hat your memory still lives. Let me ask you another
question. Who is your favorite author?"

"Shakespeare!" she answered promptly.

He nodded approvingly.

"You see that you need have no fear," he said. "Your loss of memory is
only partial. Now, I am going to leave you to have your dinner. Do not
talk too much, and try to sleep as much as you can."

Her eyes sought his fixedly, pathetically. She seemed suddenly moved by
a new fear. Her large eyes, a little sunken now, were dilated.

"I--I have forgotten my name again," she cried. "It is horrible. What is
it. Tell me quickly."

"You are Eleanor Hardinge," he said. "You are perfectly safe, and you
will soon be quite well."

"But I am afraid," she cried, with a sudden shrill note of terror. "My
head is going round. I cannot think clearly."

He took her hand in his. There was something soothing in the touch of
his firm, cool fingers.

"You have no cause for fear," he said reassuringly--"none whatever. You
are getting better and stronger every hour."

She raised herself a little from among the pillows. Her eyes sought his
eagerly. Her hands refused to let his go.

"I am afraid," she moaned. "There are shadows everywhere among my
thoughts. Tell me. Have I been mad? Am I going to be mad?"

His fingers strayed to her pulse. He smiled upon her as one smiles upon
a child.

"Nonsense! Look at me."

His eyes held her.

"You are not going to be mad. You are merely suffering from a great
shock. By and by everything will be clear to you. You must not be
impatient. I promise you that you will soon be well."

Outside the door on the landing he stood and wiped the dampness from his
forehead. He knew that she had been on the verge of brain fever, that
even now she was scarcely safe. The impulse which had taken him into her
room was an irresistible one. He felt that he must see her. He had
looked into her opened eyes, he had heard her speak. The change, which
he alone could understand, which he alone was responsible for, appalled
him. He was bewildered by a feeling of personal loss. The soul of
Eleanor Surtoes seemed to have passed away with her sense of personal
consciousness. It was another woman who lay there in his guest-chamber.

Afterward she slept. He dined mechanically, and without the ghost of an
appetite. The rest of the night he spent with a pile of medical books
and a note-book kept during his stay in India open before him. In the
early morning he looked o