, "I am going away to-night. You will be sorry to
lose me?"

"Very, very sorry," she answered, in her low, touching voice. "Are you
obliged to go?"

If I had not been obliged to go, I should then and there have made a
solemn vow to remain with her till she was well again.

"I must go," I said, shaking off the ridiculous and troublesome idea. "I
have been away nearly six days. Six days is a long holiday for a
doctor."

"It has not been a holiday for you," she whispered, her eyes fastened
upon mine, and shining like clear stars.

"Well," I repeated, "I must go. Before I go I wish to write to your
friends for you. You will not be strong enough to write yourself for
some days, and it is quite time they knew what danger you have been in.
I have brought a pen and paper, and I will post the letter as soon as I
reach Guernsey."

A faint flush colored her face, and she turned her eyes away from me.

"Why do you think I ought to write?" she asked at length.

"Because you have been very near death." I answered. "If you had died,
not one of us would have known whom to communicate with, unless you had
left some direction in that box of yours, which is not very likely."

"No," she said, "you would find nothing there. I suppose if I had died
nobody would ever have known who I am. How curious that would have
been!"

Was she amused, or was she saddened by the thought? I could not tell.

"It would have been very painful to Tardif and to me," I said. "It must
be very painful to your friends, whoever they are, not to know what has
become of you. Give me permission to write to them. There can scarcely
be reasons sufficient for you to separate yourself from them like this.
Besides, you cannot go on living in a fisherman's cottage; you were not
born to it--"

"How do you know?" she asked, quickly, with a sharp tone in her voice.

It was somewhat difficult to answer that question. There was nothing to
indicate what position she had been used to. I had seen no token of
wealth about her room, which was as homely as any other cottage chamber.
Her conversation had been the simple, childish talk of an invalid
recovering from a serious illness, and had scarcely proved her to be an
educated person. Yet there was something in her face and tones and
manner which, as plainly to Tardif as to me, stamped this runaway girl
as a lady.

"Let me write to your friends," I urged, waiving the question. "It is
not fit for you to remain here. I b