tion as well as Champney's
plain to him and to herself. Her voice grew more gentle as she
continued:--

"Father Honore, I've loved him so long--and so truly, without hope, you
know--never any hope, and hating myself for loving where I was not
loved--that I think I do know what love is--"

Father Honore smiled to himself in the half-dark; this voice was still
young, and its love-wisdom was young-wise, also. There was hope, he told
himself, that all would come right in the end--work together for good.

"But Mr. Googe never loved me as I loved him--and I couldn't accept
less."

The priest caught but the lesser part of her meaning. Even his wisdom
and years failed to throw light on the devious path of Aileen's thoughts
at this moment. Of the truth contained in her expression, he had no
inkling.

"Aileen, I don't know that I can make it plain to you, but--a man's
love is so different from a woman's that, sometimes, I think such a
statement as you have just made is so full of flaws that it amounts to
sophistry; but there is no need to discuss that.--Let me ask you if you
can endure to stay on with Mrs. Champney for a few months longer? I have
a very special reason for asking this. Sometime I will tell you."

"Oh, yes;" she spoke wearily, indifferently; "I may as well stay there
as anywhere now." Then with more interest and animation, "May I tell you
something I have kept to myself all these years? I want to get rid of
it."

"Surely--the more the better when the heart is burdened."

He took his seat again, and with pitying love and ever increasing
interest and amazement listened to her recital of the part she played on
that October night in the quarry woods--of her hate that turned to love
again when she found the man she had both loved and hated in the extreme
of need, of the 'murder'--so she termed it in her contrition--of Rag, of
her swearing Luigi to silence. She told of herself--but of Champney
Googe's unmanly temptation of her honor, of his mad passion for her, she
said never a word; her two pronounced traits of chastity and loyalty
forbade it, as well as the desire of a loving woman to shield him she
loved in spite of herself.

Of the little handkerchief that played its part in that night's
threatened tragedy she said nothing--neither did Father Honore;
evidently, she had forgotten it.

Suddenly she clasped her hands hard over her heart.

"That dear loving little dog's death has lain here like a stone all