Her eyes were still fixed on Louis Champney's face. Suddenly the lids drooped; she grew drowsy, but continued to murmur, incoherently at first, then inarticulately. The nurse stepped to his side. Father Honore's eyes dwelt pityingly for a moment on this deathbed; then he turned and left the room, marvelling at the differentiated expression in this life of that which we name Love. Octavius was waiting for him in the lower hall. "Did you see her?" he asked eagerly. "Yes; but to no purpose; her life has been lived, Mr. Buzzby; nothing can affect it now." "You don't mean she's gone?" Octavius started at the sound of his own voice; it seemed to echo through the house. "No; but it is, I believe, only a question of an hour at most." "I'd better drive up then for Aileen; she ought to know--ought to be here." "Believe me, it would be useless, Mr. Buzzby. Those two belong to life, not to death--leave them alone together; and leave her there above, to her Maker and the infinite mercy of His Son." "Amen," said Octavius Buzzby solemnly; but his thought was with those whom he had seen leave Champ-au-Haut through the same outward-opening portal that was now set wide for its mistress: the old Judge, and his son, Louis--the last Champney. He accompanied Father Honore to the door. "No farther, Mr. Buzzby," he said, when Octavius insisted on driving him home. "Your place is here. I shall take the tram as usual at The Bow." They shook hands without further speech. In the deepening twilight Octavius watched him down the driveway. Despite his sixty years he walked with the elastic step of young manhood. XI "Unworthy--unworthy!" was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt before Aileen in an access of shame and contrition in the presence of such a revelation of woman's love. [Illustration: "'Unworthy--unworthy!' was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt before Aileen"] Aileen lifted his head, laid her arms around his neck, drew him by her young strength and her gentle compelling words to a seat beside her on the granite block. She kept her arms about him. "No, Champney, not unworthy; but worthy, worthy of it all--all that life can give you in compensation for those seven years. We'll put it all behind us; we'll live in the present and in hope of a blessed future. Take heart, my husband--" The bowed shoulders heaved beneath her arms. "So little to offer--so little--" "'So little'!" she exclaimed; "and is it 'little' you call your love for me? Is it 'little' that I'm to have a home--at last--of my own? Is it 'little' that the husband I love is going out of it and coming home to it in his daily work, and my heart going out to him both ways at once? And is it 'little' you call the gift of a mother to her who is motherless--" her voice faltered. Champney caught her in his arms; his tears fell upon the dark head.