"He has come to you—he is just outside—"
She was past him with a rush—at the door—on the porch—
"Champney!—My son!—where are you?" she cried out into the night.
Her answer came on swift feet. He sprang up the steps two at a time, they were in each other's arms—then he had to be strong for both.
He led her in, half carrying her; placed her in a chair; knelt before her, chafing her hands....
Father Honoré made his escape; they were unconscious of his presence or his departure. He closed the front door softly behind him, and on feet shod with light-heartedness covered the road to his own house in a few minutes. He flung aside his coat, took his violin, and played and played till late into the night.
Two of the sisters of The Mystic Rose, who had been over to Quarry End Park nursing a sick quarryman's wife throughout the day, paused to listen as they passed the house. One of them was Sister Ste. Croix.
The violin exulted, rejoiced, sang of love heavenly, of love earthly, of all loves of life and nature; it sang of repentance, of expiation, of salvation—
"I can bear no more," whispered Sister Ste. Croix to her companion, and the hand she laid on the one that was raised to hush her, was not only cold, it was damp with the sweat of the agony of remembrance.
The strains of the violin's song accompanied them to their own door.