He took his seat again, and with pitying love and ever increasing interest and amazement listened to her recital of the part she played on that October night in the quarry woods—of her hate that turned to love again when she found the man she had both loved and hated in the extreme of need, of the 'murder'—so she termed it in her contrition—of Rag, of her swearing Luigi to silence. She told of herself—but of Champney Googe's unmanly temptation of her honor, of his mad passion for her, she said never a word; her two pronounced traits of chastity and loyalty forbade it, as well as the desire of a loving woman to shield him she loved in spite of herself.
Of the little handkerchief that played its part in that night's threatened tragedy she said nothing—neither did Father Honoré; evidently, she had forgotten it.
Suddenly she clasped her hands hard over her heart.
"That dear loving little dog's death has lain here like a stone all these years," she said, and rose to go.
"You are absolved, Aileen," he said smiling. "It was, like many others, a little devoted life sacrificed to a great love."
He reached to press the button that turned on the electric lights. Their soft brilliance caught in sparkling gleams on the points of a small piece of almost pure white granite among the specimens on the shelf above them. Father Honoré rose and took it from its place.
"This is for you, Aileen," he said handing it to her.
"For me?" She looked at him in wonder, not understanding what he meant by this insignificant gift at such a time.
He smiled at her look of amazement.
"No wonder you look puzzled. You must be thinking you have 'asked me for bread and I am giving you a stone.' But this is for remembrance."