"True, your honor's gone; you can't get that back; but you can put yourself in the running to obtain a standard for your future honor. Champney, listen;" he drew his chair nearer to him that the table might not separate them; "hear me, a man like yourself, erring, because human, who has sinned, suffered--let me speak out of my own experience. Put aside regret; it clogs. Regret nothing; what's done is done past recall. Live out your life, no matter what the struggle. Count this life as yours to make the best of. Live, I say; live, work, make good; it is in any man's power who has received a reprieve like yours. I know whereof I am speaking. I'll go further: it would be in your power even if you had been judged and committed." The man, to whom he was appealing, shuddered as he heard the word "committed." "_That_ would be death," he said under his breath; "last night was nothing, nothing to that--but you can't understand--" "Better, perhaps, than you think. But what I want you to see is that there is something left to live for; Champney--your mother." He had hesitated to speak of her, not knowing what the effect might be. Champney started to his feet, his hand clenched on the table edge. He breathed short, hard. "O God, O God! Why didn't you let me go? How can I face her and live!" He began to pace the room with rapid jerky steps. Father Honore rose. "Champney Googe,"--he spoke calmly, but with a concentrated energy of tone that made its impression on the man addressed,--"when you lay there last night," he motioned towards the cot, "I thanked my God that she was not here to see you. I have telegraphed her that you are alive. In the hope that you yourself might send some word, either directly or through me, I have withheld all detail of your condition, all further news; but, for her sake, I dare not keep her longer in suspense. Give me some word for her--some assurance from yourself that you will live for her sake, if not for your own. Reparation must begin here and _now_, and no time be lost; it's already late." He looked at his watch. Champney turned upon him fiercely. "Don't force me to anything. I can't see my way, I tell you. You have said I was a man. Let me take my stand on that assurance, and act as one who must first settle a long-standing account with himself before he can yield to any impulse of emotion. Go to bed--do; you're worn out with watching with me. I'll sit here by the window; _I promise you_. There's no sleep in me or for me--I want to be alone--alone."