If Emmett Harlow had known that Italy Vale’s whole heart was given to this man, would he have rejoiced in finding him like this--mind seemingly wrecked, memory gone, nothing remaining of all his splendid gifts except his manly beauty; would he have exulted in the mental overthrow of his successful rival? No! for Emmett Harlow had a heart of gold, and was incapable of an ignoble thought or deed. In a voice husky with emotion he revealed to Doctor Loring the identity of the stranger for whom he was so kindly caring, and the young man’s eyes beamed with delight. “Francis Murray! The author, whose few but splendid scientific works I have read with keen delight--is it possible?” he cried eagerly, and his anxiety for the stranger’s restoration grew more keen than ever. “But the surgeon is very busy; he cannot operate on his head for a week yet,” he said regretfully. “If a handsome fee would be any inducement,” began Emmett; but Doctor Loring answered quickly: “It would not move Doctor Chastain if you offered him a fortune. His engagements are many, and he cannot come to the hospital until the day of his regular appointment here.” “And, in the meantime, I ought to write to his poor mother and tell her that her son is alive,” exclaimed Emmett. “I would advise you not to do so yet,” the physician replied, with sudden gravity. “But why?” “Because, my friend,” said Doctor Loring impressively, “all surgical operations are attended with some degree of risk. I hope this one will be successful, and I believe it will be, but as I said just now, it will be better to wait a little while that you may know definitely what news you have to write to Mrs. Murray.” “I will wait,” Emmett answered, with a heavy sigh, and his blue eyes grew dim as he looked at Francis Murray’s unconscious face. “I will stay by him whatever happens!” he vowed generously, and so the bright October days slipped into bleak November. CHAPTER XX. MR. GARDNER PROMISES HELP. It was the day succeeding the night of Mrs. Murray’s complete reconciliation with Italy Vale. The storm of the previous night had died down into the gloom of a raw, sunless day. The sky was leaden, the air was cold and frosty, with now and then some hurrying flecks of hail or snow; the sea, still rough and angry, boomed sullenly upon the shore. After breakfast the two ladies were sitting alone in a warm, bright little parlor, Mrs. Murray’s favorite retreat in chilly weather. It opened by a glass door into the conservatory with its wealth of bloom and fragrance, and was always cozy and cheerful. A servant entered quietly, placed the morning’s mail on a table by Mrs. Murray, and withdrew. Mrs. Murray began to open her letters and Italy took up one of the morning papers, a leading daily.