"When that happened to _me_, it was a dynamite explosion that effectually broke up the previous courses of thought within me; and, naturally, the idea occurs to me as a specific for the case of your melancholy friend. Seriously, Cranbrooke, you could do worse than attack him from some unexpected quarter, in some point where he is acutely sensitive--play upon him, excite him, distract him, and so carry him past the date he fears." "How could I?" asked Cranbrooke of himself. There was another knock; and, upon Cranbrooke's hearty bidding to come in, there entered no less a person than the subject of their conversation. Even the astute Shepard finished his pipe and took his leave without suspecting that the manly, healthy, clear-eyed, and animated Maxwell Pollock had anything in common with the possessed hero of Cranbrooke's story. Cranbrooke, who had dreaded a reopening of the subject of Pollock's letter, was infinitely relieved to find it left untouched. The visit, lasting till past midnight, was one of a long series dating back to the time when they were undergraduates at the university. There had never been a break in their friendship. The society of Cranbrooke, after that of his own wife, was to Pollock ever the most refreshing, the most inspiring to high and manly thought. They talked, now, upon topics grave and gay, without hinting at the shadow overlying all. Pollock was at his best; and his friend's heart went out to him anew in a wave of that sturdy affection "passing the love of woman"--rare, perhaps, in our material money-getting community, but, happily, still existing among true men. When the visitor arose to take leave, he said in simple fashion: "Then I may count on you, Cranbrooke, to stand by us this summer?" "Count on me in all things," Cranbrooke answered; and the two shook hands, and Pollock went his way cheerily, as usual. "Is this a dream?" Cranbrooke asked himself, when left alone. "Can it be possible that sane, splendid fellow is a victim of pitiful hallucination, or that he is really to be cut off in the golden summer of his days. No, it can't be; it must not be. He must be, as Shepard says, 'pulled up short' by main force. At any cost, I must save him. But how? _Anyhow!_ Max must be made to forget himself--even if I am the sacrifice! By George! this _is_ a plight I'm in! And Ethel, who adores the ground he walks upon! I shall probably end by losing both of them, worse luck!" The morning had struggled through Cranbrooke's window-blinds before he stirred from his fit of musing and went into his bedroom for a few hours of troubled sleep. Chapter II