It was in August that he went abroad. In October he found himself in a quaint little French town on the coast, and something quite startling happened. He was still with the American party, drifting idly whither they went, and one day the papa of one of the charming girls came in from a stroll, and said: “I met up with a friend from Boston to-day, young Doctor Loring. Perhaps you know him?” “Heard of him at home--but not acquainted,” Emmett Harlow answered carelessly. “Doctor Loring--oh, my! That charming fellow! Papa, I hope you invited him to call,” chirped his vivacious daughter. “Of course, and he said he would come this evening, Maud,” replied paterfamilias, whereat all the pretty girls applauded, openly, for two reasons: One was that they all knew the young physician and liked him very much, and the other was that they wished to pique Emmett, who was so placidly indifferent to all their charms. They would not have felt so much slighted had they known that he was the suffering victim of a hopeless love, that must have time to wear off the keen edge of its despair, but Emmett was too proud to confess his trouble when they rallied him on his dejection. He courted no sympathy, he knew that silence was best. No true man can tamely bear pity. Doctor Loring came promptly that evening, glad of an opportunity to meet American friends on this foreign shore. He was bright and vivacious, and soon told the story of his trip on the sailing-vessel that the balmy air of the sea might heal his ailing lungs. With the story of the trip came also the story of the mysterious patient picked up at sea and now waiting in a French hospital for the operation that was to restore his memory. As he finished the recital his eye chanced to fall on Emmett Harlow. He was startled at the eagerness of the young man’s look. “What is it, Mr. Harlow? You seem agitated!” exclaimed the doctor. “I am deeply interested in your story, deeply anxious to see your mysterious patient. If you will permit me, Doctor Loring, I will return with you to the hospital this evening,” replied Emmett earnestly; and the physician protested that he would be very glad of his company. In a little while he saw in the young man such signs of veiled impatience that he made his visit shorter than he had intended; and soon led the eager Emmett into the French hospital, and to the presence of the man he had half-expected to find--Francis Murray; Francis Murray, the man from whom he had parted in Winthrop with a friendly handclasp, but who now met him with the careless glance of the stranger. For the familiar face of the youth he had known and loved for years made no impression on the dulled mind. Friend or stranger, it was all one to Francis Murray. He knew no voice nor face. It was a dreary, hopeless blank, the past.