y, but distinctly enough.

"I suppose I am. I feel quite well enough to get up. Only----"

"Well?"

There was trouble in her eyes as she looked up at him.

"It seems as though I must be dreaming. I can't remember what has
happened to me--why I am here!"

He smiled at her reassuringly.

"I wouldn't bother about it," he said. "You are with friends, and you
must try to get well quickly. I dare say when you are stronger that it
will all come back to you."

She looked at him reflectively.

"You are a stranger to me," she said slowly. "Is there no one here whom
I have ever seen before?"

He felt a sudden chill. Yet, after all, it was what he had expected.

"I do not suppose that there is," he answered. "You see, you are in
London now. I thought, perhaps, that you might have remembered me. I was
in India, and came to see you when you were a little girl."

"In India!" she repeated vaguely. "Why, what can have happened to me? I
do not remember anything about India."

She raised her hand to her temples. Her eyes were full of an undefined
fear. The words came from her lips in a broken stream.

"You are my doctor, they say, and this is your house. Tell me what it
means--tell me. I try to think, and there is nothing. Something has
happened to my head. Have I been ill for long? Who am I? Where did I
come from? Why am I here?"

"I will answer all your questions," he said quietly, "but you must
please not excite yourself. Your name is Eleanor Hardinge, and you were
shipwrecked on your way from India here. Your father is an old friend of
mine, and you were coming to England to visit my mother. You met with a
very unusual accident. You will notice that your head is still bound up,
and, no doubt, it will affect your memory for some little time. You must
try to make the best of it. You are among friends, and we shall all do
our best to look after you."

She felt the bandage around her head.

"I can't even remember the accident," she said. "I suppose it will all
come back some day."

"There is no doubt about it," he answered. "All that you have to do now
is to keep as quiet as you can. The less you try to think the better."

The nurse entered with a tray. Eleanor sat up and smiled with the
satisfaction of a child.

"You are hungry!" he remarked.

"I think so," she answered. "I should like some chicken, please. No more
beef tea."

"You remember what chicken tastes like, then," he said. "That is a
proof, you see, t