The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they both felt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strain would be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, in tacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the things that were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": they laid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decision involved. "There is one thing I cannot do," he spoke with decision; "that is to see my mother before my commitment--or after. It is the only thing that will break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to go through this thing." The priest knew better than to protest. "Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I will write her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seen me through. I want _you_ to go up with me--to the very doors; and I want yours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: I don't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicate with me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term, whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as an identity, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mother should fall ill, write me at once.--How she will live, I don't know! I dare not think--it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; she has you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want, and there's the house; it's in her name." He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go to work; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned.--I suppose the clothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over." He spoke indifferently and went into the adjoining bath closet where Father Honore, not liking to dispose of them until Champney should have spoken of them at least, had left the clothes in a bundle. He had put the little handkerchief, discolored almost beyond recognition, in with them. Champney came out in a few minutes. "They're no good," he said. "I'll have to wear these, if I may. I believe it's one of the regulations that what a man takes in of his own, is saved for him to take out, isn't it?" "Yes." An hour later when Father Honore disposed of the bundle to the janitor, he knew that Aileen's handkerchief had been abstracted--and he read still deeper into the ways of the human heart.... * * * * * Within ten days sentence was passed: seven years with hard labor. There was no appeal for mercy, and speedy commitment followed. A paragraph in the daily papers conveyed a knowledge of the fact to the world in general; and within ten days, the world in general, as usual, forgot the circumstance; it was only one of many. PART FIFTH Shed Number Two I "It's a wonder ye're not married yet, Aileen, an' you twenty-six."