manhood. Morton Harland stared at him in amazement and something of
terror.

"Rafel Santoris!" he repeated--"You are his living image,--but you
cannot be himself--you are too young!"

A gleam of amusement sparkled in the stranger's eyes.

"Don't let us talk of age or youth for the moment"--he said. "Here I
am,--your 'eccentric' college acquaintance whom you and several
other fellows fought shy of years ago! I assure you I am quite
harmless! Will you present me to the ladies?"

There was a brief embarrassed pause. Then Mr. Harland turned to us
where we had withdrawn ourselves a little apart and addressed his
daughter.

"Catherine,"--he said--"This gentleman tells me he knew me at
Oxford, and if he is right I also knew HIM. I spoke of him only the
other night at dinner--you remember?--but I did not tell you his
name. It is Rafel Santoris--if indeed he IS Santoris!--though my
Santoris should be a much older man."

"I extremely regret," said our visitor then, advancing and bowing
courteously to Catherine and myself--"that I do not fulfil the
required conditions of age! Will you try to forgive me?"

He smiled--and we were a little confused, hardly knowing what to
say. Involuntarily I raised my eyes to his, and with one glance saw
in those clear blue orbs that so steadfastly met mine a world of