ght hither its
spring offering of the first mitchella, or its autumn gift of
checkerberries. Many a girl, many a boy had met here to rehearse a
Christmas glee or an Easter anthem. Many a night these walls echoed to
the strains of the priest's violin, when he sat alone by the fireside
with only the Past for a guest. And these combined influences lingered
in the room, mellowed it, hallowed it, and made themselves felt to one
and all as beneficent--even as now to Aileen.

Father Honore placed two of the wooden chairs before the blazing fire.
Aileen took one.

"Draw up a little nearer, Aileen; you look chilled." He noticed her
extreme 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 rather
nervously.

"Oh, no. I'll just step to the kitchen and give a word to Therese. She
is a good watchdog when I am not to be disturbed." He opened a door at
the back of the room.

"Therese."

"On y va."

An old French Canadian appeared in answer to his call. He addressed her
in French.

"If any one should knock, Therese, just step to the kitchen porch door
and say that I am engaged for an hour, at least."

"Oui, oui, Pere Honore."

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 the
fire.

"I've been over to Maggie's this afternoon--"

She hesitated; it was not easy to find an opening for her long pent
trouble.

Father Honore spread his hands to the blaze.

"She has a fine boy. I'm glad McCann is back again, and I hope anchored
here for life. He's trying to buy his home he tells me."

"So Maggie said--Father Honore;" she clasped and unclasped her hands
nervously; "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 was
there with her--and the baby--"

She looked down, struggling to keep back the tears. Despite her efforts
the bright drops plashed one after the other on her clasped hands. She
raised her eyes, looking almost defiantly through the falling tears at
the priest; the blood surged into her white cheeks; the rush of words
followed:--

"I have no home--I've never had one--never shall have one--it's not for
me, that paradise; it's for men and women like