"Thet's a good girl." He laid his other hand over hers. "You stick by Champ an' stick up for him too; he's good blood, an' ef he did go under for a spell, he ain't no worse 'n the rest, nor half ez bad; for Champ went in _of his own accord--of his own accord_," he repeated significantly, "an' don't you forget thet, Aileen! Thet takes grit; mebbe you wouldn't think so, but it does. Champ makes me think of them divers, I've read an' heerd about, thet dives for pearls. Some on 'em comes up all right, but some of 'em go under for good an' all. Champ dove mighty deep--he was diving for money, which he figured was his pearl, Aileen--an' he most went under for good an' all without gettin' what he wanted, an' now he's come to the surface agin, it's all ben wuth it--he's got the pearl, Aileen, but t'ain't the one he expected to get--he told me so t' other night. We set here him an' me, an' understan' one 'nother even when we don't talk--jest set an' smoke an' puff--" "What pearl is it, Uncle Jo?" She whispered her question, half fearing, but wholly longing to hear the old man's answer. "Guess he'll tell you himself sometime, Aileen." He leaned back in his chair; he was tired. Aileen stooped and kissed him on the forehead. "Goodnight, Uncle Jo," she said softly, "an' don't forget Hannah's broth or there'll be trouble at Champo." He roused himself again. "I heered from Tave to-day thet Mis' Champney is pretty low." "Yes, she feels this heat in her condition." "Like enough--like enough; guess we all do a little." Then he seemed to speak to himself:--"She was rough on Champ," he murmured. Aileen left him with that name on his lips. On her return to Champ-au-Haut, she went down to the boat house to sit a while in its shade. The surface of the lake was motionless, but the reflection of the surrounding heights and shores was slightly veiled, owing to the heat-haze that quivered above it. Aileen was reliving the experience of the last seven years, the consummation of which was the knowledge that Champney Googe loved her. She was sure of this now. She had felt it intuitively during the twilight horror of that October day in The Gore. But how, when, where would he speak the releasing word--the supreme word of love that alone could atone, that alone could set her free? Would he ever speak it?--could he, after that avowal of the unreasoning passion for her which had taken possession of him seven years ago? And, moreover, what had not that avowal and its expression done to her?