s and a groan burst from his lips, so
laden with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that even
Champney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm.

"Father Honore, what is it? Don't take it so hard." He laid his hand on
his shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man can
decide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in my
place?"

"Oh, would to God I had!--would to God I had!" he groaned rather than
spoke.

Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in his
self-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. He
was realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, he
had, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; the
curtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that others
now occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who,
active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpful
wherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, a
friend to all humanity because human, _his_ friend--his mother's, was
suffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without the
relief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity he
spoke:

"What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man--as it
has helped me?"

Father Honore regained his control before Champney ceased questioning.

"I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, after
what you have said--told me. I can preach--oh yes! But the practice--the
practice--" He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thought
never to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing to
do in the circumstances--it has taken the whole courage of a man; but I
never for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. It
only goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive of
the workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know--and find
ourselves utterly confounded, as I am now." He was silent for a few
minutes, apparently deep in meditation.

"Had I done, when I was twenty years old, as you are going to do, I
should have had no cause to regret; all my life fails to make good in
that respect.--When I was a boy, an orphan, my heartstrings wound
themselves about a little girl in France who was kind to me. I may as
well tell you now that the thought of that ch