attention was attracted by an
odd-looking volume bound in flexible morocco and containing several
hundred pages of written matter. It lay partly open in a conspicuous
place, and upon the fly-leaf was written, in large, bold characters,--

"To my Other Self, should he awaken."

He could not banish the words from his mind; they drew him with
irresistible magnetism. Again and again he read them, until, impelled by
some power he could not explain, he seized the volume and, seating
himself in the doorway of the cabin, proceeded to examine it. Lifting
the fly-leaf, he read 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."

He smiled as he read the name and recalled the circumstances under which
he had taken it, but he no longer felt any hesitation regarding the
volume in his hands, and he began to read. It was written as a
communication from one stranger to another, from the mountain recluse to
one of whose life he had not the slightest knowledge; but he knew
without doubt that it was addressed to himself, yet written by
himself,--that writer and reader were one and the same.

For more than two hours he read on and on, deeply absorbed in the tale
of that solitary life, his own heart responding to each note of joy or
sorrow, of hope or despair, and vibrating to the undertone of loneliness
and longing running through it all.

He strove vainly to recall the characters in the strange drama in which
he had played his part but of which he had now no distinct recollection;
dimly they passed before his vision like the shadowy phantoms of a dream
from which one has just awakened. He started at the first mention of
John Britton's name, eagerly following each outline of that noble
character, his heart kindling with affection as he read his words of
loving, helpful counsel. His face grew tender and his eyes filled at the
love-story, so pathetically brief, faithfully transcribed on those
pages, but of Kate Underwood he could only recall a slender girl with
golden-brown hair and wistful, appealing brown eyes; he wondered at the
strength of character shown by her speech and conduct, and his heart
went out