Both boys looked gloomily at each other. Then Billy had an inspiration.

"If there isn't," he declared with decision, "then Phil and I will dash over there and stir one up. We could make faces at them or do something and get one started. That's the idea, isn't it, Phil?"

"You make me tired!" Philip retorted. "This is too serious a matter to joke about."

As the older boy moved away disgustedly Billy again whispered to Merry.

"Phil is just as bad as you," he said disconsolately. "He doesn't know seriousness when he sees it. Come on! Take a chance and be a sport!"

The boy's persistency was the only jarring note in the whole experience, and the extent of that was too limited to produce lasting effect. The picnickers watched the sun set and the moon rise, then, filled with the calm delights which Nature so generously shared with them, and over-satiated with the creature comforts supplied by their hostess, they re-embarked in the launch and returned to Sagamore Hall. To their surprise, as they walked across the great lawn to the house, they saw some one coming down to meet them.

"Mr. Huntington has returned!" Marian cried, and she hastened toward him in advance of the others.

"Why, Harry!" she exclaimed surprised to discover that it was her husband. "How did you manage to get back to-night? I'm so glad to see you!"

Cosden hurried forward, sensing important revelations in Thatcher's return. The new-comer grasped his hand cordially, and his face even in the moonlight showed a relief from the long strain.

"With your help, old man, I've pulled through," he whispered later. "The stock-markets of the world are closed indefinitely. Germany and England are straining to jump at each other's throats. The history of the world starts revision from to-day, and now I'm going to stay down here for a while and let other people worry!"

x.x.xVII

Knowing that his telephone message would allay Mrs. Thatcher's greatest anxiety, Huntington made no effort to return to the sh.o.r.e that night, and when morning came it was a question whether he could go at all. He knew that Hamlen would keep his promise so long as he remained master of himself, but the roving eyes and the twitching nerves warned Huntington that he must not place too great reliance upon this expectation. All through the hours of darkness, without his friend's knowledge, he watched over him, sharing in sympathetic silence the suffering which the tossing body endured in expressing the tortures of the mind. When morning came at last Hamlen was quieter, but this condition was due to the exhaustion of high fever rather than to even temporary relief.

Hastily summoning a physician, Huntington watched the examination, becoming more and more apprehensive as the expression of concern deepened on the doctor's face. Together they stepped into the hall, where the doctor shook his head gravely.

"Tell me something of what led up to this," he demanded.

Huntington briefly sketched Hamlen's history, and the climax.

"It will be nip and tuck," the doctor said crisply. "His resistance is low, but he'll probably pull through. What I'm afraid of is his reason.

We'll break this fever now, and then you must find something to interest him outside of himself. That is his only salvation."

"I wish I thought I could," Huntington replied doubtfully. "There will be no help from him, for the last thing he desires is to live."

"But if to live is to--"

"I know,--I shall do my best."

A week later Hamlen's life was out of danger, but at times his mental wanderings confirmed the doctor's worst apprehensions. Yet Huntington came to dread the depression of the saner moments more than the vagrant hallucinations. The dramatic details of the unleashing of the war-dogs of one nation after another should have been enough to arouse his interest, but his only comment was, "It is a fitting end to a hollow world, with its thin veneer of sham civilization; would to G.o.d it had come sooner!"

Finally it seemed safe to leave the patient in the care of the trained nurse, and Huntington made his deferred return to Sagamore Hall. Marian had kept in touch with Hamlen's progress as well as she could over the telephone, but there was much which her heart craved to learn more intimately. The illness afforded a simple explanation to the other guests of the peculiar disappearance of both men, so Huntington's confidences needed to be told to Mrs. Thatcher alone. Still, there was a single exception. One of the first questions Huntington asked of Marian was whether Merry knew the whole truth, and when he learned from both how much each had gained from their mutual confidences he insisted that the girl hear from him the details of what had happened since.

He told his story simply, trying to spare Marian and making as light as possible of the part which he himself had played, yet the whole-souled devotion he had given his friend could be concealed no more than the serious results of Mrs. Thatcher's persistency. Huntington had claimed from him the life which would have been forfeited, promising to make good use of it; now that it was at his disposal, what was he to do with it? He admitted freely to Mrs. Thatcher and Merry that as yet he had found no solution.

"This necessity of doing your splendid work over again is but one of the results of my culpable stupidity," Marian said penitently. "When I think of it, it seems as if I should go mad!"

Huntington rejoiced in the change which he found in Mrs. Thatcher. The sudden view she had gained of herself was all she needed to understand that one lack which no one could have made her see or comprehend.

Huntington felt the closer relationship between her and Merry, and he believed the girl had found the answer to her question.

"We must forget our mistakes," he said, anxious to relieve Marian, "except when remembering them will prevent a repet.i.tion. We all have tried to do our full duty by this abnormal personality, and our shortcomings should not cause us to question the sincerity of our acts."

"You are too generous," Mrs. Thatcher replied; "I shall never cease to hold myself accountable, never!"

"Don't, Momsie!" Merry begged. "Perhaps even now we can suggest something which will undo the harm."

"We must," Huntington said soberly. "Now, if I may finish out my visit with you it will be a real relief after these depressing days, and we will await the inspiration."

"We are counting on your doing so," Marian replied promptly. "It comforts me to have you share this time with me. I can't tell Harry the whole story yet. And Billy is waiting for you. He and Philip are crazed by this talk of war, and are trying to find some way to get into it. Of course it is ridiculous, but boys are irrepressible creatures. I don't need to tell you that!"

"I'm not so sure that it is ridiculous," Huntington surprised them both by saying. "I don't quite see where they could break into this war, but as for Billy I believe a first-hand knowledge of these terrible experiences would go far toward making a man of him."

"You surely wouldn't have them get into the fighting!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed.

"No, not that; but there are other ways. I heard some talk of forming ambulance squads to send to France. If they do that, I might urge Billy's father to let him go."

"Still, there would be danger, wouldn't there?" Merry asked.

"Some, perhaps; but there is danger in the life which surrounds these boys now. I am much concerned about Billy. Unless something happens to shake him up he will never know what life really is. The n.o.bility of heroism, an every-day occurrence on the firing-line, is something which could not fail to leave its impress on these youngsters. It is worth thinking over."

"I couldn't let Philip go," Marian said with the old-time finality in her voice.

"Perhaps not," Huntington replied with a significant look. "It may be most unwise; but if Nature should seem to point strongly in that direction we must be careful not to thwart it."

Marian flushed. "You are right, Mr. Huntington," she said with frank understanding; "I shall be careful, you may be sure."

"Where are the boys now?" Huntington asked. "I would prefer to postpone the discussion with them until I am rested. I'm not used to problems, you know, and lately they seem to have concentrated themselves on me.

Help me to escape them for another hour!"

"Take Mr. Huntington down to the water-garden," Marian suggested smiling; "no one will think of looking for you there."

"Would you like to go?" Merry asked him.

"Nothing would rest me more."

"Won't you come, Momsie?"

"No, dear; you must do the honors in my stead."

They wandered through the formal garden in silence, down the shaded _bosquet_, and across a bit of lawn to the fresh-water garden which was built only a little back from the sh.o.r.e itself. A miniature torii, from whose crossbeam hung a replica in straw of the mystic _shimenawa_, marked the entrance, sounding the motivation for the Oriental note within. They pa.s.sed through this and walked between the rows of j.a.panese maples which formed an avenue ending in a vista of the sea. In the moment they had transported themselves, for within the limitations marked by the avenue of trees there was nothing to suggest anything save the East: there were the little shrines surrounded by Oriental flower-pots; there was a tiny lake, crossed by an arched stone bridge, through which could be seen the luxuriant bloom of the lotus and other rare aquatic plants, brilliant in their coloring and foliage, growing in and out of the water and over the rocks with well-planned irregularity; there was the lilliputian grove of dwarfed trees impudently challenging comparison with their taller neighbors.

"I'm glad you brought me here," Huntington said as they seated themselves upon a curiously-carved stone. "Other parts of the estate are far more impressive, but you have no spot which appeals to me more by virtue of its beauty."

"I love it too," the girl acknowledged. "Almost every one looks at it once or twice and admires it, but no one seems to care to linger here as I do. I am sure to be alone, so I come almost every day to read Lafcadio Hearn and to dream of Nippon."