm--sustaining a graniteweight of many tons. 

There were three hundred men at work in this shed, and the ringing_chip-chip-chipping_ monotone from the hundreds of hammers and chisels, filled the great space with industry's wordless song that has itsperfect harmony for him who listens with open ears and expansive mind. 

Jim McCann was at work near the shed doors which had been opened severaltimes since one o'clock to admit the flat cars with the granite. He wasalternately blowing on his benumbed fingers and cursing the doors andthe draught that was chilling him to the marrow. The granite dust wasswirling about his legs and rising into his nostrils. It lacked ahalf-hour to four. 

Two cars rolled in silently. 

"Shut thim damned doors, man!" he shouted across to the door-tender;"God kape us but we' it's our last death we'll be ketchin' before we canclane out our lungs o' the dust we've swallowed the day. It's afterbein' wan damned slitherin' whorl of grit in the nose of me since eightthe morn. "

He struck hard on his chisel and a spark flew. A workman, an Italian, laughed. 

"That's arll-rright, Jim--fire up!"

"You kape shet, " growled McCann. He was unfriendly as a rule to theDagos. "It's in me blood, " was his only excuse. 

"An' if it's a firin' ye be after, " he continued, "ye'll get it shurreif ye lave off workin' to warm up yer tongue wid such sass. --Shut thimdoors!" he shouted again; but a gust of wind failed to carry his voicein the desired direction. 

In the swirling roar and the small dust-spout that followed in itswake, Jim and the workmen in his cold section were aware of a man whohad been half-blown in with the whirling dust. He took shelter for amoment by the inner wall. The foreman saw him and recognized him for theman who, the manager had just telephoned, was coming over from theoffice. He came forward to meet him. 

"You're the man who has just taken on a job in Shed Number Two?"

"Yes. "

The foreman signed to one of the men and told him to bring an extra setof tools. 

"Here's your section, " he said indicating McCann's; "you can begin onthis block--just squaring it for to-night. "

The man took his tools with a "Thank you, " and went to work. The otherswatched him furtively, as Jim told Maggie afterwards "from the tail ofme eye. "

He knew his work. They soon saw that. Every stroke told. The doors wereshut at last and the electric lights turned on. Up to the stroke of fourthe men worked like automatons--_chip-chip-chipping_. Now and then therewas some chaffing, good-natured if rough. 

The little Canuck, who by dint of running had caught the car, wasworking nearby. McCann called out to him:

"I say, Antwine, where you'd be after gettin' that cap with the monkeyears?"

"Bah gosh, Ah have get dis ŕ Mo'real--at good marché--sheep. " He strokedthe small skin earlaps caressingly with one hand, then spat upon hispalm and fell to work again. 

"Montreal is it? When did you go?"

"Ah was went tree day--le Pčre Honoré tol' mah Ah better was go to monmaître; he was dead las' week. "

"Wot yer givin' us, Antwine? Three days to see yer dead mater an' lavin'yer stiddy job for the likes of him, an' good luck yer come back thisafternoon or the new man 'ud 'a' had it. "

"Ah, non--ah, non! De boss haf tol' mah, Ah was keep mah shob. Ah, non--ah, non. Ah was went pour l'amour de Pčre Honoré. "

"Damn yer lingo--shpake English, I tell you. "

Antoine grinned and shook his head. 

"Wot yer givin' us about his Riverince, eh?"

"Le Pčre Honoré, hein? Ah-h-h-rr, le bon Pčre Honoré! Attendez--he tol'mah Ah was best non raconter--mais, Ah raconte you, Shim--"

"Go ahead, Johnny Frog; let's hear. "

"Ah was been lee'l garçon--lee'l bébé, no pčre; ma mčre was been--howyou say?--gypsee ŕ cheval, hein?" he appealed to McCann. 

"You mane a gypsy that rides round the counthry?"

Antoine nodded emphatically. "Yah--oui, gypsee ŕ cheval, an' bars--"

"Bears?"

"Mais oui, bruins--bars; pour les faire dancer--"

"You mane your mother was a gypsy that went round the counthry showin'off dancin' bears?"

"Yah-oui. Ah mane so. She haf been seek--malade--how you say, petitevérole--so like de Pčre Honoré?" He made with his forefinger dents inhis face and forehead. 

"An' is it the shmall pox yer mane?"

"Yah-oui, shmall pookes. She was haf it, an' tout le monde--how yousay?--efferybodyee was haf fear. She was haf nottin' to eat--nottin' todrrink; le Pčre Honoré was fin' her in de bois--foręt, an' was been tak'ma pauvre mčre in hees ahrms, an' he place her in de sugair-house, an'il l'a soignée--how you say?" He appealed to the Italian whose interestwas on the increase. 

"Nurrsed?"

"Yah--oui, nurrsed her, an' moi aussi--lee'l bébé'--"

"D' yer mane his Riverince nursed you and yer mother through the shmallpox?" demanded McCann. Several of the workmen stopped short with hammersuplifted to hear Antoine's answer. 

"Mais oui, il l'a soignée jusqu'ŕ ce qu'elle was been dead; he l'aenterrée--place in de terre--airth, an' moi he haf place chez un farmyerŕ Mo'real. An' le Pčre Honoré was tak' la petite vérole--shmall pookesin de sugair-house, an' de farmyer was gif him to eat an' to drrink parla porte--de door; de farmyer haf non passé par de door. Le Pčre Honorém'a sauvé--haf safe, hein? An' Ah was been work ten, twenty, dirty year, Ah tink. Ah gagne--gain, hein?--two hundert pičces. Ah been come to dequairries, pour l'amour de bon Pčre Honoré qui m'a safe, hein? Ah betrčs content; Ah gagne, gain two, tree pičces--dollaires--par jour. "

He nodded at one and all, his gold half-moon earrings twinkling in hisevident satisfaction with himself and "le bon Pčre Honoré. "

The men were silent. Jim McCann's eyes were blurred with tears. Thethought of his own six-months boy presented itself in contrast to thesmall waif in the Canada woods and the dying gypsy mother, nursed by thepriest who had christened his own little Billy. 

"It's a bad night for the lecture, " said a Scotchman, and broketherewith the emotional spell that was holding the men who had made outthe principal points of Antoine's story. 

"Yes, but Father Honoré says it's all about the cathedrals, an' not manywill want to miss it, " said another. "They say there's a crowd comingdown from the quarries to-night to hear it. "

"Faith, an' it's Mr. Van Ostend will be after havin' to put on an atrailer to his new hall, " said McCann; "the b'ys know a good thing whinthey see it, an' we was like to smother, the whole kit of us, whin theyhad the last pitchers of them mountins in Alasky on the sheet. It's thestairioptican that takes best wid the b'ys. "

The four o'clock whistle began to sound. Three hundred chisels andhammers were dropped on the instant. The men hurried to the doors thatwere opened their full width to give egress to the hastening throngs. They streamed out; there was laughing and chaffing; now and then, amongthe younger ones, some good-natured fisticuffs were exchanged. Manysought the electrics to The Gore; others took the car to The Corners. From the three sheds, the power-house, the engine-house, the office, thedark files streamed forth from their toil. Within fifteen minutes thelights were turned out, the watchman was making his first round. Insteadof the sounds of a vast industry, nothing was heard but the_sz-szz-szzz_ of the vanishing trams, the sputter of an arc-light, thebarking of a dog. The gray twilight of a bleak March day shut downrapidly over frozen field and ice-rimmed lake. 

V

Champney Googe left the shed with the rest; no one spoke to him, although many a curious look was turned his way when he had passed, andhe spoke to no one. He waited for a car to Flamsted. There he got out. He found a restaurant near The Greenbush and ordered something to eat. Afterwards he went about the town, changed almost beyond recognition. Hesaw no face he knew. There were foreigners everywhere--men who were tobe the fathers of the future American race. A fairly large opera houseattracted his attention; it was evidently new. He looked for theyear--1901. A little farther on he found the hall, built, so he hadgathered from the few words among the men in the sheds, by Mr. VanOstend. The name was on the lintel: "Flamsted Quarries Hall. " Every fewminutes an electric tram went whizzing through Main Street towards TheBow. Crowds of young people were on the street. 

He looked upon all he saw almost indifferently, feeling little, caringlittle. It was as if a mental and spiritual numbness had possession ofevery faculty except the manual; he felt at home only while he wasworking for that short half-hour in the shed. He was not at ease hereamong this merry careless crowd. He stopped to look in at the windows ofa large fine shop for fruits and groceries; he glanced up at thesign:--"Poggi and Company. "

"Poggi--Poggi" he said to himself; he was thinking it out. "LuigiPoggi--Luigi--Ah!" It was a long-drawn breath. He had found his clew. 

He heard again that cry: "Champney, --O Champney! what has he done toyou!" The night came back to him in all its detail. It sickened him. 

He was about to turn from the window and seek the quiet of The Bow untilthe hall should be open--at "sharp seven" he heard the men say--when awoman passed him and entered the shop. She took a seat at the counterjust inside the show-window. He stood gazing at her, unable to move hiseyes from the form, the face. It was she--Aileen!

The sickening feeling increased for a moment, then it gave place tostrange electric currents that passed and repassed through every nerve. It was a sensation as if his whole body--flesh, muscles, nerves, arteries, veins, every lobe of his brain, every cell within each lobe, had been, as the saying is of an arm or leg, "asleep" and was now"coming to. " The tingling sensation increased almost to torture; but hecould not move. That face held him. 

He must get away before she came out! That was his one thought. Thefirst torment of awakening sensation to a new life was passing. Headvanced a foot, then the other; he moved slowly, but he moved at last. He walked on down the street, not up towards The Bow as he had intended;walked on past The Greenbush towards The Corners; walked on and on tillthe nightmare of this awakening from a nearly seven-years abnormal sleepof feeling was over. Then he turned back to the town. The town clock wasstriking seven. The men were entering the hall by tens and twenties. 

He took his seat in a corner beneath the shadow of a large gallery atthe back, over the entrance. 

There were only men admitted. He looked upon the hundreds assembled, andrealized for the first time in more than six years that he was again afree man among free men. He drew a long breath of relief, ofrealization. 

At a quarter past seven Father Honoré made his appearance on theplatform. The men settled at once into silence, and the priest beganwithout preface:

"My friends, we will take up to-night what we may call the Brotherhoodof Stone. "

The men looked at one another and smiled. Here was something new. 

"That is the right thought for all of you to take with you into thequarries and the sheds. Don't forget it!"

He made certain distinct pauses after a few sentences. This was donewith intention; for the men before him were of various nationalities, although he called this his "English night. " But many were learning andunderstood imperfectly; it was for them he paused frequently. He wantedto give them time to take in what he was saying. Sometimes he repeatedhis words in Italian, in French, that the foreigners might bettercomprehend his meaning. 

"Perhaps some of you have worked in the limestone quarries on the Bay?All who have hold up hands. "

A hundred hands, perhaps more, were raised. 

"Any worked in the marble quarries of Vermont?"

A dozen or more Canucks waved their hands vigorously. 

"Here are three pieces--limestone, marble, and granite. " He held upspecimens of the three. "All of them are well known to most of you. Nowmark what I say of these three:--first, the limestone gets burnedprincipally; second, the marble gets sculptured principally; third, thegranite gets hammered and chiselled principally. Fire, chisel, andhammer at work on these three rocks; but, they are all _quarried_ first. This fact of their being quarried puts them in the Brotherhood--ofLabor. "

The men nudged one another, and nodded emphatically. 

"They are all three taken from the crust of the earth; this Earth is tothem the earth-mother. Now mark again what I say:--this fact of theircommon earth-mother puts them in the Brotherhood--of Kin. "

He took up three specimens of quartz crystals. 

"This quartz crystal"--he turned it in the light, and the hexagonalprisms caught and reflected dazzling rays--"I found in the limestonequarry on the Bay. This, " he took up another smaller one, "I found aftera long search in the marble quarries of Vermont. This here, " he held upa third, a smaller, less brilliant, less perfect one--"I took out of ourupper quarry after a three weeks' search for it. 

"This fact, that these rocks, although of different market value and putto different uses, may yield the same perfect crystal, puts thelimestone, the marble, the granite in the Brotherhood--of Equality. 

"In our other talks, we have named the elements of each rock, and givensome study to each. We have found that some of their elements are thebasic elements of our own mortal frames--our bodies have a commonearth-mother with these stones. 

"This last fact puts them in the Brotherhood--of Man. "

The seven hundred men showed their appreciation of the point made byprolonged applause. 

"Now I want to make clear to you that, although these rocks havedifferent market values, are put to different uses, the real value forus this evening consists in the fact that each, in its own place, canyield a crystal equal in purity to the others. --Remember this the nexttime you go to work in the quarries and the sheds. "

He laid aside the specimens. 

"We had a talk last month about the guilds of four hundred years ago. Iasked you then to look upon yourselves as members of a great twentiethcentury working guild. Have you done it? Has every man, who was presentthen, said since, when hewing a foundation stone, a block for a bridgeabutment, a corner-stone for a cathedral or a railroad station, acap-stone for a monument, a milestone, a lintel for a door, ahearthstone or a step for an altar, 'I belong to the great guild of themakers of this country; I quarry and hew the rock that lays the enduringbed for the iron or electric horses which rush from sea to sea and carrythe burden of humanity'?--Think of it, men! Yours are the hands thatmake this great track of commerce possible. Yours are the hands thatcurve the stones, afterwards reared into noble arches beneath which thepeople assemble to do God reverence. Yours are the hands that square thedeep foundations of the great bridges which, like the Brooklyn, crosshigh in mid-air from shore to shore! Have you said this? Have you doneit?"

"Ay, ay. --Sure. --We done it. " The murmuring assent was polyglot. 

"Very well--see that you keep on doing it, and show that you do it bythe good work you furnish. "

He motioned to the manipulators in the gallery to make ready for thestereopticon views. The blank blinding round played erratically on thecurtain. The entire audience sat expectant. 

There was flashed upon the screen the interior of a Canadian "cabin. "The family were at supper; the whole interior, simple and homely, wasindicative of warmth and cheerful family life. 

The Canucks in the audience lost their heads. The clapping was frantic. Father Honoré smiled. He tapped the portrayed wall with the end of hispointer. 

"This is comfort--no cold can penetrate these walls; they are doubleplastered. Credit limestone with that!"

The audience showed its appreciation in no uncertain way. 

"The crystal--can any one see that--find that in this interior?"

The men were silent. Father Honoré was pointing to the mother and herchild; the father was holding out his arms to the little one who, withloving impatience, was reaching away from his mother over the table tohis father. They comprehended the priest's thought in the lesson of thelimestone:--the love and trust of the human. No words were needed. Anemotional silence made itself felt. 

The picture shifted. There was thrown upon the screen the marbleCathedral of Milan. A murmur of delight ran through the house. 

"Here we have the limestone in the form of marble. Its beauty is theprice of unremitting toil. This, too, belongs in the brotherhoods oflabor, kin, and equality. --Do you find the crystal?"

His pointer swept the hierarchy of statues on the roof, upwards to thecross on the pinnacle, where it rested. 

"This crystal is the symbol of what inspires and glorifies humanity. Thecrystal is yours, men, if with believing hearts you are willing to say'Our Father' in the face of His works. "

He paused a moment. It was an understood thing in the semi-monthlytalks, that the men were free to ask questions and to express anopinion, even, at times, to argue a point. The men's eyes were fixedwith keen appreciation on the marble beauty before them, when a voicebroke the silence. 

"That sounds all right enough, your Reverence, what you've said about'Our Father' and the brotherhoods, but there's many a man says it thatwon't own me for a brother. There's a weak joint somewhere--and nooffence meant. "

Some of the men applauded. 

Father Honoré turned from the screen and faced the men; his eyesflashed. The audience loved to see him in this mood, for they knew byexperience that he was generally able to meet his adversary, and no oddsgiven or taken. 

"That's you, is it, Szchenetzy?"

"Yes, it's me. "

"Do you remember in last month's talk that I showed you theDolomites--the curious mountains of the Tyrol?--and in connection withthose the Brenner Pass?"

"Yes. "

"Well, something like seven hundred years ago a poor man, a poet andtravelling musician, was riding over that pass and down into that veryregion of the Dolomites. He made his living by stopping at thestronghold-castles of those times and entertaining the powerful of theearth by singing his poems set to music of his own making. Sometimes hegot a suit of cast-off clothes in payment; sometimes only bed and boardfor a time. But he kept on singing his little poems and making more ofthem as he grew rich in experience of men and things; for he never grewrich in gold--money was the last thing they ever gave him. So hecontinued long his wandering life, singing his songs in courtyard andcastle hall until they sang their way into the hearts of the men of hisgeneration. And while he wandered, he gained a wonderful knowledge oflife and its ways among rich and poor, high and low; and, pondering thethings he had seen and the many ways of this world, he said to himself, that day when he was riding over the Brenner Pass, the same thing thatyou have just said--in almost the same words:--'Many a man calls God"Father" who won't acknowledge me for a brother. '

"I don't know how he reconciled facts--for your fact seems plainenough--nor do I know how you can reconcile them; but what I do know isthis:--that man, poor in this world's goods, but rich in experience andin a natural endowment of poetic thought and musical ability, _kept onmaking poems, kept on singing them_, despite that fact to which he hadgiven expression as he fared over the Brenner; despite the fact that asuit of cast-off clothes was all he got for his entertainment of thosewho would not call him 'brother. ' Discouraged at times--for he was veryhuman--he kept on giving the best that was in him, doing the workappointed for him in this world--and doing it with a whole heartGodwards and Christwards, despite his poverty, despite the brokenpromises of the great to reward him pecuniarily, despite the world, despite _facts_, Szchenetzy! He sang when he was young of earthly loveand in middle age of heavenly love, and his songs are cherished, fortheir beauty of wisdom and love, in the hearts of men to this day. "

He smiled genially across the sea of faces to Szchenetzy. 

"Come up some night with your violin, Szchenetzy, and we will try oversome of those very songs that the Germans have set to music of theirown, those words of Walter of the Bird-Meadow--so they called him then, and men keep on calling him that even to this day. "

He turned again to the screen. 

"What is to be thrown on the screen now--in rapid succession for ourhour is brief--I call our Marble Quarry. Just think of it! quarried bythe same hard work which you all know, by which you earn your dailybread; sculptured into forms of exceeding beauty by the same hard toilof other hands. And behind all the toil there is the _soul of art_, everseeking expression through the human instrument of the practised handthat quarries, then sculptures, then places, and builds! I shall give aword or two of explanation in regard to time and locality; next month wewill take the subjects one by one. "

There flashed upon the screen and in quick succession, although the menprotested and begged for an extension of exposures, the noble Pisangroup and Niccola Pisano's pulpit in the baptistery--the horses from theParthenon frieze--the Zeus group from the great altar atPergamos--Theseus and the Centaur--the Wrestlers--the Discus Throwerand, last, the exquisite little church of Saint Mary of the Thorn, --theArno's jewel, the seafarers' own, --that looks out over the Pisan watersto the Mediterranean. 

It was a magnificent showing. No words from Father Honoré were needed tobring home to his audience the lesson of the Marble Quarry. 

"I call the next series, which will be shown without explanation andmerely named, other members of the Brotherhood of Stone. We study themseparately later on in the summer. "

The cathedrals of York, Amiens, Westminster, Cologne, Mayence, St. Mark's--a noble array of man's handiwork, were thrown upon the screen. The men showed their appreciation by thunderous applause. 

The screen was again a blank; then it filled suddenly with the greatUpper Quarry in The Gore. The granite ledges sloped upward to meet theblue of the sky. The great steel derricks and their crisscrossing cablescast curiously foreshortened shadows on the gleaming white expanse. Hereand there a group of men showed dark against a ledge. In the centre, oneof the monster derricks held suspended in its chains a forty-ton blockof granite just lifted from its eternal bed. Beside it a workman showedlike a pigmy. 

Some one proposed a three times three for the home quarries. The menrose to their feet and the cheers were given with a will. The ringingecho of the last had not died away when the quarry vanished, and in itsplace stood the finished cathedral of A. --the work which the hands ofthose present were to create. It was a reproduction of the architect'swater-color sketch. 

The men still remained standing; they gave no outward expression totheir admiration; that, indeed, although evident in their faces, wasovershadowed by something like awe. _Their_ hands were to be theinstruments by which this great creation of the mind of man shouldbecome a fact. Without those hands the architect's idea could not bematerialized; without the "idea" their daily work would fail. 

The truth went home to each man present--even to that unknown onebeneath the gallery who, when the men had risen to cheer, shrank fartherinto his dark corner and drew short sharp breaths. The Past would notdown at his bidding; he was beginning to feel his weakness when he hadmost need of strength. 

He did not hear Father Honoré's parting words:--"Here you find the thirdcrystal--strength, solidity, the bedrock of endeavor. Take these threehome with you:--the pure crystal of human love and trust, the heartbelieving in its Maker, the strength of good character. There you havethe three that make for equality in this world--and nothing else does. Good night, my friends. "

VI

Father Honoré got home from the lecture a little before nine. He renewedthe fire, drew up a chair to the hearth, took his violin from its caseand, seating himself before the springing blaze, made ready to play fora while in the firelight. This was always his refreshment after asuccessful evening with the men. He drew his thumb along the bow--

There was a knock at the door. He rose and flung it wide with a humanenough gesture of impatience; his well-earned rest was disturbed toosoon. He failed to recognize the man who was standing bareheaded on thestep. 

"Father Honoré, I've come home--don't you know me, Champney?"

There was no word in response, but his hands were grasped hard--he wasdrawn into the room--the door was shut on the chill wind of that Marchnight. Then the two men stood silent, gazing into each other's eyes, while the firelight leaped and showed to each the other's face--thepriest's working with a powerful emotion he was struggling to control;Champney Googe's apparently calm, but in reality tense with anxiety. Hespoke first:

"I want to know about my mother--is she well?"

Father Honoré found his voice, an uncertain one but emphatic; it left noroom for further anxiety in the questioner's mind. 

"Yes, well, thank God, and looking forward to this--but it's so soon! Idon't understand--when did you come?"

He kept one hand on Champney's as if fearing to lose him, with the otherhe pulled forward a chair from the wall and placed it near his own; hesat down and drew Champney into the other beside him. 

"I came up on the afternoon train; I got out yesterday. "

"It's so unexpected. The chaplain wrote me last month that there was aprospect of this within the next six months, but I had no idea it wouldbe so soon--neither, I am sure, had he. "

"Nor I--I don't know that I feel sure of it yet. Has my mother any ideaof this?"

"I wasn't at liberty to tell her--the communication was confidential. Still she knows that it is customary to shorten the--" he caught up hiswords. 

"--Term for exemplary conduct?" Champney finished for him. 

"Yes. I can't realize this, Champney; it's six years and four months--"

"Years--months! You might say six eternities. Do you know, I can't getused to it--the freedom, I mean. At times during these last twenty-fourhours, I have actually felt lost without the work, the routine--thesolitude. " He sighed heavily and spoke further, but as if to himself:

"Last Thanksgiving Day we were all together--eight hundred of us in theassembly room for the exercises. Two men get pardoned out on that day, and the two who were set free were in for manslaughter--one for twentyyears, the other for life. They had been in eighteen years. I watchedtheir faces when their numbers were called; they stepped forward to theplatform and were told of their pardon. There wasn't a sign ofcomprehension, not a movement of a muscle, the twitch of aneyelid--simply a dead stolid stare. The truth is, they were benumbed asto feeling, incapable of comprehending anything, of initiating anything, as I was till--till this afternoon; then I began to live, to feelagain. "

"That's only natural. I've heard other men say the same thing. You'llrecover tone here among your own--your friends and other men. "

"Have I any?--I mean outside of you and my mother?" he asked in a lowvoice, but subdued eagerness was audible in it. 

"Have you any? Why, man, a friend is a friend for life--and beyond. Whowas it put it thus: 'Said one: I would go up to the gates of hell with afriend. --Said the other: I would go in. ' That last is the kind you havehere in Flamsted, Champney. "

The other turned away his face that the firelight might not betray him. 

"It's too much--it's too much; I don't deserve it. "

"Champney, when you decided of your own accord to expiate in the manneryou have through these six years, do you think your friends--andothers--didn't recognize your manhood? And didn't you resolve at thattime to 'put aside' those things that were behind you once andforever?--clear your life of the clogging part?"

"Yes, --but others won't--"

"Never mind others--you are working out your own salvation. "

"But it's going to be harder than I thought--I find I am beginning todread to meet people--everything is so changed. It's going to be harderthan I realized to carry out that resolution. The Past won'tdown--everything is so changed--everything--"

Father Honoré rose to turn on the electric lights. He did not take hisseat again, but stood on the hearth, back to the fire, his hands claspedbehind him. The clear light from the shaded bulbs shone full upon theface of the man before him, and the priest, searching that face to readits record, saw set upon it, and his heart contracted at the sight, theindelible seal of six years of penal servitude. The close-cut hair wasgray; the brow was marked by two horizontal furrows; the cheeks weredeeply lined; and the broad shoulders--they were bent. Formerly he stoodbefore the priest with level eyes, now he was shorter by an inch of thesix feet that were once his. He noticed the hands--the hands of theday-laborer. 

He managed to reply to Champney's last remark without betraying theemotion that threatened to master him. 

"Outwardly, yes; things have changed and will continue to change. Thetown is making vast strides towards citizenship. But you will find thoseyou know the same--only grown in grace, I hope, with the years; even Mr. Wiggins is convinced by this time that the foreigners are notbarbarians. "

Champney smiled. "It was rough on Elmer Wiggins at first. "

"Yes, but things are smoothing out gradually, and as a son of Maine hehas too much common sense at bottom to swim against the current. Andthere's old Joel Quimber--I never see him that he doesn't tell me he ismarking off the days in his 'almanack, ' he calls it, in anticipation ofyour return. "

"Dear old Jo!--No!--Is that true? Old Jo doing that?"

"To be sure, why not? And there's Octavius Buzzby--I don't think hewould mind my telling you now--indeed, I don't believe he'd have thecourage to tell you himself--" Father Honoré smiled happily, for he sawin Champney's face the light of awakening interest in the common life ofhumanity, and he felt a prolongation of this chat would clear theatmosphere of over-powering emotion, --"there have never three monthspassed by these last six years that he hasn't deposited half of hisquarterly salary with Emlie in the bank in your name--"

"Oh, don't--don't! I can't bear it--dear old Tave--" he groaned ratherthan spoke; the blood mounted to his temples, but his friend provedmerciless. 

"And there's Luigi Poggi! I don't know but he will make you aproposition, when he knows you are at home, to enter into partnershipwith him and young Caukins--the Colonel's fourth eldest. Champney, hewants to atone--he has told me so--"

"Is--is he married?"

Father Honoré noticed that his lips suddenly went dry and he swallowedhard after his question. 

"No, " the priest hastened to say, then he hesitated; he was wonderinghow far it was safe to probe; "but it is my strong impression that he isthinking seriously of it--a lovely girl, too, she is--" he saw the man'sface before him go white, the jaw set like a vise--"little DulcieCaukins, you remember her?"

Champney nodded and wet his lips. 

"He has been thrown a good deal with the Caukinses since he took theirson into partnership; the Colonel's boys are all doing well. Romanzo isin New York. "

"Still with the Company?"

"Yes, in the main office. He married in that city two years ago--ratherwell, I hear, but Mrs. Caukins is not reconciled yet. Now, there's afriend! You don't know the depth of her feeling for you--but she hasshown it by worshipping your mother. "

Champney Googe's eyes filled to overflowing, but he squeezed thespringing drops between his eyelids, and asked with lively interest:

"Why isn't Mrs. Caukins reconciled?"

"Well, because--I suppose it's no secret now, at least Mrs. Caukins hasnever made one of it, in fact, has aired the subject pretty thoroughly, you know her way--"

Champney looked up and smiled. "I'm glad she hasn't changed. "

"But of course you don't know it. The fact is she had set heart onhaving for a daughter-in-law Aileen Armagh--you remember little Aileen?"

Champney Googe's hands closed spasmodically on the arms of his chair. Tocover this involuntary movement, he leaned forward suddenly and kicked aburning brand, that had fallen on the hearth, back into the fireplace. Ashower of sparks flew up chimney. 

Father Honoré went on without waiting for the answer he knew would notbe forthcoming: "Aileen gave me a fright the other day. I met her on thestreet, and she took that occasion, in the midst of a good deal of noiseand confusion, to inform me with her usual vivacity of manner that shewas to be housekeeper to a man--'a job for life, ' she added with the oldmischief dancing in her eyes and the merry laugh that is a tonic for theblues. Upon my asking her gravely who was the fortunate man--for I hadno one in mind and feared some impulsive decision--she pursed her lips, hesitated a moment, and, manufacturing a charming blush, said:--'I don'tmind telling you; it's Mr. Octavius Buzzby. I'm to be his housekeeperfor life and take care of him in his old age after his work and mine isfinished at Champo. ' I confess, I was relieved. "

"My aunt is still living, then?" Champney asked with more eagerness andenergy than the occasion demanded. His eyes shone with suppressedexcitement, and ever-awakening life animated every feature. FatherHonoré, noting the sudden change, read again, as once six years before, deep into this man's heart. 

"Yes, but it is death in life. Aileen is still with her--faithful as thesun, but rebelling at times as is only natural. The girl gave promise ofrich womanhood, but even you would wonder at such fine development insuch an environment of continual invalidism. Mrs. Champney has had twostrokes of paralysis; it is only a question of time. "

"There is _one_ who never was my friend--I've often wondered why. "

Into the priest's inner vision flashed that evening before his departurefor New York--the bedroom--the mother--that confession--

"It looks that way, I admit, but I've thought sometimes she has caredfor you far more than any one will ever know. "

Champney started suddenly to his feet. 

"What time is it? I must be going. "

"Going?--You mean home--to-night?"

"Yes, I must go home. I came to ask you to go to my mother to prepareher for this--I dared not shock her by going unannounced. You'll gowith me--you'll tell her?"

"At once. "

He reached for his coat and turned off the lights. The two went out armand arm into the March night. The wind was still rising. 

"It's only half-past nine, and Mrs. Googe will be up; she is a busywoman. "

"Tell me--" he drew his breath short--"what has my mother done all theseyears--how has she lived?"

"As every true woman lives--doing her full duty day by day, living inhope of this joy. "

"But I mean _what_ has she done to live--to provide for herself; she haskept the house?"

"To be sure, and by her own exertions. She has never been willing toaccept pecuniary aid from any friend, not even from Mr. Buzzby, or theColonel. I am in a position to know that Mr. Van Ostend did his best topersuade her to accept something just as a loan. "

"But what has she been doing?"

"She has been taking the quarrymen for meals the last six years, Champney--at times she has had their families to board with her, as manyas the house could accommodate. "

The arm which his own held was withdrawn with a jerk. Champney Googefaced him: they were on the new iron bridge over the Rothel. 

"You mean to say my mother--_my_ mother, Aurora Googe, has been keepinga quarrymen's boarding-house all these years?"

"Yes; it is legitimate work. "

"My mother--_my_ mother--" he kept repeating as he stood motionless onthe bridge. He seemed unable to grasp the fact for a moment; then helaid his hand heavily on Father Honoré's shoulder as if for support; hespoke low to himself, but the priest caught a few words:

"I thank Thee--thank--for life--work--"

He seemed to come gradually to himself, to recognize his whereabouts. Hebegan to walk on, but very slowly. 

"Father Honoré, " he said, and his tone was deeply earnest but at thesame time almost joyful, "I'm not going home to my mother empty-handed, I never intended to--I have work. I can work for her, free her fromcare, lift from her shoulders the burden of toil for my sake. "

"What do you mean, Champney?"

"I made application to the manager of the Company this afternoon; I sawthey were all strangers to me, and they took me on in the sheds--ShedNumber Two. I went to work this afternoon. You see I know my trade; Ilearned it during the last six years. I can support her now--Oh--"

He stopped short just as they were leaving the bridge; raised his headto the black skies above him, reached upwards with both hands palmoutwards--

"--I thank my Maker for these hands; I thank Him that I can labor withthese hands; I thank Him for the strength of manhood that will enable meto toil with these hands; I thank Him for my knowledge of good and evil;I thank Him that I have 'won sight out of blindness--'" his eyesstrained to the skies above The Gore. 

The moon, struggling with the heavy drifting cloud-masses, broke througha confined ragged circle and, for a moment, its splendor shone upon theheights of The Gore; its effulgence paled the arc-lights in thequarries; a silver shaft glanced on the Rothel in its downward course, and afar touched the ruffled waters of Lake Mesantic. . . . 

 * * * * *

"I'll stay here on the lawn, " he said five minutes afterwards uponreaching the house. A light was burning in his mother's bedroom; anothershone from her sitting-room on the first floor. 

The priest entered without knocking; this house was open the year roundto the frequent comers and goers among the workmen. He rapped at thesitting-room door. Mrs. Googe opened it. 

"Why, Father Honoré, I didn't expect you to-night--didn't you havethe--What is it?--oh, what is it!" she cried, for the priest's facebetrayed him. 

"Joyful news, Mrs. Googe, "--he let her read his face--"your son is afree man to-night. "

There was no outcry on the mother's part; but her hands clasped eachother till the nails showed white. 

"Where is he now?"

"Here, in Flamsted--"

"Let me go--let me go to him--"

"He has come to you--he is just outside--"

She was past him with a rush--at the door--on the porch--

"Champney!--My son!--where are you?" she cried out into the night. 

Her answer came on swift feet. He sprang up the steps two at a time, they were in each other's arms--then he had to be strong for both. 

He led her in, half carrying her; placed her in a chair; knelt beforeher, chafing her hands. . . . 

Father Honoré made his escape; they were unconscious of his presence orhis departure. He closed the front door softly behind him, and on feetshod with light-heartedness covered the road to his own house in a fewminutes. He flung aside his coat, took his violin, and played and playedtill late into the night. 

Two of the sisters of The Mystic Rose, who had been over to Quarry EndPark nursing a sick quarryman's wife throughout the day, paused tolisten as they passed the house. One of them was Sister Ste. Croix. 

The violin exulted, rejoiced, sang of love heavenly, of love earthly, ofall loves of life and nature; it sang of repentance, of expiation, ofsalvation--

"I can bear no more, " whispered Sister Ste. Croix to her companion, andthe hand she laid on the one that was raised to hush her, was not onlycold, it was damp with the sweat of the agony of remembrance. 

The strains of the violin's song accompanied them to their own door. 

VII

The Saturday-night frequenters of The Greenbush have changed with thepassing years like all else in Flamsted. The Greenbush itself is nolonger a hostelry, but a cosy club-house purveyed for, to thesatisfaction of every member, by its old landlord, Augustus Buzzby. TheClub's membership, of both young and old men, is large and increasingwith the growth of the town; but the old frequenters of The Greenbushbar-room head the list--Colonel Caukins and Octavius Buzzby paying theannual dues of their first charter member, old Joel Quimber, now in hiseighty-seventh year. 

The former office is a grill room, and made one with the back parlor, now the club restaurant. On this Saturday night in March, thewhite-capped chef--Augustus prided himself in keeping abreast thetimes--was busy in the grill room, and Augustus himself wassuperintending the laying of a round table for ten. The Colonel was tocelebrate his sixty-fifth birthday by giving a little supper. 

"Nothing elaborate, Buzzby, " he said a week before the event, "a finesaddle of mutton--Southdown--some salmon trout, a stiff bouillon forQuimber, you know his masticatory apparatus is no longer equal to thiswhole occasion, and a chive salad. _The_ cake Mrs. Caukins elects toprovide herself, and I need not assure you, who know her culinarypowers, that it will be a _ne plus ultra_ of a cake, both in materialand execution; fruits, coffee and cheese--Roquefort. Your accomplishedchef can fill in the interstices. Here are the cards--Quimber at myright, if you please. "

Augustus looked at the cards and smiled. 

"All the old ones included, I see, Colonel, " he ran over the names, "Quimber, Tave, Elmer Wiggins, Emlie, Poggi and Caukins"--he laughedoutright; "that's a good firm, Colonel, " he said slyly, and the Colonelsmiled his appreciation of the gentle insinuation--"the manager at thesheds, and the new boss of the Upper Quarry?" He looked inquiringly atthe Colonel on reading the last name. 

"That's all right, Buzzby; he's due here next Saturday, the festal day;and I want to give some substantial expression to him, as a stranger andneighbor, of Flamsted's hospitality. "

Augustus nodded approval, and continued: "And me! Thank you kindly, Colonel, but you'll have to excuse me this time. I want everything to goright on this special occasion. I'll join you with a pipe afterwards. "

"As you please, Buzzby, only make it a cigar; and consider yourselfincluded in the spirit if not in the flesh. Nine sharp. "

At a quarter of nine, just as Augustus finished putting the last touchto an already perfect table, the Colonel made his appearance at TheGreenbush, a pasteboard box containing a dozen boutonničres under hisarm. He laid one on the table cloth by each plate, and stood back toenjoy the effect. He rubbed his hands softly in appreciation of the"color scheme" as he termed it--a phrase that puzzled Augustus. He sawno "scheme" and very little "color" in the dark-wainscoted room, exceptthe cheerful fire on the hearth and some heavy red half-curtains at thewindows to shut out the cold and dark of this March night. The wallswere white; the grill of dark wood, and the floor painted dark brown. But the red carnations on the snow-white damask did somehow "touch thewhole thing up, " as he confided later to his brother. 

The Colonel's welcome to his companions was none the less cordialbecause he repressed his usual flow of eloquence till "the cloth shouldbe removed. " He purposed then to spring a surprise, oratorical andotherwise, on those assembled. 

After the various toasts, --all given and drunk in sweet cider made forthe occasion from Northern Spies, the Colonel being prohibitive forexample's sake, --the good wishes for many prospective birthdays andprosperous years, the Colonel filled his glass to the brim and, holdingit in his left hand, literally rose to the occasion. 

"Gentlemen, " he began in full chest tones, "some fourteen years ago, five of us now present were wont to discuss in the old office of thishospitable hostelry, now the famous grill room of the Club, the Invasionof the New--the opening of the great Flamsted Quarries--the migrationsof the nations hitherwards and the consequent prospective industrialdevelopment of our native village. "

He paused and looked about him impressively; finally his eye settledsternly on Elmer Wiggins who, satisfied inwardly with the choice andbounteous supper provided by the Colonel, had made up his mind to "standfire", as he said afterwards to Augustus. 

The Colonel resumed his speech, his voice acquiring as he proceeded avolume and depth that carried it far beyond the grill room's walls tothe ears of edified passers on the street:

"There were those among us who maintained--in the face of extremeopposition, I am sorry to say--that this town of Flamsted would soonmake itself a factor in the vast industrial life of our marvellouscountry. In retrospect, I reflect that those who had this faith, thistrust in the resources of their native town, were looked upon withscorn; were subjected to personal derision; were termed, to put itmildly, 'mere dreamers'--if I am not mistaken, the original expressionwas 'darned boomers. ' Mr. Wiggins, here, our esteemed wholesale andretail pharmacist, will correct me if I am wrong on this point--"

He paused again as if expecting an answer; nothing was forthcoming but adecidedly embarrassed "Hem, " from the afore-named pharmacist. TheColonel was satisfied. 

"Now, gentlemen, in refutation of that term--I will not repeatmyself--and what it implied, after fourteen years, comparable to thoseseven fat kine of Pharaoh's dream, our town can point throughout thelength and breadth of our land to its monumental works of art andutility that may well put to blush the renowned record of the Greeks andRomans. "

Prolonged applause and a ringing cheer. 

"All over our fair land the granite monoliths of _Flamsted_, beacon orbattle, point heavenwards. The transcontinental roads, that track andnerve our country, cross and re-cross the raging torrents of westernrivers on granite abutments from the _Flamsted_ quarries! The laws, alike for the just and unjust, "--the Colonel did not perceive his slip, but Elmer Wiggins smiled to himself, --"are promulgated within thestately granite halls of the capitals of our statehood--_Flamsted_again! The gospel of praise and prayer will shortly resound beneath thearches of the choir and nave of the great granite cathedral--the productof the quarries in The Gore!"

Deafening applause, clinking of glasses, and cries of "Good!True--Hear--Hear!"

The Colonel beamed and gathered himself together with a visible effortfor his peroration. He laid his hand on his heart. 

"A man of feeling, gentlemen, has a heart. He is not oblivious either ofthe needs of his neighbor, his community, or the world in general. Although he is vulnerable to wounds in the house of his friends, "--asevere look falls upon Wiggins, --"he is not impervious to appeal forsympathy from without. I trust I have defined a man of feeling, gentlemen, a man of heart, as regards the world in general. And now, tomake an abrupt descent from the abstract to the concrete, from thegeneral to the particular, I will permit myself to say that thoseaspersions cast upon me fourteen years ago as a mere promoter, irrespective of my manhood, hurt me as a man of feeling--a man of heart. 

"Sir--" he turned again to Elmer Wiggins who was apparently thelightning conductor for the Colonel's fourteen years of pent-upinjury--"a father has his feelings. You are _not_ a father--I draw noconclusions; but _if_ you had been a father fourteen years ago in thisvery room, I would have trusted to your magnanimity not to giveexpression to your decided views on the subject of the native Americans'intermarriage with those of a race foreign to us. I assure you, sir, such a view not only narrows the mind, but constricts humanity, andossifies the heart--that special organ by which the world, despitepresent-day detractors, lives and moves and has its being. " (Murmuringassent. )

"But, sir, I believe you have come to see otherwise, else as my guest onthis happy occasion, I should not permit myself to apply to you sopersonal a remark. And, gentlemen, " the Colonel swelled visibly, butthose nearest him caught the shimmer of a suspicious moisture in hiseyes, "I am in a position to-night--this night whereon you have added tomy happiness by your presence at this board--to repeat now what I saidfourteen years ago in this very room: I consider myself honored in thata member of my immediate family, one very, very dear to me, " his voiceshook in spite of his effort to strengthen it, "is contemplatingentering into the solemn estate of matrimony at no distant date with--aforeigner, gentlemen, but a naturalized citizen of our great andglorious United States. Gentlemen, " he filled his glass again and heldit high above his head, --"I give you with all my heart Mr. Luigi Poggi, an honored and prosperous citizen of Flamsted--my future son-in-law--theprospective husband of my youngest daughter, Dulcibella Caukins. "

The company rose to a man, young Caukins assisting Quimber to his feet. 

With loud and hearty acclaim they welcomed the new member of the Caukinsfamily; they crowded about the Colonel, and no hand that grasped his andLuigi's in congratulation was firmer and more cordial than ElmerWiggins'. The Colonel's smile expanded; he was satisfied--the old scorewas wiped out. 

Afterwards with cigars and pipes they discussed for an hour the affairsof Flamsted. The influx of foreigners with their families was causing ashortage of houses and housing. Emlie proposed the establishment of aLoan and Mortgage Company to help out the newcomers. Poggi laid beforethem his plan for an Italian House to receive the unmarried men on theirarrival. 

"By the way, " he said, turning to the new head of the Upper Quarry, "youbrought up a crowd with you this afternoon, didn't you?--mostly mycountrymen?"

"No, a mixed lot--about thirty. A few Scotch and English came up on thesame train. Have they applied to you?" He addressed the manager of theCompany's sheds. 

"No. I think they'll be along Monday. I've noticed that those twonationalities generally have relations who house and look out for themwhen they come. But I had an application from an American just after thetrain came in; I don't often have that now. "

"Did you take him on?" the Colonel asked between two puffs of hisHavana. 

"Yes; and he went to work in Shed Number Two. I confess he puzzles me. "

"What was he like?" asked the head of the Upper Quarry. 

"Tall, blue eyes, gray hair, but only thirty-four as the registershowed--misfit clothes--"

"That's the one--he came up in the train with me. I noticed him in thecar. I don't believe he moved a muscle all the way up. I couldn't makehim out, could you?"

"Well, no, I couldn't. By the way, Colonel, I noticed the name heentered was a familiar one in this part of Maine--Googe--"

"Googe!" The Colonel looked at the speaker in amazement; "did he givehis first name?"

"Yes, Louis--Louis C. Googe--"

"My God!"

Whether the ejaculation proceeded from one mouth or five, the managerand foreman could not distinguish; but the effect on the Flamsted menwas varied and remarkable. The Colonel's cigar dropped from his shakinghand; his face was ashen. Emlie and Wiggins stared at each other as ifthey had taken leave of their senses. Joel Quimber leaned forward, hishands folded on the head of his cane, and spoke to Octavius who satrigid on his chair:

"What'd he say, Tave?--Champ to home?"

But Octavius Buzzby was beyond the power of speech. Augustus spoke forhim:

"He said a man applied for work in the sheds this afternoon, Uncle Jo, who wrote his name Louis C. Googe. "

"Thet's him--thet's Champ--Champ's to home. You help me inter my coat, Tave, I 'm goin' to see ef's true--" He rose with difficulty. ThenOctavius spoke; his voice shook:

"No, Uncle Jo, you sit still a while; if it's Champney, we can't none ofus see him to-night. " He pushed him gently into his chair. 

The Colonel was rousing himself. He stepped to the telephone and calledup Father Honoré. 

"Father Honoré--

"This is Colonel Caukins. Can you tell me if there is any truth in thereport that Champney Googe has returned to-day?

"Thank God. "

He put up the receiver, but still remained standing. 

"Gentlemen, " he said to the manager and the Upper Quarry guest, hisvoice was thick with emotion and the tears of thankfulness were coursingdown his cheeks, "perhaps no greater gift could be bestowed on mysixty-fifth birthday than Champney Googe's return to his home--hismother--his friends--we are all his friends. Perhaps the years arebeginning to tell on me, but I feel that I must excuse myself to you andgo home--I want to tell my wife. I will explain all to you, as strangersamong us, some other time; for the present I must beg yourindulgence--joy never kills, but I am experiencing the fact that it canweaken. "

"That's all right, Colonel, " said the manager; "we understand itperfectly and it's late now. "

"I'll go, too, Colonel, " said Octavius; "I'm going to take Uncle Jo homein the trap. "

Luigi Poggi helped the Colonel into his great coat. When he left theroom with his prospective father-in-law, his handsome face had notregained the color it lost upon the first mention of Champney's name. 

Emlie and Wiggins remained a few minutes to explain as best they couldthe situation to the stranger guests, and the cause of the excitement. 

"I remember now hearing about this affair; I read it in thenewspapers--it must have been seven or eight years ago. "

"Six years and four months. " Mr. Wiggins corrected him. 

"I guess it'll be just as well not to spread the matter much among themen--they might kick; besides he isn't, of course, a union man. "

"There's one thing in his favor, " it was Emlie who spoke, "themanagement and the men have changed since it occurred, and there arevery few except our home folks that would be apt to mention it--and theycan be trusted where Champney Googe is concerned. "

The four went out together. 

The grill room of The Greenbush was empty save for Augustus Buzzby whosat smoking before the dying fire. Old visions were before his eyes--oneof the office on a June night many years ago; the five friendsdiscussing Champney Googe's prospects; the arrival of Father Honoré andlittle Aileen Armagh--so Luigi had at last given up hope in thatdirection for good and all. 

The town clock struck twelve. He sighed heavily; it was for the oldtimes, the old days, the old life. 

VIII

It was several months before Aileen saw him. Her close attendance onMrs. Champney and her avoidance of the precincts of The Gore--Maggiecomplained loudly to Mrs. Googe that Aileen no longer ran in as she usedto do, and Mrs. Caukins confided to her that she thought Aileen mightfeel sensitive about Luigi's engagement, for she had been there buttwice in five months--precluded the possibility of her meeting him. Sheexcused herself to Mrs. Googe and the Sisters on the ground of hernumerous duties at Champ-au-Haut; Ann and Hannah were both well on inyears and Mrs. Champney was failing daily. 

It was perhaps five months after his return that she was sitting oneafternoon in Mrs. Champney's room, in attendance on her while theregular nurse was out for two hours. There had been no conversationbetween them for nearly the full time, when Mrs. Champney spoke abruptlyfrom the bed:

"I heard last month that Champney Googe is back again--has been back forfive months; why didn't you tell me before?"

The voice was very weak, but querulous and sharp. Aileen was sewing atthe window. She did not look up. 

"Because I didn't suppose you liked him well enough to care about hiscoming home; besides, it was Octavius' place to tell you. "

"Well, I don't care about his coming, or his going either, for thatmatter, but I do care about knowing things that happen under my verynose within a reasonable time of their happening. I'm not in my dotageyet, I'll have you to understand. "

Aileen was silent. 

"Come, say something, can't you?" she snapped. 

"What do you want me to say, Mrs. Champney?" She spoke wearily, but notimpatiently. The daily, almost hourly demands of this sick old womanhad, in a way, exhausted her. 

"Tell me what he's doing. "

"He's at work. "

"Where?"

"In the sheds--Shed Number Two. "

"What!" Paralysis prevented any movement of her hands, but her headjerked on the pillow to one side, towards Aileen. 

"I said he was at work in the sheds. "

"What's Champney Googe doing in the sheds?"

"Earning his living, I suppose, like other men. "

Almeda Champney was silent for a while. Aileen could but wonder what thethoughts might be that were filling the shrivelled box of thebrain--what were the feelings in the ossifying heart of the woman whohad denied help to one of her own blood in time of need. Had she anyfeeling indeed, except that for self?

"Have you seen him?"

"No. "

"I should think he would want to hide his head for shame. "

"I don't see why. " She spoke defiantly. 

"Why? Because I don't see how after such a career a man can hold up hishead among his own. "

Aileen bit her under lip to keep back the sharp retort. She choseanother and safer way. 

"Oh, " she said brightly, looking over to Mrs. Champney with a franksmile, "but he has really just begun his career, you know--"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean he has just begun honest work among honest men, and that's thebest career for him or any other man to my thinking. "

"Umph!--little you know about it. "

Aileen laughed outright. "Oh, I know more than you think I do, Mrs. Champney. I haven't lived twenty-six years for nothing, and what I'veseen, I've seen--and I've no near-sighted eyes to trouble me either; andwhat I've heard, I've heard, for my ears are good--regular long-distancetelephones sometimes. "

She was not prepared for the next move on Mrs. Champney's part. 

"I believe you would marry him now--after all, if he asked you. " Shespoke with a sneer. 

"Do you really believe it?" She folded her work and prepared to leavethe room, for she heard the nurse's step in the hall below. "Well, ifyou do, I'll tell you something, Mrs. Champney, but I'd like it to bebetween us. " She crossed the room and paused beside the bed. 

"What?"

She bent slightly towards her. "I would rather marry a man who earns histhree dollars a day at honest work of quarrying or cutting stones, --orbreaking them, for that matter, "--she added under her breath, "but I'mnot saying he would be any relation of yours--than a man who doesn'tknow what a day's toil is except to cudgel his brains tired, withcontriving the quickest means of making his millions double themselvesat other people's expense in twenty-four hours. "

The nurse opened the door. Mrs. Champney spoke bitterly:

"You little fool--you think you know, but--" aware of the nurse, sheended fretfully, "you wear me out, talking so much. Tell Hannah to makeme some fresh tamarind water--and bring it up quick. "

By the time Aileen had brought up the refreshment, she had half repentedof her words. Mrs. Champney had been failing perceptibly the last fewweeks, and all excitement was forbidden her. For this reason she hadbeen kept so long in ignorance of Champney's return. As Aileen held thedrinking tube to her lips, she noticed that the faded sunken eyes, fixedupon her intently, were not inimical--and she was thankful. She desiredto live in peace, if possible, with this pitiable old age so long as itshould last--a few weeks at the longest. The lesson of the piece ofgranite was not lost upon her. She kept the specimen on a little shelfover her bed. 

She went down stairs into the library to answer a telephone call; it wasfrom Maggie McCann who begged her to come up that afternoon to see her;the matter was important and could not wait. Aileen knew by the pleadingtone of the voice, which sounded unnatural, that she was needed forsomething. She replied she would go up at once. She put on her hat, andwhile waiting for the tram at The Bow, bought a small bag of gumdropsfor Billy. 

Maggie received her with open arms and a gush of tears; thereupon Billy, now tottering on his unsteady feet, flopped suddenly on the floor andhowled with true Irish good will. 

"Why, Maggie, what _is_ the matter!" she exclaimed. 

"Och, Aileen, darlin', me heart's in smithereens, and I'm that deep introuble that me head's like to rend--an' Jim's all broke up--"

"What is it; do tell me, Maggie--can I help?" she urged, catching upBilly and endeavoring to smother his howls with kisses. 

Mrs. McCann wiped her reddened eyes, took off her apron and sat down ina low chair by Aileen who was filling Billy's small mouth, convenientlyopen for another howl upon perceiving his mother wipe her eyes, with asizable gumdrop. 

"The little gells be over to the kindergarten with the Sisters, an' Ithought I'd clane go out of me mind if I couldn't have a word wid youbefore Jim gets home--Och, Aileen, dearie, me home I'm so proud of--"She choked, and Billy immediately repudiated his gumdrop upon Aileen'sclean linen skirt; his eyes were reading the signs of the times in hismother's face. 

"Now, Maggie, dear, tell me all about it. Begin at the beginning, andthen I'll know where you're at. "

Maggie smiled faintly. "Sure, I wouldn't blame you for not knowin' whereI'm at. " Mrs. McCann sniffed several times prefatorily. 

"You know I told you Jim had a temper, Aileen--"

Aileen nodded in assent; she was busy coaxing the rejected ball intoBilly's puckered mouth. 

"--And that there's times whin he querrels wid the men--"

"Yes. "

"Well, you know Mr. Googe bein' in the same shed an' section wid Jim, Isays innercent-like to Jim:--'I'm glad he's in your section, Jim, belikeyou can make it a bit aisier for him. '

"'Aisy is it?' says Jim. 

"'Yes, aisy, ' says I. 

"'An' wot wud I be after makin' a job aisier for the likes of him?' hesays, grouchy-like. 

"'An' why not?' says I. 

"'For a jail-bird?' says he. 

"'Deed, ' says I, 'if yer own b'y had been breakin' stones wid a gang oftoughs for sivin long years gone, wouldn't ye be after likin' a man tospake wan daycint word wid him?' says I. 

"Wid that Jim turned on quick-like an' says:--

"'I'll thank ye, Mrs. McCann, to kape yer advice to yerself. It's notJim McCann's b'y that'll be doin' the dirthy job that yer Mr. ChampneyGooge was after doin' six years gone, nor be after takin' the bread an'butter out of an honest man's mout' that has a wife an' three childer tofeed. He's a convic', ' says Jim. 

"'What if he is?' says I. 

"'I don't hold wid no convic's, ' says Jim; 'I hold wid honest men; an'if it's convic's be comin' to take the best piece-work out of our hands, it's time we struck--to a man, ' says Jim. 

"Niver, niver but wanct has Jim called me 'Mrs. McCann, '" Maggie saidbrokenly, but stifled a sob for Billy's sake; "an' niver wanct has hegone to work widout kissin' me an' the childer, sometimes twiceround--but he went out yisterday an' niver turned for wan look at wifean' childer; an' me heart was that heavy in my bosom that me b'y refusedthe breast an' cried like to kill himself for wan mortal hour, an' thelittle gells cried too, an' me bread burnin' to a crisp, an' I couldn'tdo wan thing but just sit down wid me hands full of cryin' childer--an'me heart cryin' like a child wid 'em. "

Aileen tried to comfort. 

"But, Maggie, such things will happen in the happiest married lives, andwith the best of husbands. Jim will get over it--I suppose he has bythis time; you say it isn't like to him to hold anger long--"

"But he hasn't!" Maggie broke forth afresh, and between mother and son, who immediately followed suit, a deluge threatened. "Wan of thestone-cutters' wives, Mrs. MacLoughanchan, he works in the same sectionas Jim, told me about it--"

"About what?" Aileen asked, hoping to get some continuity into Maggie'srelation of her marital woes. 

"The fight at the sheds. "

"What fight?" Aileen put the question with a sickening fear at herheart. 

"The fight betwixt Jim an' Mr. Googe--"

"What do you mean, Maggie?"

"I mane wot I say, " Maggie replied with some show of spirit, forAileen's tone of voice was peremptory; "Jim McCann, me husband, an' Mr. Googe had words in the shed--"

"What words?"

"Just lave me time an' I'll tell you, Aileen. You be after catchin' meshort up betwixt ivery word, an' more be token as if't was your own man, instid of mine, ye was worrittin' about. I said they had words, but byrights I should say it was Jim as had them. Jim was mad because the bossin Shed Number Two give Mr. Googe a piece of work he had been savin' an'promisin' him; an' Jim made a fuss about it, an' the boss said he'd giveJim another, but Jim wanted _that wan piece_; an' Jim threatened to getup a strike, an' if there's a strike Jim'll lave the place an' I'll loseme home--ochone--"

"Go on, Maggie. " Aileen was trying to anticipate Maggie's tale, and inanticipation of the worst happening to Champney Googe, she lost herpatience. She could not bear the suspense. 

"But Jim didn't sass the boss--he sassed Mr. Googe. 'T was this way, soMrs. MacLoughanchan says--Jim said niver a word about the fight to me, but he said he would lave the place if they didn't strike--Mr. Googesays, 'McCann, the foreman says you're to begin on the two keystones atwanct--at wanct, ' says he, repating it because Jim said niver a word. An' Jim fires up an' says under his breath:

"'I don't take no orders from convic's, ' says he. 

"'What did you say, McCann?' says Mr. Googe, steppin' up to him wid aglint in his eye that Jim didn't mind he was so mad; an' instid ofrepatin' it quiet-like, Jim says, steppin' outside the shed when he seethe boss an' Mr. Googe followin' him, loud enough for the whole shed tohear:

'"I don't take orders from no convic's--' an' then--" Maggie laid herhand suddenly over her heart as if in pain, '"Take that back, McCann, 'says Mr. Googe--'I'll give you the wan chanct. '--An' then Jim swore an'said he'd see him an' himself in hell first, an' then, before Jim knewwot happened, Mr. Googe lit out wid his fist--an' Jim layin' out on thegrass, for Mrs. MacLoughanchan says her man said Mr. Googe picked a softplace to drop him in; an' Mr. Googe helps Jim to his feet, an' holds outhis hand an' says:

"'Shake hands, McCann, an' we'll start afresh--'

"But, oh, Aileen! Jim wouldn't, an' Mr. Googe turned away sad-like, an'then Jim comes home, an' widout a word to his wife, says if they don'tstrike, because there's a convic' an' a no union man a-workin''longside of him in his section, he'll lave an' give up his jobhere--an' it's two hundred he's paid down out of his wages, an' mea-savin' from morn till night on me home--an' 't was to be me very ownbecause Jim says no man alive can tell when he'll be dead in thequarries an' the sheds. "

She wept afresh and Billy was left unconsoled, for Maggie, wiping hereyes to look at Aileen and wonder at her silence, saw that she, too, wasweeping; but the tears rolled silently one after another down herflushed cheeks. 

"Och, Aileen, darlin'! Don't ye cry wid me--me burden's heavy enoughwidout the weight of wan of your tears--say something to comfort meheart about Jim. "

"I can't, Maggie, I think it's wicked for Jim to say such things to Mr. Googe--everybody knows what he has been through. And it would serve JimMcCann but right, " she added hotly, "if the time should come when hisBilly should have the same cruel words said to him--"

"Don't--don't--for the love of the Mother of God, don't say such things, Aileen!" She caught up the sorely perplexed and troubled Billy, andburied her face in his red curls. "Don't for the sake of the mother Iam, an' only a mother can know how the Mother of God himself felt widher crucified Son an' the bitter words he had to hear--ye're not amother, Aileen, an' so I won't lay it up too much against ye--"

Aileen interrupted her with exceeding bitterness;

"No, I'm not a mother, Maggie, and I never shall be. "

Maggie looked at her in absolute incomprehension. "I thought you wascryin' for me, an' Jim, an' all our prisent troubles, but I belave yercryin' for--"

Mrs. McCann stopped short; she was still staring at Aileen who suddenlylifted her brimming eyes to hers. --What Mrs. McCann read therein shenever accurately defined, even to Jim; but, whatever it was, it caused arevulsion of feeling in Maggie's sorely bruised heart. She set Billydown on the floor without any ceremony, much to that little man'ssurprise, and throwing her arms around Aileen drew her close with atruly maternal caress. 

"Och, darlin'--darlin'--" she said in the voice with which she soothedBilly to sleep, "darlin' Aileen, an' has your puir heart been bearin'this all alone, an' me talkin' an' pratin' about me Jim to ye, an' howbeautiful it is to be married!--'Deed an' it is, darlin', an' if Jimwasn't a man he'd be an angel sure; but it's not Maggie McCann that'swantin' her husband to be an angel yet, an' you must just forgive him, Aileen, an' you'll find yerself that no man's parfection, an' a womanhas to be after takin' thim as they be--lovin' an' gentle be times, an'cross as Cain whin yer expectin' thim to be swateheartin' wid ye; an'wake when ye think they're after bein' rale giants; an' strong whinye're least lookin' for it; an ginerous by spells an' spendthrifts widtheir 'baccy, an' skinflints wid their own, an'--an'--just common, downright aggravatin', lovable men, darlin'--There now! Yer smilin'again like me old Aileen, an' bad cess to the wan that draws anothertear from your swate Irish eyes. " She kissed her heartily. 

In trying to make amends Mrs. McCann forgot her own woes; taking Billyin her arms, she went to the stove and set on the kettle. 

"It's four past, an' Jim'll be comin' in tired and worritted, so I'llput on an extra potater or two an' a good bit of bacon an' some pase. Stay wid us, Aileen. "

"No, Maggie, I can't; besides you and Jim will want the house toyourself till you get straightened out--and, Maggie, it _will_straighten out, don't you worry. "

"'Deed, an' I'll not waste me breath another time tellin' me troubles toa heart that's sorer than me own--good-bye, darlin', an' me best thanksfor comin' up so prompt to me in me trouble. It's good to have a friend, Aileen, an' we've been friendly that long that it seems as if me ownburden must be yours. "

Aileen smiled, leaning to kiss Billy as he clung to his mother's neck. 

"I'll come up whenever you want me and I can get away, Maggie, an' nexttime I'll bring you more comfort, I hope. Good-bye. "

"Och, darlin'!--T'row a kiss, Billy. Look, Aileen, at the kisses meb'y's t'rowin' yer!" she exclaimed delightedly; and Billy, in theexuberance of his joy that tears were things of the past, continued tothrow kisses after the lady till she disappeared down the street. 

IX

Oh, but her heart was hot with indignation as she walked along the road, her eyes were stung with scalding tears, her thoughts turbulent andrebellious! Why must he suffer such indignities from a man like JimMcCann! How dared a man, that was a man, taunt another like that! Thehand holding her sun umbrella gripped the handle tightly, and throughset teeth she said to herself: "I hate them all--hate them!"

The declining July sun was hot upon her; the road-bed, gleaming whitewith granite dust, blinded her. She looked about for some shelter whereshe could wait for the down car; there was none in sight, except thepines over by Father Honoré's and the sisterhood house an eighth of amile beyond. She continued to stand there in the glare and theheat--miserable, dejected, rebellious, until the tram halted for her. The car was an open one; there was no other occupant. As it sped downthe curving road to the lake shore, the breeze, created by its movement, was more than grateful to her. She took off her shade-hat to enjoy thefull benefit of it. 

At the switch, half way down, the tram waited for the up car. She couldhear it coming from afar; the overhead wires vibrated to the extra powerneeded on the steep grade. It came in sight, crowded with workmen ontheir way home to Quarry End; the rear platform was black with them. Itpassed over the switch slowly, passed within two feet of her seat. Sheturned to look at it, wondering at its capacity for so many--andlooked, instead, directly into the face of Champney Googe who stood onthe lower step, his dinner-pail on his arm, the arm thrust through theguard. 

At sight of her, so near him that the breath of each might have beenfelt on the cheek of the other, he raised his workman's cap--

She saw the gray head, the sudden pallor on brow and cheek, the deep, slightly sunken eyes fixed upon her as if on her next move hung theowner's hope of eternal life--the eyes moved with the slowly moving carto focus _her_. . . . 

To Aileen Armagh that face, changed as it was, was a glimpse of heavenon earth, and that heaven was reflected in the smile with which shegreeted it. She did more:--unheeding the many faces that were turnedtowards her, she leaned from the car, her eyes following him, thelove-light still radiating from her every feature, till he was carriedbeyond sight around the curving base of the Flamsted Hills. 

She heard nothing more externally, saw nothing more, until she foundherself at The Corners instead of The Bow. The tumult within herrendered her deaf to the clanging of the electric gong, blind to thepeople who had entered along Main Street. Love, and love alone, wasringing its joy-bells in her soul till external sounds grew muffled, indistinct; until she became unaware of her surroundings. Love wasknocking so loudly at her heart that the bounding blood pulsed rhythmicin her ears. Love was claiming her wholly, possessing her soul andbody--but no longer that idealizing love of her young girlhood andwomanhood. Rather it was that love which is akin to the divine raptureof maternity--the love that gives all, that sacrifices all, whichdemands nothing of the loved one save to love, to shield, tocomfort--the love that makes of a true woman's breast not only a restwhereon a man, as well as his babe, may pillow a weary head, but a roundtower of strength within which there beats a heart of high courage forhim who goes forth to the daily battlefield of Life. 

She rode back to The Bow. Hannah called to her from the kitchen doorwhen she saw her coming up the driveway:

"Come round here a minute, Aileen. "

"What is it, Hannah?" Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to speaknaturally. She prayed Hannah might not notice. 

"Here's a little broth I've made for Uncle Jo Quimber. I heard he wasn'tvery well, and I wish you'd take this down to him before supper. Tellhim it won't hurt him and it's real strengthenin'. "

"I will go now, and--Hannah, don't mind if I don't come home to supperto-night; I'm not hungry; it's too hot to eat. If I want anything, I'llget a glass of milk in the pantry afterwards. If Mrs. Champney shouldwant me, tell Octavius he'll find me down by the boat house. "

"Mis' Champney ain't so well, to-night, the nurse says. I guess it'sthis heat is telling on her. "

"I should think it would--even I feel it. " She was off again down thedriveway, glad to be moving, for a strange restlessness was upon her. 

She found Joel Quimber sitting in his arm chair on the back porch of thelittle house belonging to his grand-niece. The old man looked feeble, exhausted and white; but his eyes brightened on seeing Aileen come roundthe corner of the porch. 

"What you got there, Aileen?"

"Something good for you, Uncle Jo. Hannah made it for you on purpose. "She showed him the broth. 

"Hannah's a good soul, I thank her kindly. Set down, Aileen, set down. "

"I'm afraid you're too tired to have company to-night, Uncle Jo. "

"Lord, no--you ain't comp'ny, Aileen, an' I ain't never too tired tohave your comp'ny either. "

She smiled and took her seat on the lower step, at his feet. 

"Jest thinkin' of you, Aileen--"

"Me, Uncle Jo? What put me into your head?"

"You're in a good part of the time ef you did but know it. "

"Oh, Uncle Jo, did they teach you how to flatter like that in the littleold schoolhouse you showed me years ago at The Corners?"

Old Joel Quimber chuckled weakly. 

"No--not thar. A man, ef he's any kind of a man, don't have to learn hisa-b-c before he can tell a good-lookin' gal she's in his head, or hisheart--jest which you're a min' ter--most of the time. Yes, I wasthinkin' of you, Aileen--you an' Champney. "

The color died out entirely from Aileen's cheeks, and then surged intothem again till she put her hands to her face to cool their throbbing. She was wondering if Love had entered into some conspiracy with Fateto-day to keep this beloved name ever in her ears. 

"What about me and Mr. Googe?" She spoke in a low tone, her face wasturned away from the old man to the meadows and the sheds in thedistance. 

"I was a-thinkin' of this time fourteen year ago this very month. Champan' me was walkin' up an' down the street, an' he was tellin' me 'boutthat serenade, an' how you'd give him a rosebud with pepper in it--Lord, Aileen, you was a case, an' no mistake! An' I was thinkin', too, whatChamp said to me thet very night. He was tellin' 'bout thet greathell-gate of New York, an' he said, 'You've got to swim with the rest oryou'd go under, Uncle Jo, '--'go under, ' them's his very words. An' Isaid, 'Like enough _you_ would, Champ--I ain't ben thar--'"

He paused a moment, shuffled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then he spoke again, but in so low a tone that Aileen could barely catchthe words:

"An' he went under, Champ did--went under--"

Aileen felt, without seeing, for her face was still turned to themeadows and the sheds, that the old man was leaning to her. Then sheheard his voice in her ear:

"Hev you seen him?"

"Once, Uncle Jo. "

"You're his friend, ain't you, Aileen?"

"Yes. " Her voice trembled. 

"Guess we're all his friends in Flamsted--I heered they fit in the shed, Champ an' Jim McCann--it hadn't ought 'a'-ben, Aileen--hadn't ought'a'-ben; but't warn't Champ's fault, you may bet your life on thet. Champ went under, but he didn't stay under--you remember thet, Aileen. An' I can't nowise blame him, now he's got his head above water agin, for not stan'in' it to have a man like McCann heave a stone at him jestez he's makin' for shore. 'T ain't right, an' the old Judge use ter say, 'What ain't right hadn't ought ter be. '"

He waited a while to regain his scant breath; the long speech hadexhausted it. At last he chuckled weakly to himself, "Champ's a devilof a feller--" he caught up his words as if he were saying too much;laid his hand on Aileen's head; turned her face half round to his and, leaning, whispered again in her ear:

"Don't you go back on Champ, promise me thet, Aileen. "

She sprang to her feet and laid her hand in his. 

"I promise, Uncle Jo. "

"Thet's a good girl. " He laid his other hand over hers. "You stick byChamp an' stick up for him too; he's good blood, an' ef he did go underfor a spell, he ain't no worse 'n the rest, nor half ez bad; for Champwent in _of his own accord--of his own accord_, " he repeatedsignificantly, "an' don't you forget thet, Aileen! Thet takes grit;mebbe you wouldn't think so, but it does. Champ makes me think of themdivers, I've read an' heerd about, thet dives for pearls. Some on 'emcomes up all right, but some of 'em go under for good an' all. Champdove mighty deep--he was diving for money, which he figured was hispearl, Aileen--an' he most went under for good an' all without gettin'what he wanted, an' now he's come to the surface agin, it's all ben wuthit--he's got the pearl, Aileen, but t'ain't the one he expected toget--he told me so t' other night. We set here him an' me, an'understan' one 'nother even when we don't talk--jest set an' smoke an'puff--"

"What pearl is it, Uncle Jo?" She whispered her question, half fearing, but wholly longing to hear the old man's answer. 

"Guess he'll tell you himself sometime, Aileen. "

He leaned back in his chair; he was tired. Aileen stooped and kissed himon the forehead. 

"Goodnight, Uncle Jo, " she said softly, "an' don't forget Hannah'sbroth or there'll be trouble at Champo. "

He roused himself again. 

"I heered from Tave to-day thet Mis' Champney is pretty low. "

"Yes, she feels this heat in her condition. "

"Like enough--like enough; guess we all do a little. " Then he seemed tospeak to himself:--"She was rough on Champ, " he murmured. 

Aileen left him with that name on his lips. 

On her return to Champ-au-Haut, she went down to the boat house to sit awhile in its shade. The surface of the lake was motionless, but thereflection of the surrounding heights and shores was slightly veiled, owing to the heat-haze that quivered above it. 

Aileen was reliving the experience of the last seven years, theconsummation of which was the knowledge that Champney Googe loved her. She was sure of this now. She had felt it intuitively during thetwilight horror of that October day in The Gore. But how, when, wherewould he speak the releasing word--the supreme word of love that alonecould atone, that alone could set her free? Would he ever speakit?--could he, after that avowal of the unreasoning passion for herwhich had taken possession of him seven years ago? And, moreover, whathad not that avowal and its expression done to her?

Her cheek paled at the thought:--he had kissed love into her for alltime; and during all his years of imprisonment she had been held inthrall, as it were, to him and to his memory. All her rebellion at suchthraldom, all her disgust at her weakness, as she termed it, all herhatred, engendered by the unpalatable method he had used to enthrallher, all her struggle to forget, to live again her life free of anyentanglement with Champney Googe, all her endeavors to care for othermen, had availed her naught. Love she must--and Champney Googe remainedthe object of that love. Father Honoré's words gave her courage to liveon--loving. 

"Champney--Champney, " she said low to herself. She covered her face withher hands. The mere taking of his name on her lips eased the exaltationof her mood. She rejoiced that she had been able that afternoon to showhim how it stood with her after these many years; for the look in hiseyes, when he recognized her, told her that she alone could hold to hislips the cup that should quench his thirst. Oh, she would be to him whatno other woman could ever have been, ever could be--no other! She knewthis. He knew it. When, oh, when would the word be spoken?

She withdrew her hands from her face, and looked up the lake to thesheds. The sun was nearing the horizon, and against its clear red lightthe gray buildings loomed large and dark. --And there was his place!

She sprang to her feet, ready to act upon a sudden thought. If she werenot needed at the house, she would go up to the sheds; perhaps she couldwalk off the restlessness that kept urging her to action. At any rate, she could find comfort in thinking of his presence there during the day;she would be for a time, at least, in his environment. She knew JimMcCann's section; she and Maggie had been there more than once to watchthe progress of some great work. 

On the way up to the house she met Octavius. 

"Where you going, Aileen?"

"Up to the house to see if I'm needed. If they don't want me, I'm goingup to the sheds for a walk. They say they look like cathedrals thisweek, so many of the arches and pillars are ready to be shipped. "

"There's no need of your going up to the house. Mis' Champney ain't sowell, and the nurse says she give orders for no one to come nighher--for she's sent for Father Honoré. "

"Father Honoré! What can she want of him?" she asked in genuinesurprise. "He hasn't been here for over a year. "

"Well, anyway, I've got my orders to fetch Father Honoré, and I was justasking Hannah where you were. I thought you might like to ride up withme; I've harnessed up in the surrey. "

"I won't drive way up, Tave; but I'd like you to put me down at thesheds. Maggie says it's really beautiful now in Shed Number Two. WhileI'm waiting for you, I can nose round all I want to and you can pick meup there on your way back. Just wait till I run up to the house to seethe nurse myself, will you?" Octavius nodded. 

She ran up the steps of the terrace, and on her return found Octaviuswith the surrey at the front door. 

Aileen was silent during the first part of the drive. This was unusualwhen the two were together, and, after waiting a while, Octavius spoke:

"I'm wondering what she wants to see Father Honoré for. "

"I'd like to know myself. "

"It's got into my head, and somehow I can't get it out, that it'ssomething to do with Champney--"

"Champney!--" the name slipped unawares through the red barrier of herlips; she bit them in vexation at their betrayal of her thought--"youmean Champney Googe?" She tried to speak indifferently. 

"Who else should I mean?" Octavius answered shortly. Aileen's ways attimes, especially during these last few years when Champney Googe's namehappened to be mentioned in her presence, were irritating in the extremeto the faithful factotum at Champ-au-Haut. 

"I wish, Aileen, you'd get over your grudge against him--"

"What grudge?"

"You can tell that best yourself--there's no use your playing off--Idon't pretend to know anything about it, but I can put my finger on thevery year and the very month you turned against Champney Googe whonever had anything but a pleasant word for you ever since you was sohigh--" he indicated a few feet on his whipstock--"and first come toChampo. 'T ain't generous, Aileen; 't ain't like a true woman; 't ain'tlike you to go back on a man just because he has sinned. He stands inneed of us all now, although they say at the sheds he can hold his ownwith the best of 'em--I heard the manager telling Emlie he'd be foremanof Shed Number Two if he kept on, for he's the only one can get on withall of the foreigners; guess Jim McCann knows--"

"What do you mean by the year and the month?"

"I mean what I say. 'T was in August seven years ago--but p'r'aps youdon't remember, " he said. His sarcasm was intentional. 

She made no reply, but smiled to herself--a smile so exasperating toOctavius that he sulked a few minutes in silence. After another eighthof a mile, she spoke with apparent interest:

"What makes you think Mrs. Champney wants to see Father Honoré about hernephew?"

"Because it looks that way. This afternoon, when you was out, she got meto move Mr. Louis' picture from the library to her room, and I had tohang it on the wall opposite her bed--" Octavius paused--"I believe shedon't think she'll last long, and she don't look as if she could either. Last week she had Emlie up putting a codicil to her will. The nurse toldme she was one of the witnesses, she and Emlie and the doctor--catch herletting me see any of her papers!" He reined into the road that led tothe sheds. 

"I hope to God she'll do him justice this time, " he spoke aloud, butevidently to himself. 

"How do you mean, Tave?"

"I mean by giving him what's his by rights; that's what I mean. " Hespoke emphatically. 

"He wouldn't be the man I think he is if he ever took a cent fromher--not after what she did!" she exclaimed hotly. 

Octavius turned and looked at her in amazement. 

"That's the first time I ever heard you speak up for Champney Googe, an'I've known you since before you knew him. Well, it's better late thannever. " He spoke with a degree of satisfaction in his tone that did notescape Aileen. "Which door shall I leave you at?"

"Round at the west--there are some people coming out now--here we are. You'll find me here when you come back. "

"I shall be back within a half an hour; I telephoned Father Honoré I wascoming up--you're sure you don't mind waiting here alone? I'll get backbefore dusk. "

"What should I be afraid of? I won't let the stones fall on me!"

She sprang to the ground. Octavius turned the horse and drove off. 

 * * * * *

On entering the shed she caught her breath in admiration. The level raysof the July sun shone into the gray interior illumining the farthestcorners. Their glowing crimson flushed the granite to a scarcelyperceptible rose. Portions of the noble arches, parts of the architrave, sculptured cornice and keystone, drums, pediments and capitals, stonemullions, here and there a huge monolith, caught the ethereal flush andtransformed Shed Number Two into a temple of beauty. 

She sought the section near the doors, where Jim McCann worked, and satdown on one of the granite blocks--perhaps the very one on which _he_was at work. The fancy was a pleasing one. Now and then she laid herhand caressingly on the cool stone and smiled to herself. Some men andwomen were looking at the huge Macdonald machine over in the farthermostcorner; one by one they passed out at the east door--at last she wasalone with her loving thoughts in this cool sanctuary of industry. 

She noticed a chisel lying behind the stone on which she sat; she turnedand picked it up. She looked about for a hammer; she wanted to try herpuny strength on what Champney Googe manipulated with muscles hardenedby years of breaking stones--that thought was no longer a nightmare toher--but she saw none. The sun sank below the horizon; the afterglowpromised to be both long and beautiful. After a time she looked outacross the meadows--a man was crossing them; evidently he had just leftthe tram, for she heard the buzzing of the wires in the still air. Hewas coming towards the sheds. His form showed black against the westernsky. Another moment--and Aileen knew him to be Champney Googe. 

She sat there motionless, the chisel in her hand, her face turned to thewest and the man rapidly approaching Shed Number Two--a moment more, hewas within the doors, and, evidently in haste, sought his section; thenhe saw her for the first time. He stopped short. There was a cry:

"Aileen--Aileen--"

She rose to her feet. With one stride he stood before her, leaning tolook long into her eyes which never wavered while he read in them herwoman's fealty to her love for him. 

He held out his hands, and she placed hers within them. He spoke, andthe voice was a prayer:

"My wife, Aileen--"

"My husband--" she answered, and the words were a _Te Deum_. 

X

Octavius drew up near the shed and handed the reins to Father Honoré. 

"If you'll just hold the mare a minute, I'll step inside and look forAileen. "

He disappeared in the darkening entrance, but was back again almostimmediately. Father Honoré saw at once from his face that somethingunusual had taken place. He feared an accident. 

"Is Aileen all right?" he asked anxiously. 

Octavius nodded. He got into the surrey; the hands that took the reinsshook visibly. He drove on in silence for a few minutes. He wasstruggling for control of his emotion; for the truth is Octavius wantedto cry; and when a man wants to cry and must not, the result isinarticulateness and a painful contortion of every feature. FatherHonoré, recognizing this fact, waited. Octavius swallowed hard and manytimes before he could speak; even then his speech was broken:

"She's in there--all right--but Champney Googe is with her--"

"Thank God!"

Father Honoré's voice rang out with no uncertain sound. It was aheartening thing to hear, and helped powerfully to restore to Octaviushis usual poise. He turned to look at his companion and saw everyfeature alive with a great joy. Suddenly the scales fell from this manof Maine's eyes. 

"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed in amazement. 

"Oh, but I _do_, " replied Father Honoré joyfully and emphatically. . . . 

"Father Honoré, " he said after a time in which both men were busy withtheir thoughts, "I ain't much on expressing what I feel, but I want totell you--for you'll understand--that when I come out of that shed I'dhad a vision, "--he paused, --"a revelation;" the tears were beginning toroll down his cheeks; his lips were trembling; "we don't have to go backtwo thousand years to get one, either--I saw what this world's got to besaved by if it's saved at all--"

"What was it, Mr. Buzzby?" Father Honoré spoke in a low voice. 

"I saw a vision of human love that was forgiving, and loving, and savingby nothing but love, like the divine love of the Christ you preachabout--Father Honoré, I saw Aileen Armagh sitting on a block of graniteand Champney Googe kneeling before her, his head in the very dust at herfeet--and she raising it with her two arms--and her face was like anangel's--"

 * * * * *

The two men drove on in silence to Champ-au-Haut. 

The priest was shown at once to Mrs. Champney's room. He had not seenher for over a year and was prepared for a great change; but the actualimpression of her condition, as she lay motionless on the bed, was ashock. His practised eye told him that the Inevitable was already on thethreshold, demanding entrance. He turned to the nurse with a look ofinquiry. 

"The doctor will be here in a few minutes; I have telephoned for him, "she said low in answer. She bent over the bed. 

"Mrs. Champney, Father Honoré is here; you wished to see him. "

The eyes opened; there was still mental clarity in their outlook. FatherHonoré stepped to the bed. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Champney?" he asked gently. 

"Yes. "

Her articulation was indistinct but intelligible. 

"In what way?"

She looked at him unwaveringly. 

"Is--she going--to marry--him?"

Father Honoré read her thought and wondered how best to answer. He wasof the opinion that she would remember Aileen in her will. The girl hadbeen for years so faithful and, in a way, Mrs. Champney cared for her. Humanly speaking, he dreaded, by his answer, to endanger the prospect ofthe assurance to Aileen of a sum that would place her beyond want andthe need to work for any one's support but her own in the future. But ashe could not know what answer might or might not affect Aileen's future, he decided to speak the whole truth--let come what might. 

"I sincerely hope so, " he replied. 

"Do--you know?" with a slight emphasis on the "know. "

"I know they love each other--have loved each other for many years. "

"If she does--she--won't get anything from me--you tell her--so. "

"That will make no difference to Aileen, Mrs. Champney. Love outweighsall else with her. "

She continued to look at him unwaveringly. 

"Love--fools--" she murmured. 

But Father Honoré caught the words, and the priest's manhood asserteditself in the face of dissolution and this blasphemy. 

"No--rather it is wisdom for them to love; it is ordained of God thathuman beings should love; I wish them joy. May I not tell them that you, too, wish them joy, Mrs. Champney? Aileen has been faithful to you, andyour nephew never wronged you personally. Will you not be reconciled tohim?" he pleaded. 

"No. "

"But why?" He spoke very gently, almost in appeal. 

"Why?" she repeated tonelessly, her eyes still fixed on his face, "because he is--hers--Aurora Googe's--"

She paused for another effort. Her eyes turned at last to the portraitof Louis Champney on the wall at the foot of her bed. 

"She took all his love--all--all his love--and he was my husband--Iloved my husband--But you don't know--"

"What, Mrs. Champney? Let me help you, if I can. "

"No help--I loved my husband--he used to lie here--by my side--on thisbed--and cry out--in his sleep for her--lie here--by my side in--thenight--and stretch out his arms--for her--not me--not for me--"

Her eyes were still fixed on Louis Champney's face. Suddenly the lidsdrooped; she grew drowsy, but continued to murmur, incoherently atfirst, then inarticulately. 

The nurse stepped to his side. Father Honoré's eyes dwelt pityingly fora moment on this deathbed; then he turned and left the room, marvellingat the differentiated expression in this life of that which we nameLove. 

Octavius was waiting for him in the lower hall. 

"Did you see her?" he asked eagerly. 

"Yes; but to no purpose; her life has been lived, Mr. Buzzby; nothingcan affect it now. "

"You don't mean she's gone?" Octavius started at the sound of his ownvoice; it seemed to echo through the house. 

"No; but it is, I believe, only a question of an hour at most. "

"I'd better drive up then for Aileen; she ought to know--ought to behere. "

"Believe me, it would be useless, Mr. Buzzby. Those two belong to life, not to death--leave them alone together; and leave her there above, toher Maker and the infinite mercy of His Son. "

"Amen, " said Octavius Buzzby solemnly; but his thought was with thosewhom he had seen leave Champ-au-Haut through the same outward-openingportal that was now set wide for its mistress: the old Judge, and hisson, Louis--the last Champney. 

He accompanied Father Honoré to the door. 

"No farther, Mr. Buzzby, " he said, when Octavius insisted on driving himhome. "Your place is here. I shall take the tram as usual at The Bow. "

They shook hands without further speech. In the deepening twilightOctavius watched him down the driveway. Despite his sixty years hewalked with the elastic step of young manhood. 

XI

"Unworthy--unworthy!" was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt beforeAileen in an access of shame and contrition in the presence of such arevelation of woman's love. 

[Illustration: "'Unworthy--unworthy!' was Champney Googe's cry, as heknelt before Aileen"]

Aileen lifted his head, laid her arms around his neck, drew him by heryoung strength and her gentle compelling words to a seat beside her onthe granite block. She kept her arms about him. 

"No, Champney, not unworthy; but worthy, worthy of it all--all that lifecan give you in compensation for those seven years. We'll put it allbehind us; we'll live in the present and in hope of a blessed future. Take heart, my husband--"

The bowed shoulders heaved beneath her arms. 

"So little to offer--so little--"

"'So little'!" she exclaimed; "and is it 'little' you call your love forme? Is it 'little' that I'm to have a home--at last--of my own? Is it'little' that the husband I love is going out of it and coming home toit in his daily work, and my heart going out to him both ways at once?And is it 'little' you call the gift of a mother to her who ismotherless--" her voice faltered. 

Champney caught her in his arms; his tears fell upon the dark head. 

"I'm a coward, Aileen, and you are just like our Father Honoré; but I_will_ put all behind me. I _will_ not regret. I _will_ work out my ownsalvation here in my native place, among my own and among strangers. Ivow here I _will_, God helping me, if only in thankfulness for the twohearts that are mine. . . . "

 * * * * *

The afterglow faded from the western heavens. The twilight came onapace. The two still sat there in the darkening shed, at timesunburdening their over-charged hearts; at others each rested heart andbody and soul in the presence of the other, and both were aware of thecalming influence of the dim and silent shed. 

"How did you happen to come down here just to-night, and after work hourstoo, Champney?" she asked, curious to know the how and the why of thismeeting. 

"I came down for my second chisel. I remembered when I got home that itneeded sharpening and I could not do without it to-morrow morning. Ofcourse the machine shop was closed, so I thought I'd try my hand at iton the grindstone up home this evening. "

"Then is this it?" she exclaimed, picking up the chisel from the block. 

"Yes, that's mine. " He held out his hand for it. 

"Indeed, you're not going to have it--not this one! I'll buy youanother, but this is mine. Wasn't I holding it in my hand and thinkingof you when I saw you coming over the meadows?"

"Keep it--and I'll keep something I have of yours. "

"Of mine? Where did you get anything of mine? Surely it isn't thepeppered rosebud?"

"Oh, no. I've had it nearly seven years. "

"Seven years!" She exclaimed in genuine surprise. "And whatever have youhad of mine I'd like to know that has kept seven years? It's neithersilver nor gold--for I've little of either; not that silver or gold canmake a man happy, " she added quickly, fearing he might be sensitive toher speech. 

"No; I've learned that, Aileen, thank God!"

"What is it then?--tell me quick. "

He thrust his hand into the workman's blouse and drew forth a smallpackage, wrapped in oiled silk and sewed to a cord that was round hisneck. He opened it. 

Aileen bent to examine it, her eyes straining in the increasing dusk. 

"Why, it's never--it's not my handkerchief!--Champney!"

"Yes, yours, Aileen--that night in all the horror and despair, I heardsomething in your voice that told me you--didn't hate me--"

"Oh, Champney!"

"Yes. I've kept it ever since--I asked permission to take it in withme?--I mean into my cell. They granted it. It was with me night andday--my head lay on it at night; I got my first sleep so--and it wentwith me to work during the day. It's been kissed clean thin till it'smere gossamer; it helped, that and the work, to save my brain--"

She caught handkerchief and hand in both hers and pressed her lips tothem again and again. 

"And now I'm going to keep it, after you're mine in the sight of man, asyou are now before God; put it away and keep it for--" He stopped short. 

"For whom?" she whispered. 

He drew her close to him--closer and more near. 

"Aileen, my beloved, " his voice was earnestly joyful, "I am hoping forthe blessing of children--are you?--"

"Except for you, my arms will feel empty for them till they come--"

"Oh, my wife--my true wife!--now I can tell you all!" he said, and theearnest note was lost in purest joy. He whispered:

"You know, dear, I'm but half a man, and must remain such. I am nocitizen, have no citizen's rights, can never vote--have no voice in allthat appeals to manhood--my country--"

"I know--I know--" she murmured pityingly. 

"And so I used to think there in my cell at night when I kissed thelittle handkerchief--Please God, if Aileen still loves me when I getout, if she in her loving mercy will forgive to the extent that she willbe my wife, then it may be that she will bestow on me the blessing of achild--a boy who will one day stand among men as his father never canagain, who will possess the full rights of citizenship; in him I maylive again as a man--but only so. "

"Please God it may be so. "

 * * * * *

They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of themidsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often theylingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate bythe paddock in the lane. 

Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney'sroom. 

"I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse. Tave never would haveforgotten me if he hadn't received some telephone message while he wasat Father Honoré's. But the nurse said there was nothing I could do whenI left with Tave--but oh, I'm so glad he didn't stop! I _must_ go innow, Champney, " she said decidedly. But he still held her two hands. 

"Tell me, Champney, have you ever thought your aunt might rememberyou--for the wrong she did you?"

"No; and if she should, I never would take a cent of it. "

"Oh, I'm so glad--so glad!" She squeezed both his hands right hard. 

He read her thought and smiled to himself; he was glad that in this hehad not disappointed her. 

"But there's one thing I wish she would do--poor--_poor_ Aunt Meda--" heglanced up at the light in the window. 

"Yes, 'poor, ' Champney--I know. " She was nodding emphatically. 

"I wish she would leave enough to Mr. Van Ostend to repay with interestwhat he repaid for me to the Company; it would be only just, for, workas I may, I can never hope to do that--and I long so to do it--noworkman could do it--"

She interrupted gayly: "Oh, but you've a working-woman by your side!"She snatched away her small hands--for she belonged to the small peopleof the earth. "See, Champney, the two hands! I can work, and I'm notafraid of it. I can earn a lot to help with--and I shall. There's mycooking, and singing, and embroidery--"

He smiled again in the dark at her enthusiasm--it was so like her!

"And I'll lift the care from our mother too, --and you're not to fretyour dear soul about the Van Ostend money--if one can't do it, surelytwo can with God's blessing. Now I _must_ go in--and you may give meanother kiss for I've been on starvation diet these last sevenyears--only one--oh, Champney!". . . 

 * * * * *

The dim light continued to burn in the upper chamber at Champ-au-Hautuntil the morning; for before Champney and Aileen left the shed, theInevitable had already crossed the threshold of that chamber--and thedim light burned on to keep him company. . . . 

 * * * * *

A month later, when Almeda Champney's will was admitted to probate andits contents made public, it was found that there were but sixbequests--one of which was contained in the codicil--namely:

To Octavius Buzzby the oil portrait of Louis Champney. 

To Ann and Hannah one thousand dollars each in recognition of faithfulservice for thirty-seven years. 

To Aileen Armagh (so read the codicil) a like sum _provided she did notmarry Champney Googe_. 

One half of the remainder of the estate, real and personal, wasbequeathed to Henry Van Ostend; the other half, in trust, to hisdaughter, Alice Maud Mary Van Ostend. 

The instrument bore the date of Champney Googe's commitment. 

The Last Word

I

It is the day after Flamsted's first municipal election; after twentyyears of progress it has attained to proud citizenship. The community, now amounting to twelve thousand, has spent all its surplus energy inmunicipal electioneering delirium; there were four candidates in thefield for mayor and party spirit ran high. On this bright May morning of1910, the streets are practically deserted, whereas yesterday they werefilled with shouting throngs. The banners are still flung across themain street; a light breeze lifts them into prominence and with them thename of the successful candidate they bear--Luigi Poggi. 

The Colonel, as a result of continued oratory in favor of hisson-in-law's candidacy, is laid up at home with an attack of laryngitis;but he has strength left to whisper to Elmer Wiggins who has come up tosee him:

"Yesterday, after twenty years of solid work, Flamsted entered upon itsindustrial majority through the throes of civic travail, " a mixture ofmetaphors that Mr. Wiggins ignores in his joy at the result of theelection; for Mr. Wiggins has been hedging with his New Englandconscience and fearing, as a consequence, punishment indisappointmenting election results. He wavered, in casting his vote, between the two principal candidates, young Emlie, Lawyer Emlie's son, and Luigi Poggi. 

As a Flamstedite in good and regular standing, he knew he ought to votefor his own, Emlie, instead of a foreigner. But, he desired above allthings to see Luigi Poggi, his friend, the most popular merchant andkeenest man of affairs in the town, the first mayor of the city ofFlamsted. Torn between his duty and the demands of his heart, hecompromised by starting a Poggi propaganda, that was carried on over hiscounter and behind the mixing-screen, with every customer whether forpills or soda water. Then, on the decisive day, he entered the booth andvoted a straight Emlie ticket!! So much for the secret ballot. 

He shook the Colonel's hand right heartily. 

"I thought I'd come up to congratulate personally both you and the city, and talk things over in a general way, Colonel; sorry to find you soused up, but in a good cause. "

The Colonel beamed. 

"A matter of a day or two of rest. You did good work, Mr. Wiggins, goodwork, " he whispered; "you'd make a good parliamentary whip--'Gad, myvoice is gone!--but as you say, in a good cause--a good cause--"

"No better on earth, " Mr. Wiggins responded enthusiastically. 

The Colonel was magnanimous; he forbore to whisper one word in reminderof the old-time pessimism that twenty years ago held the small-headedman of Maine in such dubious thrall. 

"It was each man's vote that told--yours, and mine--" he whisperedagain, nodding understandingly. 

Mr. Wiggins at once changed the subject. 

"Don't you exert yourself, Colonel; let me do the talking--for achange, " he added with a twinkle in his eyes. The Colonel caught hismeaning and threw back his head for a hearty laugh, but failed to make asound. 

"Mr. Van Ostend came up on the train last night, just in time to see thefireworks, they say, " said Mr. Wiggins. "Yes, " he went on in answer to aquestion he read in the Colonel's eyes, "came up to see about the Champoproperty. Emlie told me this morning. Mr. Van Ostend and Tave and FatherHonoré are up there now; I saw the automobile standing in the drivewayas I came up on the car. Guess Tave has run the place about as long ashe wants to alone. He's getting on in years like the rest of us, anddon't want so much responsibility. "

"Does Emlie know anything?" whispered the Colonel eagerly. 

"Nothing definite; they're going to talk it over to-day; but he had someidea about the disposition of the estate, I think, from what he said. "

The Colonel motioned with his lips: "Tell me. "

Mr. Wiggins proceeded to give the Colonel the desired information. 

 * * * * *

While this one-sided conversation was taking place, Henry Van Ostend wasstanding on the terrace at Champ-au-Haut, discussing with Father Honoréand Octavius Buzzby the best method of investing the increasing revenuesof the large estate, vacant, except for its faithful factotum and thecare-takers, Ann and Hannah, during the seven years that have passedsince Mrs. Champney's death. 

"Mr. Googe had undoubtedly a perfect right to dispute this will, FatherHonoré, " he was saying. 

"But he would never have done it; I know such a thing could never haveoccurred to him. "

"That does not alter the facts of this rather peculiar case. Mr. Buzzbyknows that, up to this date, my daughter and I have never availedourselves of any rights in this estate; and he has managed it so wiselyalone, during these last seven years, that now he no longer wishes to beresponsible for the investment of its constantly increasing revenues. Ishall never consider this estate mine--will or no will. " He spokeemphatically. "Law is one thing, but a right attitude, where property isconcerned, towards one's neighbor is quite another. "

He looked to right and left of the terrace, and included in his glancemany acres of the noble estate. Father Honoré, watching him, suddenlyrecalled that evening in the financier's own house when the Law wasquoted as "fundamental"--and he smiled to himself. 

Mr. Van Ostend faced the two men. 

"Do you think it would do any good for me to approach him on the subjectof setting apart that portion of the personal estate, and its increasein the last seven years, which Mrs. Champney inherited from her father, Mr. Googe's grandfather, for his children--that is if he won't take ithimself?"

"No. "

The two men spoke as one; the negative was strongly emphatic. 

"Mr. Van Ostend, " Octavius Buzzby spoke with suppressed excitement, "ifI may make bold, who has lived here on this place and known its ownersfor forty years, to give you a piece of advice, I'd like to give it. "

"I want all I can get, Mr. Buzzby; it will help me to see my way in thismatter. "

"Then I'm going to ask you to let bygones be bygones, and not say oneword to Mr. Googe about this property. He begun seven years ago in thesheds and has worked his way up to foreman this last year, and if youwas to propose to him what you have to us, it would rake up the past, sir--a past that's now in its grave, thank God! Champney--I ask yourpardon--Mr. Googe wouldn't touch a penny of it more 'n he'd touchcarrion. I _know_ this; nor he wouldn't have his boy touch it either. Iain't saying he don't appreciate the good money does, for he's told meso; but for himself--well, sir, I think you know what I mean: he'sthrough with what is just money. He's a man, is Champney Googe, and he'sliving his life in a way that makes the almighty dollar look prettysmall in comparison with it--Father Honoré, you know this as well as Ido. "

The priest nodded gravely in the affirmative. 

"Tell me something of his life, Father Honoré, " said Mr. Van Ostend;"you know the degree of respect I have always had for him ever since hetook his punishment like a man--and you and I were both on the wrongtrack, " he added with a meaning smile. 

"I don't quite know what to say, " replied his friend. "It isn't anythingI can point to and say he has done this or that, because he gets beneaththe surface, as you might say, and works there. But I do know that wherethere is an element of strife among the men, there you will find him aspeacemaker--he has a wonderful way with them, but it is indefinable. Wedon't know all he does, for he never speaks of it, only every once in awhile something leaks out. I know that where there is a sickbed and aquarryman on it, there you will find Champney Googe as watcher after hisday's work--and tender in his ministrations as a woman. I know that whensickness continues and the family are dependent on the fund, ChampneyGooge works many a night overtime and gives his extra pay to help out. Iknow, too, that when a strike threatens, he, who is now in the unionbecause he is convinced he can help best there, is the balance-wheel, and prevents radical unreason and its results. There's trouble brewingthere now--about the automatic bush hammer--"

"I have heard of it. "

"--And Jim McCann is proving intractable. Mr. Googe is at work with him, and hopes to bring him round to a just point of view. And I know, moreover, that when there is a crime committed and a criminal to bedealt with, that criminal finds in the new foreman of Shed Number Two afriend who, without condoning the crime, stands by him as a human being. I know that out of his own deep experience he is able to reach out toother men in need, as few can. In all this his wife is his helpmate, hismother his inspiration. --What more can I say?"

"Nothing, " said Henry Van Ostend gravely. "He has two children I hear--aboy and a girl. I should like to see her who was the little Aileen oftwenty years ago. "

"I hope you may, " said Father Honoré cordially; "yes, he has two lovelychildren, Honoré, now in his first knickerbockers, is my namesake--"

Octavius interrupted him, smiling significantly:

"He's something more than Father Honoré's namesake, Mr. Van Ostend, he'shis shadow when he is with him. The men have a little joke amongthemselves whenever they see the two together, and that's pretty often;they say Father Honoré's shadow will never grow less till little Honoréreaches his full growth. "

The priest smiled. "He and I are very, very close friends, " was all hepermitted himself to say, but the other men read far more than that intohis words. 

Henry Van Ostend looked thoughtful. He considered with himself for a fewminutes; then he spoke, weighing his words:

"I thank you both; I have solved my difficulty with your help. You havespoken frankly to me, and shown me this matter in a different light; Imay speak as frankly to you, as to Mr. Googe's closest friends. Thetruth is, neither my daughter nor myself can appropriate this money toourselves--we both feel that it does not belong to us, _in thecircumstances_. I should like you both to tell Mr. Googe for me, thatout of the funds accruing to the estate from his grandfather's money, Iwill take for my share the hundred thousand dollars I repaid to theQuarries Company thirteen years ago--you know what I mean--and theinterest on the same for those six years. Mr. Googe will understand thatthis is done in settlement of a mere business account--and he willunderstand it as between man and man. I think it will satisfy him. 

"I have determined since talking with you, although the scheme has beenlong in my mind and I have spoken to Mr. Emlie about it, to apply theremainder of the estate for the benefit of the quarrymen, thestone-cutters, their families and, incidentally, the city of Flamsted. My plans are, of course, indefinite; I cannot give them in detail, nothaving had time to think them out; but I may say that this house will beeventually a home for men disabled in the quarries or sheds. The planwill develop further in the executing of it. You, Father Honoré, you andMr. Buzzby, Mr. Googe, and Mr. Emlie will be constituted a Board ofOverseers--I know that in your hands the work will be advanced, and, Ihope, prospered to the benefit of this generation and succeeding ones. "

Octavius Buzzby grasped his hand. 

"Mr. Van Ostend, I wish old Judge Champney was living to hear this! He'dapprove, Mr. Van Ostend, he'd approve of it all--and Mr. Louis too. "

"Thank you, Mr. Buzzby, for these words; they do me good. And now, " hesaid, turning to Father Honoré, "I want very much to see Mr. Googe--nowthat this business is settled. I have wanted to see him many timesduring these last six years, but I felt--I feared he might consider myvisiting him an intrusion--"

"Not at all--not at all; this simply shows me that you don't as yet knowthe real Mr. Googe. He will be glad to see you at any time. "

"I think I'd like to see him in the shed. "

"No reason in the world why you shouldn't; he is one of the mostaccessible men at all times and seasons. "

"Supposing, then, you ride up with me in the automobile?"

"Certainly I will; shall we go up this forenoon?"

"Yes, I should like to go now. Mr. Buzzby, I shall be back thisafternoon for a talk with you. I want to make some definite arrangementfor Ann and Hannah. "

"I'll be here. "

The two walked together to the driveway, and shortly the mellow note ofthe great Panhard's horn sounded, as the automobile rounded the curve ofThe Bow and sped away to the north shore highway and the sheds. 

 * * * * *

Late that afternoon Aileen, with her baby daughter, Aurora, in her arms, was standing on the porch watching for her husband's return. The usualhour for his home-coming had long passed. She began to fear that thethreatened trouble in the sheds, on account of the attemptedintroduction of the automatic bush hammer, might have come to a crisis. At last, however, she saw him leave the car and cross the bridge overthe Rothel. His step was quick and firm. She waved her hand to him; aswing of his cap answered her. Then little Aurora's tiny fist wasmanipulated by her mother to produce a baby form of welcome. 

Champney sprang up the steps two at a time, and for a moment the littlewife and baby Aurora disappeared in his arms. 

"Oh, Champney, I'm so thankful you've come! I knew just by the way youcame over the bridge that things were going better at the sheds. You areso late I began to get worried. Come, supper's waiting. "

"Wait a minute, Aileen--Mother--" he called through the hall, "come herea minute, please. "

Aurora Googe came quickly at that ever welcome call. Her face was evenmore beautiful than formerly, for great joy and peace irradiated everyfeature. 

"Where's Honoré?" he said abruptly, looking about for his boy who wasgenerally the first to run as far as the bridge to greet him. His wifeanswered. 

"He and Billy went with Father Honoré as far as the power-house; he'llbe back soon with Billy. Sister Ste. Croix went by a few minutes ago, and I told her to hurry them home. --What's the good news, Champney? Tellme quick--I can't wait to hear it. "

Champney smiled down at the eager face looking up to him; her chin wasresting on her baby's head. 

"Mr. Van Ostend has been in the sheds to-day--and I've had a long talkwith him. "

"Oh, Champney!"

Both women exclaimed at the same time, and their faces reflected the joythat shone in the eyes of the man they loved with a love bordering onworship. 

Champney nodded. "Yes, and so satisfactory--" he drew a long breath; "Ihave so much to tell it will take half the evening. He wishes to 'payhis respects, ' so he says, to my wife and mother, if convenient for theladies to-morrow--how is it?" He looked with a smile first into the grayeyes and then into the dark ones. In the latter he read silent pleasedconsent; but Aileen's danced for joy as she answered:

"Convenient! So convenient, that he'll get the surprise of his life fromme, anyhow; he really must be made to realize that I am his debtor forthe rest of my days--don't I owe the 'one man on earth for me' to him?for would I have ever seen Flamsted but for him? And have I everforgotten the roses he dropped into the skirt of my dress twenty-oneyears ago this very month when I sang the Sunday night song for him atthe Vaudeville? Twenty-one years! Goodness, but it makes me feel old, mother!"

Aurora Googe smiled indulgently on her daughter, for, at times, Aileen, not only in ways, but looks, was still like the child of twelve. 

Champney grew suddenly grave. 

"Do you realize, Aileen, that this meeting to-day in the shed is thefirst in which we three, Father Honoré, Mr. Van Ostend, and I, have everbeen together under one roof since that night twenty-one years ago whenI first saw you?"

"Why, that doesn't seem possible--but it _is_ so, isn't it? Wasn't thatstrange!"

"Yes, and no, " said Champney, looking at his mother. "I thought of ourfirst meeting one another at the Vaudeville, as we three stood theretogether in the shed looking upwards to The Gore; and Father Honoré toldme afterward that he was thinking of that same thing. We both wonderedif Mr. Van Ostend recalled that evening, and the fact of our firstacquaintance, although unknown to one another. "

"I wonder--" said Aileen, musingly. 

Champney spoke abruptly again; there was a note of uneasiness in hisvoice:

"I wonder what keeps Honoré--I'll just run up the road and see if he'scoming. If he isn't, I will go on till I meet the boys. I wish, " headded wistfully, "that McCann felt as kindly to me as Billy does to myson; I am beginning to think that old grudge of his against me willnever yield, not even to time;--I'll be back in a few minutes. "

Aileen watched him out of sight; then she turned to Aurora Googe. 

"We are blest in this turn of affairs, aren't we, mother? This meetingis the one thing Champney has been dreading--and yet longing for. I'mglad it's over. "

"So am I; and I am inclined to think Father Honoré brought it about; ifyou remember, he said nothing about Mr. Van Ostend's being here when hestopped just now. "

"So he didn't!" Aileen spoke in some surprise; then she added with ajoyous laugh: "Oh, that dear man is sly--bless him!"--But the tearsdimmed her eyes. 

II

"Go straight home with Honoré, Billy, as straight as ever you can, " saidFather Honoré to eight-year-old Billy McCann who for the past year hadconstituted himself protector of five-year-old Honoré Googe; "I'll watchyou around the power-house. "

Little Honoré reached up with both arms for the usual parting from theman he adored. The priest caught him up, kissed him heartily, and sethim down again with the added injunction to "trot home. "

The two little boys ran hand in hand down the road. Father Honoréwatched them till the power-house shut them from sight; then he waitedfor their reappearance at the other corner where the road curvesdownward to the highroad. He never allowed Honoré to go alone over thepiece of road between the point where he was standing and thepower-house, for the reason that it bordered one of the steepest androughest ledges in The Gore; a careless step would be sure to send sosmall a child rolling down the rough surface. But beyond thepower-house, the ledges fell away very gradually to the lowest slopeswhere stood, one among many in the quarries, the new monster steelderrick which the men had erected last week. They had been testing itfor several days; even now its powerful arm held suspended a block ofmany tons' weight. This was a part of the test for "graduatedstrain"--the weight being increased from day to day. 

The men, in leaving their work, often took a short cut homeward from thelower slope to the road just below the power-house, by crossing thisgentle declivity of the ledge. Evidently Billy McCann with this in mindhad twisted the injunction to "go straight home" into a chance to "cutacross"; for surely this way would be the "straightest. " Besides, therewas the added inducement of close proximity to the wonderful new derrickthat, since its instalment, had been occupying many of Billy's wakingthoughts. 

Father Honoré, watching for the children's reappearance at the corner ofthe road just beyond the long low power-house, was suddenly aware, witha curious shock, of the two little boys trotting in a lively manner downthe easy grade of the "cross cut" slope, and nearing the derrick and itssuspended weight. He frowned at the sight and, calling loudly to them tocome back, started straight down over the steep ledge at the side of theroad. He heard some one else calling the boys by name, and, a momentlater, saw that it was Sister Ste. Croix who was coming up the hill. 

The children did not hear, or would not, because of their absorption ingetting close to the steel giant towering above them. Sister Ste. Croixcalled again; then she, too, started down the slope after them. 

She noticed some men running from the farther side of the quarry. Shesaw Father Honoré suddenly spring by leaps and bounds down over therough ledge. What was it? The children were apparently in no danger. Shelooked up at the derrick--

_What was that!_ A tremor in its giant frame; a swaying of its cabledmast; a sickening downward motion of the weighted steel arm--then--

"Merciful Christ!" she groaned, and for the space of a few secondscovered her eyes. . . . 

The priest, catching up the two children one under each arm, ran withsuperhuman strength to evade the falling derrick--with a last supremeeffort he rolled the boys beyond its reach; they were saved, but--

Their savior was pinioned by the steel tip fast to the unyieldinggranite. 

A woman's shriek rent the air--a fearful cry:

"Jean--mon Jean!"

A moment more and Sister Ste. Croix reached the spot--she took his headon her lap. 

"Jean--mon Jean, " she cried again. 

The eyes, dimmed already, opened; he made a supreme effort to speak--

"Margot--p'tite Truite--". . . 

Thus, after six and forty years of silence, Love spoke once; that Love, greater than State and Church because it is the foundation of both, andwithout it neither could exist; that Love--co-eval with all life, theLove which defies time, sustains absence, glorifies loss--remains, thankGod! a deathless legacy to the toiling Race of the Human, and, becausedeathless, triumphant in death. 

It triumphed now. . . . 

The ponderous crash of the derrick followed by the screams of the twoboys, brought the quarrymen, the women and children, rushing interrified haste from their evening meal. But when they reached the spot, and before Champney Googe, running over the granite slopes, as onceyears before he ran from pursuing justice, could satisfy himself thathis boy was uninjured, at what a sacrifice he knew only when he knelt bythe prostrate form, before Jim McCann, seizing a lever, could shout tothe men to "lift all together, " the life-blood ebbed, carrying with iton the hurrying out-going tide the priest's loving undaunted spirit. 

 * * * * *

All work at the quarries and the sheds was suspended during thefollowing Saturday; the final service was to be held on Sunday. 

All Saturday afternoon, while the bier rested before the altar in thestone chapel by the lake shore, a silent motley procession filed underthe granite lintel:--stalwart Swede, blue-eyed German, sallow-cheekedPole, dark-eyed Italian, burly Irish, low-browed Czechs, FrenchCanadians, stolid English and Scotch, Henry Van Ostend and three of thedirectors of the Flamsted Quarries Company, rivermen from the Penobscot, lumbermen from farther north, the Colonel and three of his sons, therector from The Bow, a dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church from NewYork, the little choir boys--children of the quarrymen--and AugustusBuzzby, members of the Paulist Order, Elmer Wiggins, Octavius Buzzbysupporting old Joel Quimber, Nonna Lisa--in all, over three thousandsouls one by one passed up the aisle to stand with bared bowed head bythat bier; to look their last upon the mask of the soul; to render, inspirit, homage to the spirit that had wrought among its fellows, manfully, unceasingly, to realize among them on this earth along-striven-for ideal. 

Many a one knelt in prayer. Many a mother, not of English tongue, placing her hand upon the head of her little child forced him to kneelbeside her; her tears wet the stone slabs of the chancel floor. 

Just before sunset, the Daughters of the Mystic Rose passed into thechurch; they bore tapers to set upon the altar, and at the head andfoot of the bier. Two of them remained throughout the night to pray bythe chancel rail; one of them was Sister Ste. Croix. Silent, immovableshe knelt there throughout the short June night. Her secret remainedwith her and the one at whose feet she was kneeling. 

The little group of special friends from The Gore came last, just alittle while before the face they loved was to be covered forever fromhuman gaze: Aileen with her four-months' babe in her arms, Aurora Googeleading little Honoré by the hand, Margaret McCann with her boy, ElviraCaukins and her two daughters. Silent, their tears raining upon the awedand upturned faces of the children, they, too, knelt; but no sound ofsobbing profaned the great peaceful silence that was broken only by thefaint _chip-chip-chipping_ monotone from Shed Number Two. In that fourmen were at work. Champney Googe was one of them. 

He was expecting them at this appointed time. When he saw them enter thechapel, he put aside hammer and chisel and went across the meadow tojoin them. He waited for them to come out; then, taking the babe fromhis wife's arms, he gave her into his mother's keeping. He lookedsignificantly at his wife. The others passed on and out; but Aileenturned and with her husband retraced her steps to the altar. They knelt, hand clasped in hand. . . . 

When they rose to look their last upon that loved face, they knew thattheir lives had received through his spirit the benediction of God. 

 * * * * *

Champney returned to his work, for time pressed. The quarrymen in TheGore had asked permission the day before to quarry a single stone inwhich their priest should find his final resting place. Many of themwere Italians, and Luigi Poggi was spokesman. Permission being given, heturned to the men:

"For the love of God and the man who stood to us for Him, let us quarrythe stone nearest heaven. Look to the ridge yonder; that has not beenopened up--who will work with me to open up the highest ridge in TheGore, and quarry the stone to-night. "

The volunteers were practically all the men in the Upper and LowerQuarries; the foreman was obliged to draw lots. The men worked inshifts--worked during that entire night; they bared a space of sod;cleared off the surface layer; quarried the rock, using the hand drillentirely. Towards morning the thick granite slab, that lay nearest tothe crimsoning sky among the Flamsted Hills, was hoisted from itsprimeval bed and lowered to its place on the car. 

It was then that four men, Champney Googe, Antoine, Jim McCann, andLuigi Poggi asserted their right, by reason of what the dead had been tothem, to cut and chisel the rock into sarcophagus shape. Luigi andAntoine asked to cut the cover of the stone coffin. 

All Saturday afternoon, the four men in Shed Number Two worked at theirwork of love, of unspeakable gratitude, of passionate devotion to asacrificed manhood. They wrought in silence. All that afternoon, theycould see, by glancing up from their work and looking out through theshed doors across the field, the silent procession entering and leavingthe chapel. Sometimes Jim McCann would strike wild in his feverish hasteto ease, by mere physical exertion, his great over-charged heart of itsload of grief; a muttered curse on his clumsiness followed. Now andthen Champney caught his eye turned upon him half-appealingly; but theyspoke no word; _chip-chip-chipping_, they worked on. 

The sun set; electricity illumined the shed. Antoine worked withdesperation; Luigi wrought steadily, carefully, beautifully--his heartseeking expression in every stroke. When the dawn paled the electriclights, he laid aside his tools, took off his canvas apron, and steppedback to view the cover as a whole. The others, also, brought their stoneto completion. As with one accord they went over to look at theItalian's finished work, and saw--no carving of archbishop's mitre, nosculpture of cardinal's hat (O mother, where were the day-dreams foryour boy!), but a rough slab, in the centre of which was a raised heartof polished granite, and, beneath it, cut deep into the rock--which, although lying yesterday nearest the skies above The Gore, was in pastćons the foundation stone of our present world--the words:

 THE HEART OF THE QUARRY. 

The lights went out. The dawn was reddening the whole east; it touchedthe faces of the men. They looked at one another. Suddenly McCanngrasped Champney's hand, and reaching over the slab caught in his thehands of the other two; he gripped them hard, drew a long shudderingbreath, and spoke, but unwittingly on account of his habitual profanity, the last word:

"By Jesus Christ, men, we're brothers!"

The full day broke. The men still stood there, hand clasping hand. 

 * * * * *

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Land of Long Ago, The. By Eliza Calvert Hall. Lane That Had No Turning, The. By Gilbert Parker. Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The. By Randall Parrish. Leavenworth Case, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Lin McLean. By Owen Wister. Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The. By Meredith Nicholson. Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clarke. Lord Loveland Discovers America. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Lorimer of the Northwest. By Harold Bindloss. Lorraine. By Robert W. Chambers. Lost Ambassador, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Love Under Fire. By Randall Parrish. Loves of Miss Anne, The. By S. R. Crockett. Macaria. (Illustrated Edition. ) By Augusta J. Evans. Mademoiselle Celeste. By Adele Ferguson Knight. Maid at Arms, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Maid of Old New York, A. By Amelia E. Barr. Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie Roe. Maids of Paradise, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By George Randolph Chester. Mam' Linda. By Will N. Harben. Man Outside, The. By Wyndham Martyn. Man in the Brown Derby, The. By Wells Hastings. Marriage a la Mode. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Marriage of Theodora, The. By Molly Elliott Seawell. Marriage Under the Terror, A. By Patricia Wentworth. Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Masters of the Wheatlands. By Harold Bindloss. Max. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Millionaire Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Miss Selina Lue. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Motor Maid, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Much Ado About Peter. By Jean Webster. Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. My Brother's Keeper. By Charles Tenny Jackson. My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. My Lady Caprice (author of the "Broad Highway"). Jeffery Farnol. My Lady of Doubt. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish. Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allen Poe. Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane. Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach. No Friend Like a Sister. By Rosa N. Carey. Officer 666. By Barton W. Currie and Augustin McHugh. One Braver Thing. By Richard Dehan. Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley. Orphan, The. By Clarence E. Mulford. Out of the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennett. Pam. By Bettina von Hutten. Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten. Pardners. By Rex Beach. Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Passage Perilous, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Passers By. By Anthony Partridge. Paternoster Ruby, The. By Charles Edmonds Walk. Patience of John Moreland, The. By Mary Dillon. Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays. Phillip Steele. By James Oliver Curwood. Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold. Plunderer, The. By Roy Norton. Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben. Politician, The. By Edith Huntington Mason. Polly of the Circus. By Margaret Mayo. Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Poppy. By Cynthia Stockley. Power and the Glory, The. By Grace McGowan Cooke. Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillip Oppenheim. Prince or Chauffeur. By Lawrence Perry. Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott. Princess Passes, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish. Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine. Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Reconstructed Marriage, A. By Amelia Barr. Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The. By Will N. Harben. Red House on Rowan Street. By Roman Doubleday. Red Mouse, The. By William Hamilton Osborne. Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. Refugees, The. By A. Conan Doyle. Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Romance of a Plain Man, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond. Routledge Rides Alone. By Will Livingston Comfort. Running Fight, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne. Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker. Septimus. By William J. Locke. Set In Silver. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Self-Raised. (Illustrated. ) By Mrs. Southworth. Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Sidney Carteret, Rancher. By Harold Bindloss. Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke. Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk. Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle. Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet. Skyman, The. By Henry Ketchell Webster. Slim Princess, The. By George Ade. Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens. Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. Spirit Trail, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. Stanton Wins. By Eleanor M. Ingram. St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition. ) By Augusta J. Evans. Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger. Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett. Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough. Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr. Sunnyside of the Hill, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner. Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish. Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Tennessee Shad, The. By Owen Johnson. Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy. Texican, The. By Dane Coolidge. That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright. Three Brothers, The. By Eden Phillpotts. Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss. Title Market, The. By Emily Post. Torn Sails. A Tale of a Welsh Village. By Allan Raine. Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles Alden Seltzer. Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington. Uncle William. By Jennette Lee. Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington. Vanity Box, The. By C. N. Williamson. Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson. Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart. Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith. Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell. Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Wanted--A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford. Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford. Watchers of the Plains, The. Ridgwell Cullum. Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting. Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough. Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish. Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford. Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart. Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. With Juliet In England. By Grace S. Richmond. Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Woman In Question, The. By John Reed Scott. Woman In the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk. Yellow Letter, The. By William Johnston. Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.