as a husband, yet Marian is confident that if it could be arranged it
would be for the happiness of all concerned."

"Are you fond of Merry?" Huntington demanded.

"As Marian's daughter, yes. I admire her tremendously, for in some ways
she reminds me of her mother. But what in the world have I to offer
her?"

"What has any man to offer the woman he marries," Huntington replied
with feeling, "in comparison to what she brings into his life? He stakes
nothing but his liberty; she stakes her future as well as her present."

"I know; but what do you advise me to do?"

"Has it occurred to you that Mrs. Thatcher is assuming a great
responsibility in pledging her daughter's consent?"

"Yes; I am afraid her influence over the girl is as strong as it is over
me. She is a very magnetic woman."

"Do you mean that you question your own strength?"

"That is exactly what I mean," he answered, dropping his eyes.

"My promise of assistance was an empty one, after all," Huntington said
with more bitterness than had ever before crept into his voice. "The
alchemy of a woman's heart is past the comprehension of a bachelor like
myself. But why settle your problem so hastily? You are here with me
now, and what I intend to show you of life will fit you better than
anything else to answer that question for yourself. Don't let it
overwhelm you. See how far you can enter into what goes on about you,
and then draw your conclusions regarding the probabilities of the
future."

"Are marriages ever successful when one's heart is made up of burnt
ashes?"

"Don't ask me that, my friend!" Huntington begged. "You and I have
reached an age where we are entitled to use logic and judgment, and to
live the years which remain to us as those two attributes may dictate.
For the next few weeks I want you to imagine that you are back in
college again, with no responsibilities heavier than that of enjoying
yourself better than before because your sense of proportion has been
developed by experience. When these weeks are past, we may again
consider whether our hearts are made up of burnt ashes or of rich
Harvard crimson blood. Until then, my friend, let us steadfastly refuse
to be stampeded, and claim the benefit of every doubt."

* * * * *

XXVII

* * * * *

Philip Thatcher responded to the suggestion made by Huntington and his
mother with such conspicuous success that within