The priest entered without knocking; this house was open the year round to the frequent comers and goers among the workmen. He rapped at the sitting-room door. Mrs. Googe opened it. "Why, Father Honore, I didn't expect you to-night--didn't you have the--What is it?--oh, what is it!" she cried, for the priest's face betrayed him. "Joyful news, Mrs. Googe,"--he let her read his face--"your son is a free man to-night." There was no outcry on the mother's part; but her hands clasped each other till the nails showed white. "Where is he now?" "Here, in Flamsted--" "Let me go--let me go to him--" "He has come to you--he is just outside--" She was past him with a rush--at the door--on the porch-- "Champney!--My son!--where are you?" she cried out into the night. Her answer came on swift feet. He sprang up the steps two at a time, they were in each other's arms--then he had to be strong for both. He led her in, half carrying her; placed her in a chair; knelt before her, chafing her hands.... Father Honore made his escape; they were unconscious of his presence or his departure. He closed the front door softly behind him, and on feet shod with light-heartedness covered the road to his own house in a few minutes. He flung aside his coat, took his violin, and played and played till late into the night. Two of the sisters of The Mystic Rose, who had been over to Quarry End Park nursing a sick quarryman's wife throughout the day, paused to listen as they passed the house. One of them was Sister Ste. Croix. The violin exulted, rejoiced, sang of love heavenly, of love earthly, of all loves of life and nature; it sang of repentance, of expiation, of salvation-- "I can bear no more," whispered Sister Ste. Croix to her companion, and the hand she laid on the one that was raised to hush her, was not only cold, it was damp with the sweat of the agony of remembrance. The strains of the violin's song accompanied them to their own door. VII The Saturday-night frequenters of The Greenbush have changed with the passing years like all else in Flamsted. The Greenbush itself is no longer a hostelry, but a cosy club-house purveyed for, to the satisfaction of every member, by its old landlord, Augustus Buzzby. The Club's membership, of both young and old men, is large and increasing with the growth of the town; but the old frequenters of The Greenbush bar-room head the list--Colonel Caukins and Octavius Buzzby paying the annual dues of their first charter member, old Joel Quimber, now in his eighty-seventh year. The former office is a grill room, and made one with the back parlor, now the club restaurant. On this Saturday night in March, the white-capped chef--Augustus prided himself in keeping abreast the times--was busy in the grill room, and Augustus himself was superintending the laying of a round table for ten. The Colonel was to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday by giving a little supper.