The sun was nearing the rim of the Flamsted Hills. Far beyond them, the mighty shoulder of Katahdin, mantled with white, caught the red gleam and lent to the deep blue of the northern heavens a faint rose reflection of the setting sun. The children, just from school, were shouting at their rough play--snow-balling, sledding, skating and tobogganning on that portion of the pond which had been cleared of snow. The great derricks on the ledges creaked and groaned as the remaining men made all fast for the night; like a gigantic cobweb their supporting wires stretched thick, enmeshed, and finely dark over the white expanse of the quarries. From the power-house a column of steam rose straight and steady into the windless air. Hurrying on, Aileen looked upon it with set lips and a hardening heart. She had come to hate, almost, the sight of this life of free toil for the sake of love and home. It was a woman who was thinking these thoughts in her rapid walk to the priest's house--a woman of twenty-six who for more than seven years had suffered in silence; suffered over and over again the humiliation that had been put upon her womanhood; who, despite that humiliation, could not divest herself of the idea that she still clung to her girlhood's love for the man who had humiliated her. She told herself again and again that she was idealizing that first feeling for him, instead of accepting the fact that, as a woman, she would be incapable, if the circumstances were to repeat themselves now, of experiencing it. Since that fateful night in The Gore, Champney Googe's name had never voluntarily passed her lips. So far as she knew, no one so much as suspected that she was a factor in his escape--for Luigi had kept her secret. Sometimes when she felt, rather than saw, Father Honore's eyes fixed upon her in troubled questioning, the blood would rush to her cheeks and she could but wonder in dumb misery if Champney had told him anything concerning her during those ten days in New York. For six years there had been a veil, as it were, drawn between the lovely relations that had previously existed between Father Honore and this firstling of his flock in Flamsted. For a year after his experience with Champney Googe in New York, he waited for some sign from Aileen that she was ready to open her heart to him; to clear up the mystery of the handkerchief; to free herself from what was evidently troubling her, wearing upon her, changing her in disposition--but not for the better. Aileen gave no sign. Another year passed, but Aileen gave no sign, and Father Honore was still waiting.