"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice. "Why,--no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the glasses again." Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak. "To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,--"God bless her!" "Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't mean--" "I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from a new disease the doctors haven't named!" * * * * * XXIII * * * * * The letter postmarked "New York," announcing Hamlen's arrival, did not take Huntington by surprise, but it fulfilled his expectations sooner than he expected. The desirability of making certain changes in investments, the letter explained, made it necessary for Hamlen to come to the States, and if his classmate's invitation to Boston still held good he would be glad to avail himself of the opportunity to renew their friendship. This announcement found Huntington in the introspective mood which had alarmed Cosden, and suggested a comparison in which he placed himself under the microscope for a mercilessly minute analysis. Hamlen was convinced that he had made a failure of life, but what had he, Huntington demanded of himself, accomplished which could entitle him to claim success? He had not separated himself from his fellow-men, it was true, he had been a decent citizen, performing such duties as came to him with faithfulness and ability,--yet what had he really contributed to the community or to the life in which he lived which made it better because he had been a part of it? He had created nothing, nor even made an effort to create. No painting bore his signature; no volume added his contribution to the world's knowledge on any subject; no philanthropic or business enterprise owed its inception to his initiative; no child of his was growing up to bear its share in the struggle of to-morrow or to bless his memory for parental sacrifice and guidance. Hamlen at least had given himself to the world in the wonderful volumes which would live after him, even though their creator's identity never was disclosed. Hamlen at least had made the flowers and the shrubs of his island estate bear witness to the power within him which refused to be restrained; but Huntington's labors, if he could dignify them by so serious a name, had been perfunctory at best. He was rich in the world's goods and in human friendships, he was respected by all who knew him. For what? he demanded: because his grandfather and his father before him had created, and had played their part so well in the developing life of the city of their birth that a luster had been given to the family name. His virtues were wholly negative; his was a reflected glory and undeserved. The position in the