n the forehead. I felt a stunning blow, a warm rush of blood.
Then I fell limply forward, and all the lights seemed to go out.

There I lay in a heap, and the blood spurting from my wound soaked the
little piece of paper. On it was written:

"Mother died this morning. Garry."

CHAPTER VII

"Where am I?"

"Here, with me."

Low and sweet and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was
heavily bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was
difficult to see, and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be
in semi-darkness. A lamp burning on a small table nearby was turned low.
By my bedside some one was sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding
mine.

"Where is _here_?" I asked faintly.

"Here--my cabin. Rest, dear."

"Is that you, Berna?"

"Yes, please don't talk."

I thrilled with a sudden sweetness of joy. A flood of sunshine bathed
me. It was all over, then, the turmoil, the storm, the shipwreck. I was
drifting on a tranquil ocean of content. Blissfully I closed my eyes.
Oh, I was happy, happy!

In her cabin, with her, and she was nursing me--what had happened? What
new turn of events had brought about this wonderful thing? As I lay
there in the quiet, trying to recall the something that went before, my
poor sick brain groped but feebly amid a murk of sinister shadows.

"Berna," I said, "I've had a bad dream."

"Yes, dear, you've been sick, very sick. You've had an attack of fever,
brain fever. But don't try to think, just rest quietly."

So for a while longer I lay there, thrilled with a strange new joy,
steeped in the ineffable comfort of her presence, and growing better,
stronger with every breath. Memories came thronging back, memories that
made me cringe and wince, and shudder with the shame of them. Yet ever
the thought that she was with me was like a holy blessing. Surely it was
all good since it had ended in this.

Yet there was something else, some memory darker than the others, some
shadow of shadows that baffled me. Then as I battled with a growing
terror and suspense, it all came back to me, the telegram, the news, my
collapse. A great grief welled up in me, and in my agony I spoke to the
girl.

"Berna, tell me, is it true? Is my Mother dead?"

"Yes, it's true, dear. You must try to bear it bravely."

I could feel her bending over me, could feel her hand holding mine,
could feel her hair brush my cheek, yet I forgot even her ju