so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her.

While this page in human history was being laid open before him, Father
Honore said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in its
still depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a human
soul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his own
existence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympathetic
expression. 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 shall
soon be up and about. When do you go?"

"This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost any
time; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought you
would prefer to know from day to day."

"You are good--but I can say nothing." The tears welled at last and
overflowed on her cheeks.

"Don't say that--I beg of you." He spoke almost sharply, as if hurt
physically. "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--something
has given way here;" she pressed her hand to her head; "it's a great
relief."

"Good-bye." He held out his hand and she placed hers in it; the tears
kept rolling down her cheeks.

"Tell my darling boy, when you see him, that it was my fault--and I love
him so--oh, how I love him--" Her voice broke in a sob.

Father Honore left the room to cover his emotion. He spoke to Ellen from
the 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 the
train, that Mrs. Champney has had a stroke?"

The face of Champ-au-Haut's factotum worked strangely before he made
answer.

"Yes, she's had a slight shock. The doctor told me this morning that he
knew 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 next
train up--and, Father Honore--" he hesitated; his hands were working
nervously in each other.

"Yes, Mr. Buzzby?"

"I come down to see you, too, on purpose--"

"To see me?" Father Honore looked his surprise; his thoughts leaped to a
possibl