y on the man who had been in his employ; the
interest of it would support him in his incapacity to do a man's work
and earn a decent livelihood. My uncle said then I was never again to
darken his doors. He desired me to leave no address; to keep secret to
myself my destination, and forever after my whereabouts. I obeyed to the
letter--now enough of myself. I have told you this because, as a man, I
had not the face to sit here in your presence and hear your decision,
without showing you my respect for your courage--and I have taken this
way to show it."

He held out his hand and Champney wrung it. "You don't know all, or you
would have no respect," he said brokenly.

The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they both
felt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strain
would be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, in
tacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the things
that were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": they
laid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decision
involved.

"There is one thing I cannot do," he spoke with decision; "that is to
see my mother before my commitment--or after. It is the only thing that
will break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to go
through this thing."

The priest knew better than to protest.

"Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I will
write her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seen
me through. I want _you_ to go up with me--to the very doors; and I want
yours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: I
don't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicate
with me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term,
whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as an
identity, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mother
should fall ill, write me at once.--How she will live, I don't know! I
dare not think--it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; she
has you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want,
and there's the house; it's in her name."

He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go to
work; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned.--I suppose the
clothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over."

He spoke indifferently and went int