"Never anything more; only that day when he took my boy in his arms and said what he did, we both knew we could not see much of each other for the rest of our lives--that's why I've kept so much to myself. He kissed the baby then, laid him in my arms and, stooping, kissed me once--only once--I've lived on that--and said: 'I will do all I can for this boy.' And--and"--her lips trembled for the first time--"that little baby, as it lay on my breast, saved us both. It was renunciation--but it made me hard; it killed Louis. "I saw Louis seldom and always in the presence of my boy. But Almeda Champney was not satisfied with what she had done; she transferred her jealousy to my son. She was jealous of every word Louis spoke to him; jealous of every hour he was with him. When Louis died, still young--my son was left unprovided for. That was Almeda Champney's work--she wouldn't have it. "Then I sold the first quarry for means to send Champney to college; and I sold the rest in order to start him well in business, in the world. But I know that at the bottom of my ambition for him, was the desire that he might succeed in spite of the fact that his aunt had kept from him the property which Louis Champney intended to be his. My ambition has been overweening for Champney's material success--I have urged him on, when I should have restrained. I have aided him to the extent of my ability to attain his end. I longed to see him in a position that, financially, would far out-shine hers. I felt it would compensate in part. I loved my son--and I loved in him Louis Champney. I alone am to blame for what has come of it--I--his mother." Her lips trembled excessively. She waited to control them before she could continue. "Last night, when I begged her to help me, she answered me with what I told you. I could bear no more--" She leaned back on the pillows, exhausted for a while with her great effort, but the light of renewed life shone from every feature. "I am better now," she said, turning to Father Honore the dark hollow eyes so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her. While this page in human history was being laid open before him, Father Honore said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in its still depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a human soul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his own existence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympathetic expression. And he was honest enough to withhold all attempt at such. "I fear you are very tired," he said, and rose to go. "No, no; I am better already. The telling has done me such good. I shall soon be up and about. When do you go?" "This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost any time; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought you would prefer to know from day to day." "You are good--but I can say nothing." The tears welled at last and overflowed on her cheeks.