IX

On his way to The Greenbush he overtook Joel Quimber, and without

warning linked his arm close in the old man's. At the sudden contact

Joel started.

"Uncle Jo, old chap, how are you? This seems like home to see you

round."

"Lord bless me, Champ, how you come on a feller! Here, stan' still till

I get a good look at ye;--growed, growed out of all notion. Why, I

hain't seen ye for good two year. You warn't to home last summer?"

"Only for a week; I was off on a yachting cruise most of the time.

Mother said you were up on the Bay then at your grandniece's--pretty

girl. I remember you had her down here one Christmas."

The old man made no definite answer, but cackled softly to himself:

"Yachting cruise, eh? And you remember a pretty girl, eh?" He nudged him

with a sharpened elbow and whispered mysteriously: "Devil of a feller,

Champ! I've heerd tell, I've heerd tell--chip of the old block, eh?" He

nudged him knowingly again.

"Oh, we're all devils more or less, we men, Uncle Jo; now, honor bright,

aren't we?"

"You've hit it, Champ; more or less--more or less. I heerd you was

a-goin' it strong: primy donny suppers an' ortermobillies--"

"Now, Uncle Jo, you know there's no use believing all you hear, but you

can't plunge a country raised boy into a whirlpool like New York for

four years and not expect him to strike out and swim with the rest.

You've got to, Uncle Jo, or you're nobody. You'd go under."

"Like 'nough you would, Champ; I can't say, fer I hain't ben thar. Guess

twixt you an' me an' the post, I won't hev ter go thar sence Aurory's

sold the land fer the quarries. I hear it talked thet it'll bring half

New York right inter old Flamsted; I dunno, I dunno--you 'member 'bout

the new wine in the old bottles, Champ?--highflyers, emigrants, Dagos

and Polacks--Come ter think, Mis' Champney's got one on 'em now. Hev you

seen her, Champ?"

Champney's hearty laugh rang out with no uncertain sound. "Seen her! I

should say so. She's worth any 'primy donny', as you call them, that

ever drew a good silver dollar out of my pockets. Oh, it's too good to

keep! I must tell you; but you'll keep mum, Uncle Jo?"

"Mum's the word, ef yer say so, Champ." They turned from The Greenbush

and arm in arm paced slowly up the street again. From time to time, for

the next ten minutes, Augustus Buzzby and the Colonel in the tavern

office heard from up street such unwonted sounds of hilarity and so long

continued, that Augustus looked apprehensively at the Colonel who was

becoming visibly uneasy lest he fail to place the joke.

When the two appeared at the office door they bore unmistakable signs of

having enjoyed themselves hugely. Augustus Buzzby gave them his warmest

welcome and seated Uncle Joel in his deepest office chair, providing him

at the same time with a pipe and some cut leaf. The Colonel was in his

glory. With one arm thrown affectionately around young Googe's neck, he

expatiated on the joy of the community as a whole in again welcoming

its own.

"Champney, my dear boy,--you still permit me the freedom of old

friendship?--this town is already looking to you as to its future

deliverer; I may say, as to a Moses who will lead us into the industrial

Canaan which is even now, thanks to my friend, your honored mother,

beckoning to us with its promise of abundant plenty. Never, in my

wildest dreams, my dear boy, have I thought to see such a consummation

of my long-cherished hopes."

It was always one of Champney's prime youthful joys to urge the Colonel,

by judiciously applied excitants, to a greater flowering of eloquence;

so, now, as an inducement he wrung his neighbor's hand and thanked him

warmly for his timely recognition of the new Flamsted about to be.

"Now," he said, "the thing is for all of us to fall into line and forge

ahead, Colonel. If we don't, we'll be left behind; and in these times to

lag is to take to the backwoods."

"Right you are, my dear fellow; deterioration can only set in when the

members of a community, like ours, fail to present a solid front to the

disintegrating forces of a supine civilization which--"

"At it again, Milton Caukins!" It was Mr. Wiggins who, entering the

office, interrupted the flow,--"dammed the torrent", he was wont to say.

He extended a hand to young Googe. "Glad to see you, Champney. I hear

there is a prospect of your remaining with us. Quimber tells us he heard

something to the effect that a position might be offered you by the

syndicate."

"It's the first I've heard of it. How did you hear, Uncle Jo?" He

turned upon the old man with a keen alertness which, taken in connection

with the Colonel's oratory, was both disconcerting and confusing.

"How'd I hear? Le' me see; Champ, what was we just talking 'bout up the

street, eh?"

"Oh, never mind that now," he answered impatiently; "let's hear what you

heard. I'm the interested party just now." But the old man looked only

the more disturbed and was not to be hurried.

"'Bout that little girl--" he began, but was unceremoniously cut short

by Champney.

"Oh, damn the girl, just for once, Uncle Jo. What I want to know is, how

you came to hear anything about me in connection with the quarry

syndicate."

The old man persisted: "I'm a-tryin' to get a-holt of that man's name

that got her up here--"

"Van Ostend," Champney suggested; "is that the name you want?"

"That's him, Van Ostend; that's the one. He an' the rest was hevin' a

meetin' right here in this office 'fore they went to the train, an' I

was settin' outside the winder an' heerd one on 'em say: 'Thet Mis'

Googe's a stunner; what's her son like, does any one know?' An' I heerd

Mr. Van Ostend say: 'She's very unusual; if her son has half her

executive ability'--them's his very words--'we might work him in with

us. It would be good business policy to interest, through him, the land

itself in its own output, so to speak, besides being something of a

courtesy to Mis' Googe. I've met him twice.' Then they fell to

discussin' the lay of The Gore and the water power at The Corners."

"Bully for you, Uncle Jo!" Champney slapped the rounded shoulders with

such appreciative heartiness that the old man's pipe threatened to be

shaken from between his toothless gums. "You have heard the very thing

I've been hoping for. Tave never let on that he knew anything about it."

"He didn't, only what I told him." Old Quimber cackled weakly. "I guess

Tave's got his hands too full at Champo to remember what's told him;

what with the little girl an' Romanzo--no offence, Colonel." He looked

apologetically at the Colonel who waved his hand with an airiness that

disposed at once of the idea of any feeling on his part in regard to

family revelations. "I heerd tell thet the little girl hed turned his

head an' Tave couldn't git nothin' in the way of work out of him."

"In that case I must look into the matter." The Colonel spoke with stern

gravity. "Both Mrs. Caukins and I would deplore any undue influence that

might be brought to bear upon any son of ours at so critical a period of

his career."

Mr. Wiggins laughed; but the laugh was only a disguised sneer. "Perhaps

you'll come to your senses, Colonel, when you've got an immigrant for a

daughter-in-law. Own up, now, you didn't think your 'competing

industrial thousands' might be increased by some half-Irish

grandchildren, now did you?"

Champney listened for the Colonel's answer with a suspended hope that he

might give Elmer Wiggins "one," as he said to himself. He still owed the

latter gentleman a grudge because in the past he had been, as it were,

the fountain head of all in his youthful misery in supplying ample

portions of the never-to-be-forgotten oil of the castor bean and dried

senna leaves. He felt at the present time, moreover, that he was

inimical to his mother and her interests. And Milton Caukins was his

friend and hers, past, present, and future; of this he was sure.

The Colonel took time to light his cigar before replying; then, waving

it towards the ceiling, he said pleasantly:

"My young friend here, Champney, to whom we are looking to restore the

pristine vigor of a fast vanishing line of noble ancestors, is both a

Googe _and_ a Champney. _His_ ancestors counted themselves honored in

making alliances with foreigners--immigrants to our all-welcoming

shores; 'a rose', Mr. Wiggins, 'by any other name'; I need not quote."

His chest swelled; he interrupted himself to puff vigorously at his

cigar before continuing: "My son, sir, is on the spindle side of the

house a _Googe_, and a _Googe_, sir, has the blood of the Champneys and

the Lord knows of how many noble _immigrants_" (the last word was

emphasized by a fleeting glance of withering scorn at the small-headed

Wiggins) "in his veins which, fortunately, cannot be said of you, sir.

If, at any time in the distant future, my son should see fit to ally

himself with a scion of the noble and long-suffering Hibernian race, I

assure you"--his voice was increasing in dimensions--"both Mrs. Caukins

and myself would feel honored, sir, yes, honored in the breach!"

After this wholly unexpected ending to his peroration, he lowered his

feet from their accustomed rest on the counter of the former bar and,

ignoring Mr. Wiggins, remarked to Augustus that it was time for the

mail. Augustus, glad to welcome any diversion of the Colonel's and Mr.

Wiggins's asperities, said the train was on time and the mail would be

there in a few minutes.

"Tave's gone down to meet Mis' Champney," he added turning to Champney.

"She's been in Hallsport for two days. I presume you ain't seen her."

"Not yet. If you can give me my mail first I can drive up to

Champ-au-Haut with her to-night. There's the mail-wagon."

"To be sure, to be sure, Champney; and you might take out Mis'

Champney's; Tave can't leave the hosses."

"All right." He went out on the veranda to see if the Champ-au-Haut

carriage was in sight. A moment later, when it drove up, he was at the

door to open it.

"Here I am, Aunt Meda. Will this hold two and all those bundles?"

"Why, Champney, you here? Come in." She made room for him on the ample

seat; he sprang in, and bent to kiss her before sitting down beside her.

"Now, I call this luck. This is as good as a confessional, small and

dark, and 'fess I've got to, Aunt Meda, or there'll be trouble for

somebody at Campo."

Had the space not been so "small and dark" he might have seen the face

of the woman beside him quiver painfully at the sound of his cheery

young voice and, when he kissed her, flush to her temples.

"What devilry now, Champney?"

"It's a girl, of course, Aunt Meda--your girl," he added laughing.

"So you've found her out, have you, you young rogue? Well, what do you

think of her?"

"I think you'll have a whole vaudeville show at Champ-au-Haut for the

rest of your days--and gratis."

"I've been coming to that conclusion myself," said Mrs. Champney,

smiling in turn at the recollection of some of her experiences during

the past three weeks. "She amuses me, and I've concluded to keep her.

I'm going to have her with me a good part of the time. I've seen enough

since she has been with me to convince me that my people will amount to

nothing so long as she is with them." There was an edge to her words the

sharpness of which was felt by Octavius on the front seat.

"I can't blame them; I couldn't. Why Tave here is threatened already

with a quick decline--sheer worry of mind, isn't it Tave?" Octavius

nodded shortly; "And as for Romanzo there's no telling where he will

end; even Ann and Hannah are infected."

"What do you mean, Champney?" She was laughing now.

"Just wait till I run in and get the mail for us both, and I'll tell

you; it's my confession."

He sprang out, ran up the steps and disappeared for a moment. He

reappeared thrusting some letters into his pocket. Evidently he had not

looked at them. He handed the other letters and papers to Octavius, and

so soon as the carriage was on the way to The Bow he regaled his aunt

with his evening's experience under the bay window.

"Serves you right," was her only comment; but her laugh told him she

enjoyed the episode. He went into the house upon her invitation and sat

with her till nearly eleven, giving an account of himself--at least all

the account he cared to give which was intrinsically different from that

which he gave his mother. Mrs. Champney was what he had once described

to his mother as "a worldly woman with the rind on," and when he was

with her, he involuntarily showed that side of his nature which was best

calculated to make an impression on the "rind." He grew more worldly

himself, and she rejoiced in what she saw.

X

While walking homewards up The Gore, he was wondering why his mother had

shown such strength of feeling when he expressed the wish that his aunt

would help him financially to further his plans. He knew the two women

never had but little intercourse; but with him it was different. He was

a man, the living representative of two families, and who had a better

right than he to some of his Aunt Meda's money? A right of blood,

although on the Champney side distant and collateral. He knew that the

community as a whole, especially now that his mother had become a factor

in its new industrial life, was looking to him, as once they had looked

to his Uncle Louis, to "make good" with his inheritance of race. To this

end his mother had equipped him with his university training. Why

shouldn't his aunt be willing to help him? She liked him, that is, she

liked to talk with him. Sometimes, it is true, it occurred to him that

his room was better than his company; this was especially noticeable in

his young days when he was much with his aunt's husband whom he called

"Uncle Louis." Since his death he had never ceased to visit her at

Champ-au-Haut--too much was at stake, for he was the rightful heir to

her property at least, if not Louis Champney's. She, as well as his

father, had inherited twenty thousand from the estate in The Gore. His

father, so he was told, had squandered his patrimony some two years

before his death. His aunt, on the contrary, had already doubled hers;

and with skilful manipulation forty thousand in these days might be

quadrupled easily. It was wise, whatever might happen, to keep on the

right side of Aunt Meda; and as for giving that promise to his mother he

neither could nor would. His mind was made up on this point when he

reached The Gore. He told himself he dared not. Who could say what unmet

necessity might handicap him at some critical time?--this was his

justification.

In the midst of his wonderings, he suddenly remembered the evening's

mail. He took it out and struck a match to look at the hand-writing.

Among several letters from New York, he recognized one as having Mr. Van

Ostend's address on the reverse of the envelope. He tore it open; struck

another match and, the letter being type-written, hastily read it

through with the aid of a third and fourth pocket-lucifer; read it in a

tumult of expectancy, and finished it with an intense and irritating

sense of disappointment. He vehemently voiced his vexation: "Oh, damn it

all!"

He did not take the trouble to return the letter to its cover, but kept

flirting it in his hand as he strode indignantly up the hill, his arms

swinging like a young windmill's. When he came in sight of the house, he

looked up at his mother's bedroom window. Her light was still burning;

despite his admonition she was waiting for him as usual. He must tell

her before he slept.

"Champney!" she called, when she heard him in the hall.

"Yes, mother; may I come up?"

"Of course." She opened wide her bedroom door and stood there, waiting

for him, the lamp in her hand. Her beauty was enhanced by the

loose-flowing cotton wrapper of pale pink. Her dark heavy hair was

braided for the night and coiled again and again, crown fashion, on her

head.

"Aunt Meda never could hold a candle to mother!" was Champney

Googe's thought on entering. The two sat down for the usual

before-turning-in-chat.

He was so full of his subject that it overflowed at once in abrupt

speech.

"Mother, I've had a letter from Mr. Van Ostend--"

"Oh, Champney!" There was the joy of anticipation in her voice.

"Now, mother, don't--don't expect anything," he pleaded, "for you'll be

no end cut up over the whole thing. Now, listen." He read the letter;

the tone of his voice indicated both disgust and indignation.

"Now, look at that!" He burst forth eruptively when he had finished.

"Here we've been banking on an offer for some position in the syndicate,

at least, something that would help clear the road to Wall Street where

I should be able to strike out for myself without being dependent on any

one--I didn't mince matters that day of the dinner when I told him what

I wanted, either! And here I get an offer to go to Europe for five years

and study banking systems and the Lord knows what in London, Paris, and

Berlin, and act as a sort of super in his branch offices. Great Scott!

Does he think a man is going to waste five years of his life in Europe

at a time when twenty-four hours here at home might make a man! He's a

donkey if he thinks that, and I'd have given him credit for more common

sense--"

"Now, Champney, stop right where you are. Don't boil over so." She

repressed a smile. "Let's talk business and look at matters as they

stand."

"I can't;" he said doggedly; "I can't talk business without a business

basis, and this here,"--he shook the letter much as Rag shook a

slipper,--"it's just slop! What am I going to do over there, I'd like to

know?" he demanded fiercely; whereupon his mother took the letter from

his hand and, without heeding his grumbling, read it carefully twice.

"Now, look here, Champney," she said firmly; "you must use some reason.

I admit this isn't what you wanted or I expected, but it's something;

many would think it everything. Didn't you tell me only yesterday that

in these times a man is fortunate to get his foot on any round of the

ladder--"

"Well, if I did, I didn't mean the rung of a banking house fire-escape

over in Europe." He interrupted her, speaking sulkily. Then of a sudden

he laughed out. "Go on, mother, I'm a chump." His mother smiled and

continued the broken sentence:

"--And that ten thousand fail where one succeeds in getting even a

foothold--to climb, as you want to?"

"But how can I climb? That's the point. Why, I shall be twenty-six in

five years--if I live," he added lugubriously.

His mother laughed outright. The splendid specimen of health, vitality,

and strength before her was in too marked contrast to his words.

"Well, I don't care," he muttered, but joining heartily in her laugh;

"I've heard of fellows like me going into a decline just out of pure

homesickness over there."

"I don't think you will be homesick for Flamsted; I saw no traces of

that malady while you were in New York. On the contrary, I thought you

accepted every opportunity to stay away."

"New York is different," he replied, a little shamefaced in the presence

of the truth he had just heard. "But, mother, you would be alone here."

"I'm used to it, Champney;" she spoke as it were perfunctorily; "and I

am ambitious to see you succeed as you wish to. I want to see you in a

position which will fulfil both your hopes and mine; but neither you nor

I can choose the means, not yet; we haven't the money. For my part, I

think you should accept this offer; it's one in ten thousand. Work your

way up during these five years into Mr. Van Ostend's confidence, and I

am sure, _sure_, that by that time he will have something for you that

will satisfy even your young ambition. I think, moreover, it is a

necessity for you to accept this, Champney."

"You do; why?"

"Well, for a good many reasons. I doubt, in the first place, if these

quarries can get under full running headway for the next seven years,

and even if you had been offered some position of trust in connection

with them, you haven't had an opportunity to prove yourself worthy of it

in a business way. I doubt, too, if the salary would be any larger; it

is certainly a fair one for the work he offers." She consulted the

letter. "Twelve hundred for the first year, and for every succeeding

year an additional five hundred. What more could you expect,

inexperienced as you are? Many men have to give their services gratis

for a while to obtain entrance into such offices and have their names,

even, connected with such a financier. This opportunity is a business

asset. I feel convinced, moreover, that you need just this discipline."

"Why?"

"For some other good reasons. For one, you would be brought into daily

contact with men, experienced men, of various nationalities--"

"You can be that in New York. There isn't a city in the world where you

can gain such a cosmopolitan experience." He was still protesting, still

insisting. His mother made no reply, nor did she notice the

interruption.

"--Learn their ways, their point of view. All this would be of infinite

help if, later on, you should come into a position of great

responsibility in connection with the quarry syndicate.--It does seem so

strange that hundreds will make their livelihood from our barren

pastures!" She spoke almost to herself, and for a moment they were

silent.

"And look at this invitation to cross in his yacht with his family!

Champney, you know perfectly well nothing could be more courteous or

thoughtful; it saves your passage money, and it shows plainly his

interest in you personally."

"I know; that part isn't half bad." He spoke with interest and less

reluctance. "I saw the yacht last spring lying in North River; she's a

perfect floating palace they say. Of course, I appreciate the

invitation; but supposing--only supposing, you know,"--this as a warning

not to take too much for granted,--"I should accept. How could I live on

twelve hundred a year? He spends twice that on a cook. How does he think

a fellow is going to dress and live on that? 'T was a tight squeeze in

college on thirteen hundred."

His mother knew his way so well, that she recognized in this insistent

piling of one obstacle upon another the budding impulse to yield. She

was willing to press the matter further.

"Oh, clothes are cheaper abroad and living is not nearly so dear. You

could be quite the gentleman on your second year's salary, and, of

course, I can help out with the interest on the twenty thousand. You

forget this."

"By George, I did, mother! You're a trump; but I don't want you to think

I want to cut any figure over there; I don't care enough about 'em. But

I want enough to have a ripping good time to compensate for staying away

so long."

"You need not stay five consecutive years away from home. Look here,

Champney; you have read this letter with your eyes but not with your

wits. Your boiling condition was not conducive to clear-headedness."

"Oh, I say mother! Don't rap a fellow too hard when he's down."

"You're not down; you're up,"--she held her ground with him right

sturdily,--"up on the second round already, my son; only you don't know

it. Here it is in black and white that you can come home for six weeks

after two years, and the fifth year is shortened by three months if all

goes well. What more do you want?"

"That's something, anyway."

"Now, I want you to think this over."

"I wish I could run down to New York for a day or two; it would help a

lot. I could look round and possibly find an opening in the direction I

want. I want to do this before deciding."

"Champney, I shall lose patience with you soon. You know you, can't run

down to New York for even a day. Mr. Van Ostend states the fact baldly:

'Your decision I must have by telegraph, at the latest, by Thursday

noon.' That's day after to-morrow. 'We sail on Saturday.' Mr. Van Ostend

is not a man to waste a breath, as you have said."

Champney had no answer ready. He evaded the question. "I'll tell you

to-morrow, mother. It's late; you mustn't sit up any longer." He looked

at his watch. "One o'clock. Good night."

"Good night, Champney. Leave your door into the hall wide open; it's so

close."

She put out her light and sat down by the window. The night was

breathless; not a leaf of the elm trees quivered. She heard the Rothel

picking its way down the rocky channel of The Gore. She gave herself up

to thought, far-reaching both into the past and the future. Soon,

mingled with the murmur of the brook, she heard her son's quiet measured

breathing. She rose, walked noiselessly down the hall and stood at his

bedroom door, to gaze--mother-like, to worship. The moonlight just

touched the pillow. He lay with his head on his arm; the full white

chest was partly bared; the spare length of the muscular body was

outlined beneath the sheet. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned from

the door, and, noiselessly as she had come, went back to her room and

her couch.

* * * * *

How little the pending decision weighed on his mind was proven by his

long untroubled sleep; but directly after a late breakfast he told his

mother he was going out to prospect a little in The Gore; and she,

understanding, questioned him no further. He whistled to Rag and turned

into the side road that led to the first quarry. There was no work going

on there. This small ownership of forty acres was merged in the

syndicate which had so recently acquired the two hundred acres from the

Googe estate. He made his way over the hill and around to the head of

The Gore. He wanted to climb the cliff-like rocks and think it out under

the pines, landmarks of his early boyhood. He picked his way among the

boulders and masses of sheep laurel; he was thinking not of the quarries

but of himself; he did not even inquire of himself how the sale of the

quarries might be about to affect his future.

Champney Googe was self-centred. The motives for all his actions in a

short and uneventful life were the spokes to his particular hub of self;

the tire, that bound them and held them to him, he considered merely the

necessary periphery of constant contact with people and things by which

his own little wheel of fortune might be made to roll the more easily.

He was following some such line of thought while turning Mr. Van

Ostend's plan over and over in his mind, viewing it from all sides. It

was not what he wanted, but it might lead to that. His eyes were on the

rough ground beneath him, his thoughts busy with the pending decision,

when he was taken out of himself by hearing an unexpected voice in his

vicinity.

"Good morning, Mr. Googe. Am I poaching on your preserve?"

Champney recognized the voice at once. It was Father Honore's hailing

him from beneath the pines. He was sitting with his back against one; a

violin lay on its cover beside him; on his lap was a drawing-board with

rule and compass pencil. Champney realized on the instant, and with a

feeling of pleasure, that the priest's presence was no intrusion even at

this juncture.

"No, indeed, for it is no longer my preserve," he answered cheerily, and

added, with a touch of earnestness that was something of a surprise to

himself, "and it wouldn't be if it were still mine."

"Thank you, Mr. Googe; I appreciate that. You must find it hard to see a

stranger like myself preempting your special claim, as I fancy this one

is."

"It used to be when I was a youngster; but, to tell the truth, I haven't

cared for it much of late years. The city life spoils a man for this. I

love that rush and hustle and rubbing-elbows with the world in general,

getting knocked about--and knocking." He laughed merrily, significantly,

and Father Honore, catching his meaning at once, laughed too. "But I'm

not telling you any news; of course, you've had it all."

"Yes, all and a surfeit. I was glad to get away to this hill-quiet."

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'."

Father Honore looked mystified for a moment; his brow contracted in the

effort to recall at the moment what he had said about "value", and in

what connection; but instead of any further question as to Champney's

rather incoherent meaning, he handed him the drawing-board.

"This is the plan for my shack, Mr. Googe. I have written to Mr. Van

Ostend to ask if the company would have any objection to my putting it

here near these pines. I understand the quarries are to be opened up as

far as the cliff, and sometime, in the future, my house will be neighbor

to the workers. I suppose then I shall have to 'move on'. I'm going to

build it myself."

"All yourself?"

"Why not? I'm a fairly good mason; I've learned that trade, and there is

plenty of material, good material, all about." He looked over upon the

rock-strewn slopes. "I'm going to use some of the granite waste too." He

put his violin into its case and held out his hand for the board. "I'm

going now, Mr. Googe; I shall be interested to know your decision as

soon as you yourself know about it."

"I'll let you know by to-morrow. I've nearly a day of grace. You play?

You are a musician?" he asked, as Father Honore rose and tucked the

violin and drawing-board under his arm.

"My matins," the priest answered, smiling down into the curiously eager

face that with the fresh unlined beauty of young manhood was upturned to

his. "Good morning." He lifted his hat and walked rapidly away without

waiting for any further word from Champney.

"Sure-footed as a mountain goat!" Champney said to himself as he watched

him cross the rough hilltop. "I'd like to know where he gets it all!"

He stretched out under the pines, his hands clasped under his head, and

fell to thinking of his own affairs, into the as yet undecided course of

which the memory of the priest's words, "The question of value is not,

happily, a question of environment" fell with the force of gravity.

"I might as well go it blind," he spoke aloud to himself: "it's all a

matter of luck into which ring you shy your hat; I suppose it's the

'value', after all, that does it in the end. Besides--"

He did not finish that thought aloud; but he suddenly sat bolt upright,

a fist pressed hard on each knee. His face hardened into determination.

"By George, what an ass I've been! If I can't do it in one way I can in

another.--Hoop! Hooray!"

He turned a somersault then and there; came right side up; cuffed the

dazed puppy goodnaturedly and bade him "Come on", which behest the

little fellow obeyed to the best of his ability among the rough ways of

the sheep walks.

He did not stop at the house, but walked straight down to Flamsted, Rag

lagging at his heels. He sent a telegram to New York. Then he went

homewards in the broiling sun, carrying the exhausted puppy under his

arm. His mother met him on the porch.

"I've just telegraphed Mr. Van Ostend, mother, that I'll be in New York

Friday, ready to sail on Saturday."

"My dear boy!" That was all she said then; but she laid her hand on his

shoulder when they went in to dinner, and Champney knew she was

satisfied.

Two days later, Champney Googe, having bade good-bye to his neighbors,

the Caukinses large and small, to Octavius, Ann and Hannah,--Aileen was

gone on an errand when he called last at Champ-au-Haut but he left his

remembrance to her with the latter--to his aunt, to Joel Quimber and

Augustus, to Father Honore and a host of village well-wishers who, in

their joyful anticipation of his future and his fortunes, laid aside all

factional differences, said, at last, farewell to Flamsted, to The

Corners, The Bow, and his home among the future quarries in The Gore.