Champney looked up and smiled. "I'm glad she hasn't changed." "But of course you don't know it. The fact is she had set heart on having for a daughter-in-law Aileen Armagh--you remember little Aileen?" Champney Googe's hands closed spasmodically on the arms of his chair. To cover this involuntary movement, he leaned forward suddenly and kicked a burning brand, that had fallen on the hearth, back into the fireplace. A shower of sparks flew up chimney. Father Honore went on without waiting for the answer he knew would not be forthcoming: "Aileen gave me a fright the other day. I met her on the street, and she took that occasion, in the midst of a good deal of noise and confusion, to inform me with her usual vivacity of manner that she was to be housekeeper to a man--'a job for life,' she added with the old mischief dancing in her eyes and the merry laugh that is a tonic for the blues. Upon my asking her gravely who was the fortunate man--for I had no one in mind and feared some impulsive decision--she pursed her lips, hesitated a moment, and, manufacturing a charming blush, said:--'I don't mind telling you; it's Mr. Octavius Buzzby. I'm to be his housekeeper for life and take care of him in his old age after his work and mine is finished at Champo.' I confess, I was relieved." "My aunt is still living, then?" Champney asked with more eagerness and energy than the occasion demanded. His eyes shone with suppressed excitement, and ever-awakening life animated every feature. Father Honore, noting the sudden change, read again, as once six years before, deep into this man's heart. "Yes, but it is death in life. Aileen is still with her--faithful as the sun, but rebelling at times as is only natural. The girl gave promise of rich womanhood, but even you would wonder at such fine development in such an environment of continual invalidism. Mrs. Champney has had two strokes of paralysis; it is only a question of time." "There is _one_ who never was my friend--I've often wondered why." Into the priest's inner vision flashed that evening before his departure 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."