t me take my stand
on that assurance, and act as one who must first settle a long-standing
account with himself before he can yield to any impulse of emotion. Go
to bed--do; you're worn out with watching with me. I'll sit here by the
window; _I promise you_. There's no sleep in me or for me--I want to be
alone--alone."

It was an appeal, and the priest recognized in it the cry of the
individual soul when the full meaning of its isolation from humankind is
first revealed to it. He let him alone. Without another word he drew off
his boots, turned out the electric light, opened the inner blinds, and
laid himself down on the cot, worn, weary, but undaunted in spirit. At
times he lost himself for a few minutes; for the rest he feigned the
sleep he so sorely needed. The excitation of his nerves, however, kept
him for the greater part of the night conscious of all that went on in
the room.

Champney sat by the window. During that night he never left his seat.
Father Honore could see his form silhouetted against the blank of the
panes; his head was bowed into his hands. From time to time he drew
deep, deep, shuddering breaths. The struggle going on in that human
breast beside the window, the priest knew to be a terrible one--a
spiritual and a mental hand-to-hand combat, against almost over-powering
odds, 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 few
minutes looking down on the strong, marked face that, in the morning
light, showed yellow from watching and fatigue. Father Honore knew he
was there; but he waited those few minutes before opening his eyes. He
looked up then, not knowing what he was to expect, and met Champney's
blue ones looking down into his. That one look was sufficient to assure
him that the man who stood there so quietly beside him was the Champney
Googe of a new birth. The "old man" had been put away; he was ready for
the 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. Then
Champney 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 the
victorious outcome of the struggle to which, in part, he had been
witness. But he acknowledged afterwards that he had had not the faintest
concep