Champney sat down on the thick rusty-red matting of pine needles and turned to him, a question in his eyes. Father Honore smiled. "What is it?" he said. "May I ask if it was your own choice coming up here to us?" "Yes, my deliberate choice. I had to work for it, though. The superior of my order was against my coming. It took moral suasion to get the appointment." "I don't suppose they wanted to lose a valuable man from the city," said Champney bluntly. "The question of value is not, happily, a question of environment. I simply felt I could do my best work here in the best way." "And you didn't consider yourself at all?" Champney put the question, which voiced his thought, squarely. "Oh, I'm human," he answered smiling at the questioner; "don't make any mistake on that point; and I don't suppose many of us can eliminate self wholly in a matter of choice. I did want to work here because I believe I can do the best work, but I also welcomed the opportunity to get away from the city--it weighs on me, weighs on me," he added, but it sounded as if he were merely thinking aloud. Champney failed to comprehend him. Father Honore, raising his eyes, caught the look on the young man's face and interpreted it. He said quietly: "But then you're twenty-one and I'm forty-five; that accounts for it." For a moment, but a moment only, Champney was tempted to speak out to this man, stranger as he was. Mr. Van Ostend evidently had confidence in him; why shouldn't he? Perhaps he might help him to decide, and for the best. But even as the thought flashed into consciousness, he was aware of its futility. He was sure the man would repeat only what his mother had said. He did not care to hear that twice. And what was this man to him that he should ask his opinion, appeal to him for advice in directing this step in his career? He changed the subject abruptly. "I think you said you had met Mr. Van Ostend?" "Yes, twice in connection with the orphan child, as I told you, and once I dined with him. He has a charming family: his sister and his little daughter. Have you met them?" "Only once. He has just written me and asked me to join them on his yacht for a trip to Europe." Champney felt he was coasting on the edge, and enjoyed the sport. "And of course you're going? I can't imagine a more delightful host." Father Honore spoke with enthusiasm. But Champney failed to respond in like manner. The priest took note of it. "I haven't made up my mind;" he spoke slowly; then, smiling merrily into the other's face, "and I came up here to try to make it up." "And I was here so you couldn't do it, of course!" Father Honore exclaimed so ruefully that Champney's hearty laugh rang out. "No, no; I didn't mean for you to take it in that way. I'm glad I found you here--I liked what you said about the 'value'."