much
as his presence had been, and in return he wrote freely of his present
work and his plans for future work.

Sometimes, when books were closed or the plaintive tones of the violin
had died away in silence, he would sit for hours pondering the strange
problem of his own life; watching, listening for some sign from out the
past; but neither ray of light nor wave of sound came to him. His
physician had told him that some day the past would return, and that the
intervening months or years as the case might be, would then doubtless
be in turn forgotten, and as he revolved this in his mind he formed a
plan which he at once proceeded to put into execution.

On his return one night from a special trip to Ophir he went to his room
with more than usual haste, and opening a package in which he seemed
greatly interested, drew forth what appeared to be a book, about eleven
by fifteen inches in size, bound in flexible morocco and containing some
five or six hundred pages. The pages were blank, however, and bound
according to an ingenious device which he had planned and given the
binder, by which they could be removed and replaced at will, and, if
necessary, extra pages could be added.

For some time he stood by the light, turning the volume over and over
with an expression of mingled pleasure and sadness; then removing some
of the pages, he sat down and prepared to write. The new task to which
he had set himself was the writing of a complete record, day by day, of
this present life of his, beginning with the first glimmerings of
memory, faint and confused, in the earliest days of his convalescence at
The Pines. He dipped his pen, then hesitated; how should this strange
volume be inscribed?

Only for a moment; then his pen was gliding rapidly over the spotless
surface, and the first page, when laid aside, bore the following
inscription:

"To one from the outer world, whose identity is hidden among the
secrets of the past:

"With the hope that when the veil is lifted these pages may assist
him in uniting into one perfect whole the strangely disjointed
portions of his life, they are inscribed by

"JOHN DARRELL."

Below was the date, and then followed the words,--

"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."

After penning the last words he paused, repeating them, vainly trying to
recall when or where he had heard them. They seemed to ring in