eparture
for New York--the bedroom--the mother--that confession--

"It looks that way, I admit, but I've thought sometimes she has cared
for you far more than any one will ever know."

Champney started suddenly to his feet.

"What time is it? I must be going."

"Going?--You mean home--to-night?"

"Yes, I must go home. I came to ask you to go to my mother to prepare
her for this--I dared not shock her by going unannounced. You'll go
with me--you'll tell her?"

"At once."

He reached for his coat and turned off the lights. The two went out arm
and arm into the March night. The wind was still rising.

"It's only half-past nine, and Mrs. Googe will be up; she is a busy
woman."

"Tell me--" he drew his breath short--"what has my mother done all these
years--how has she lived?"

"As every true woman lives--doing her full duty day by day, living in
hope of this joy."

"But I mean _what_ has she done to live--to provide for herself; she has
kept the house?"

"To be sure, and by her own exertions. She has never been willing to
accept pecuniary aid from any friend, not even from Mr. Buzzby, or the
Colonel. I am in a position to know that Mr. Van Ostend did his best to
persuade her to accept something just as a loan."

"But what has she been doing?"

"She has been taking the quarrymen for meals the last six years,
Champney--at times she has had their families to board with her, as many
as the house could accommodate."

The arm which his own held was withdrawn with a jerk. Champney Googe
faced him: they were on the new iron bridge over the Rothel.

"You mean to say my mother--_my_ mother, Aurora Googe, has been keeping
a quarrymen's boarding-house all these years?"

"Yes; it is legitimate work."

"My mother--_my_ mother--" he kept repeating as he stood motionless on
the bridge. He seemed unable to grasp the fact for a moment; then he
laid his hand heavily on Father Honore's shoulder as if for support; he
spoke low to himself, but the priest caught a few words:

"I thank Thee--thank--for life--work--"

He seemed to come gradually to himself, to recognize his whereabouts. He
began to walk on, but very slowly.

"Father Honore," he said, and his tone was deeply earnest but at the
same time almost joyful, "I'm not going home to my mother empty-handed,
I never intended to--I have work. I can work for her, free her from
care, lift from her shoulders the burden of toil for my sake."

"What do you mean, Champne