"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 it