thinking that I had forgotten my own daughter! I was
lost in thought, Eunice. For the moment, I was what they call an absent
man. Did I ever tell you the story of the absent man? He went to call
upon some acquaintance of his; and when the servant said, 'What
name, sir?' He couldn't answer. He was obliged to confess that he had
forgotten his own name. The servant said, 'That's very strange.' The
absent man at once recovered himself. 'That's it!' he said: 'my name is
Strange.' Droll, isn't it? If I had been calling on a friend to-day,
I daresay _I_ might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of,
Eunice--too much to think of."

Leaving the sofa with a sigh, as if he was tired of it, he began walking
up and down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. "Well, my dear," he
said, "what can I do for you?"

"I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You."

He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the
table. They were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my
sister's hand. "I ought to get on with my work," he said. "Where is
Helena?"

I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could
do to supply her place.

The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited;
noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came
a vacant look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to
have quite lost himself again. "Read the last page," he said, pointing
to the manuscript on the table; "I don't remember where I left off."

I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some
publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way
of thinking.

Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so
rapidly that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is
as bad as bad can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I
was confused. What he was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with
what I had been reading.

Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it.

He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: "Why should there
be any fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to
prevent it? The danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting.
A man might find himself bound in honor to disclose what it had been
the chief anxiety of his life to conceal. For example, could he let an
innocent person be the victi