e that was entertained of her recognizing me.

"Do you ever go in to see her, Miss Carvel?" I asked.

"Sometimes. They do not like me to go," said she; "they think it is too
depressing for me. I cannot tell why. Poor dear aunt! she used to be
glad to see me. Is not it dreadfully sad? Can you imagine a man who has
just seen his mother in such a condition, behaving as Paul Patoff
behaves this evening? He talks as if nothing had happened."

"No, I cannot imagine it. I suppose he does not want to make everybody
feel badly about it."

"Mr. Griggs, is she really mad?" asked Hermione, in a low voice, leaning
forward and clasping her hands.

"Why," I began, very much surprised, "does anybody doubt that she is
insane?"

"I do," said the young girl, decidedly. "I do not believe she is any
more insane than you and I are."

"That is a very bold thing to say," I objected, "when a man of Professor
Cutter's reputation in those things says that she is crazy, and gives up
so much time to visiting her."

"All the same," said Hermione, "I do not believe it. I am sure people
sometimes try to kill themselves without being insane, and that is all
it rests on."

"But she has never recognized any one since that," I urged.

"Perhaps she is ashamed," suggested my companion, simply.

I was struck by the reply. It was such a simple idea that it seemed
almost foolish. But it was a woman's thought about another woman, and it
had its value. I laughed a little, but I answered seriously enough.

"Why should she be ashamed?"

"It seems to me," said the young girl, "that if I had done something
very foolish and wicked, like trying to kill myself, and if people took
it for granted that I was crazy, I would let them believe it, because I
should be too much ashamed of myself to allow that I had consciously
done anything so bad. Perhaps that is very silly; do you think so?"

"I do not think it is silly," I replied. "It is a very original idea."

"Well, I will tell you something. Soon after she was first brought here
I used to go and see her more often than I do now. She interested me so
much. I was often alone with her. She never answered any questions, but
she would sometimes let me read aloud to her. I do not know whether she
understood anything I read, but it soothed her, and occasionally she
would go to sleep while I was reading. One day I was sitting quite
quietly beside her, and she looked at me very sadly, as though she were
thinking