previously existed between Father Honore and
this firstling of his flock in Flamsted. For a year after his experience
with Champney Googe in New York, he waited for some sign from Aileen
that she was ready to open her heart to him; to clear up the mystery of
the 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, and
Father Honore was still waiting.

The priest did not believe in forcing open the portals to the secret
chambers of the human heart. He respected the individual soul and its
workings as a part of the divinely organized human. He believed that, in
time, Aileen would come to him of her own accord and seek the help she
so sorely needed. Meanwhile, he determined to await patiently the
fulness of that time. He had waited already six years.

* * * * *

He was looking over and arranging some large photographs of
cathedrals--Cologne, Amiens, Westminster, Mayence, St. Mark's, Chester,
and York--and the detail of nave, chancel, and choir. One showed the
exquisite sculpture on a flying buttress; another the carving of a
choir-stall canopy; a third the figure-crowded facade of a western
porch. Here was the famous rose window in the Antwerp transept; the
statue of one of the apostles in Naumburg; the nave of Cologne; the
conglomerate of chapels about the apse of Mayence; the Angel's Pillar at
Strasburg--they were a joy in line and proportion to the eye, in effect
and spirit of purpose to the understanding mind, the receptive soul.

Father Honore was revelling in the thought of the men's appreciative
delight when he should show them these lovely stones--across-the-sea kin
to their own quarry granite. His semi-monthly talks with the quarrymen
and stone-cutters were assuming, after many years, the proportions of
lectures on art and scientific themes. Already many a professor from
some far-away university had accepted his invitation to give of his best
to the granite men of Maine. Rarely had they found a more fitting or
appreciative audience.

"How divine!" he murmured to himself, his eyes dwelling lovingly--at the
same time his pencil was making notes--on the 'Prentice Pillar in Roslyn
Chapel. Then he smiled at the thought of the contrast it offered to his
own chapel in the meadows by the lake shore. In that, every stone, as in
the maki