"It would be a wonderful object lesson," Hamlen said meditatively. "Even to read about it makes our own troubles insignificant; what an opportunity, if on the spot, to give out from one's own personality, and thus demonstrate the teachings of the humanists in practical fashion!"
The idea seemed to take possession of him, and his rigid figure and set features so clearly betrayed the workings of a strong emotion that no one interrupted him. At length he turned abruptly.
"Huntington!" he cried.
His friend stepped quickly to his side.
"I believe this war was started especially for me!" he declared.
"For you?" Huntington echoed, surprised.
"Why isn't this my opportunity? Here I am, longing for the chance to express myself in doing something for some one else. I haven't a tie in the world to keep me from going over there. I have money which couldn't be devoted to a better cause, and I speak the languages like a native."
"By Jove!" Huntington replied; "you've solved the problem! Be the first to endow a college unit,Hamlen, and let it be for the glory of Harvard. You can equip the outfit, select your professional corps, and go over with it to superintend the business end. It's a capital notion!"
"I'll do it!" Hamlen said decisively. "With a definite purpose like this ahead of me, I'll shake this weakness in no time.—How about the boys? I'll need some chauffeurs."
"Not Philip!" Mrs. Thatcher cried.
"Let me have him, Marian?" Hamlen begged. "The personal danger will be slight, and I don't need tell you that I'll watch over him as if he were my own son."
She looked appealingly to her husband.
"I'd let him go," Thatcher said. "There's no chance for him to get started in business for several months yet, and I'm grateful to Hamlen for offering him this opportunity under such wonderful conditions."
Philip pleaded. "You won't hold out now, will you, Mother?"
"I can't," she answered soberly. "With your father's approval, and with Mr. Hamlen's assurances, I should surely be opposing Nature, shouldn't I?"
Her question was put to Huntington, who understood it. He smiled approvingly.
"Good for you, little woman," he whispered. "There are times when we must bow to something stronger than ourselves; this is one of them."
"How about me?" Billy demanded.
"I think I may promise to secure consent," Huntington assured him.
"Come on, Phil," Billy seized his chum's arm. "Let's go out in the garage and practise on those cars."
Marian disappeared within doors to quiet the apprehensions of her mother-heart; Thatcher drew a chair beside Hamlen's to discuss the war, which now assumed a personal interest; Huntington and Merry quietly slipped down the steps, and wandered through the formal garden to their favorite retreat.
"Why not watch the sunset from the water-garden?" Merry asked.
The sun set in proper and glorious fashion into the sea at the foot of the avenue of maple trees, but the successful completion of its task did not suggest to the lovers a return to the house. Still they sat on the curiously-cut stone seat, and told each other that story which is older than the stone, and which was first told long before Benten became the Goddess of Love. Twilight deepened into dusk, and stirred within Huntington's mind a quotation from a kindred soul who felt as he felt, but who couched his thought in more fitting words than he himself could choose:
"I wonder if you love to listen to the music of the night as I do, dear heart,—with its space, its mystery, its uplift of spirit? It is written in the key of the ideal and in the cadence of the divine."
"Oh, Monty!" she murmured contentedly, "I do; for it is written in the key of happiness, and in the cadence of my beloved's voice!"
"You forgive me for being too old?"
"Not too old, my darling,—just born too soon!"