He strove vainly to recall the characters in the strange drama in which he had played his part but of which he had now no distinct recollection; dimly they passed before his vision like the shadowy phantoms of a dream from which one has just awakened. He started at the first mention of John Britton's name, eagerly following each outline of that noble character, his heart kindling with affection as he read his words of loving, helpful counsel. His face grew tender and his eyes filled at the love-story, so pathetically brief, faithfully transcribed on those pages, but of Kate Underwood he could only recall a slender girl with golden-brown hair and wistful, appealing brown eyes; he wondered at the strength of character shown by her speech and conduct, and his heart went out to this unknown love, notwithstanding that memory now showed him the picture of another and earlier love in the far East. But it was the story of John Britton's life which moved him most. With strained, eager eyes and bated breath he read that sad recital, and at its termination, buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. When he had grown calm he sat for some time reviewing the past and forming plans for future action. While thus absorbed in thought he heard a step, and, looking up, saw standing before him a man of apparently sixty years, with bronzed face and grizzled hair, whose small, piercing eyes regarded himself with keen scrutiny. In response to the younger man's greeting he only bowed silently. "You must be Peter, the hermit," the young man exclaimed; "but whoever you are, you are welcome; I am glad to see a human face." "And you," replied the other, slowly, "you are not the same man that you were yesterday; you have awakened, as he said you would some day." "As who said?" the young man questioned. "John Britton," the other replied. "Yes, I have awakened, and my life here is like a dream. Sit down, Peter; I want to ask you some questions." For half an hour they sat together, the younger man asking questions, the other answering in as few words as possible, his keen eyes never leaving the face of his interlocutor. "Where is this John Britton?" the young man finally inquired. "In Ophir--at a place called The Pines." "I know the place; I remember it. How far is it from here?" "Fifteen miles by rail from the station at the foot of the mountain." "I must go to him at once; you will show me the way. How soon can we get away from here?" Peter glanced at the sun. "We cannot get down the trail in season for to-day's train. We will start to-morrow morning." Without further speech he then went into the cabin and busied himself with his accustomed duties. When he reappeared he again stood silently regarding the younger man with his fixed, penetrating gaze. "What awakened you?" he asked, at length.