"Yes; and he has absorbed my thoughts ever since. Suppose we sit down and talk him over." The others in the party left them to themselves. They had heard Huntington's preliminary remark, and understood that they had no part in the conversation. "He is a pathetic figure," Huntington continued, "and he has won a sympathy from me which I never remember to have given to any one before. Think of twenty years of solitude! By Jove! he is the Modern Edmond Dantes!" "I've known him since he was a boy," Marian said as Huntington paused for a moment. "If you are to understand the situation, perhaps I ought to tell you more. For a time, we were engaged, but these relations were broken off soon after his graduation. In fact I feel that I am to a certain extent responsible for his present condition, for he left America as soon as he heard of my engagement to Mr. Thatcher." Huntington looked up quickly. "That gives Hamlen and me another bond of sympathy," he said quietly. "What do you mean?" she asked, surprised. "That same announcement produced disastrous effects upon my life as well." "Why, you never saw me half a dozen times--" "Once was enough," he replied seriously. "Your imagination is as highly developed as your gallantry, Mr. Huntington," Marian laughed; "but we mustn't let ourselves become diverted.--Philip Hamlen was always sensitive and moody, but until I discovered him down here I had no idea these characteristics could become so exaggerated." "He believes himself always to have been misunderstood," Huntington added. "To-day he felt that we met on common ground, and the gratitude in his eyes still haunts me." "Can't we do something for him, between us?" she asked earnestly. "We must," Huntington assented with decision. "I am still puzzling over the problem. Have you anything to suggest?" Mrs. Thatcher did not reply at once, and Huntington respected her silence. He realized that her answer could not be given spontaneously, that the proposition was too vital for anything but the most serious consideration. As a matter of fact, however, she had already considered it. Marian Thatcher was a woman of strong impulses, with strength of will equal to carry them through to success. She had been appalled by Hamlen's condition, and felt keenly her personal responsibility. During the hours which had intervened since the accidental meeting, many of them sleepless hours of the night, she had searched her mind for some expedient which should in part work restitution. She had discovered a possible solution, but it was of a nature so intimate that she hesitated to take Huntington into her confidence. "I had thought--" she began at length, but then she paused. "We must pull him out of himself," she began again; "we must get him where he will find something to think of other than himself." "Suppose that to be accomplished, what then?"