r
affections, and that she would do anything on earth to serve me. I was
able to help him once and she never forgot it. So I went and told her
all the truth. She has a mind as clean and simple as your own,
Christine, and she is longing to love and comfort and take care of you.
You will let me take you to her--will you not?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "God bless you for it. I could never go back there
again," she added with a shudder, "but I must write a letter."

She rose hastily and Noel, wondering, brought her writing materials.

She wrote a hasty note, and sealing it, asked him to have it sent at
once. To his surprise he found it was addressed to Dallas.

"I will give it to the janitor as we go down," he said. "Do you feel
able to go now, Christine? A carriage will be waiting for us and I will
take you to that dear woman who will make you feel as if your mother's
arms were around you."

Christine was trembling in every limb, but she reached for her bonnet
and tried to tie it on. Her hands shook so that she let it fall. Noel
picked it up and held it a moment, saying soothingly:

"Don't hurry. We can wait a little while, if you wish. Try not to be too
despairing. When you drive away from here to-day you leave the past
behind you, and enter into a new and different life. Your new friend,
Mrs. Murray, will know you only as you are now, and you may meet no one
unless you wish to. She has very few friends herself, and she will tell
them what she chooses of you. You will see she is not a woman that
people will dare to ask questions of."

He stopped. A look so dreary, strange and full of anguish had come into
Christine's face that he was alarmed and said quickly:

"What is it?"

She struck her hands together and uttered a low cry.

"What is my name?" she said, in a tone so wild and vacant he thought
her mind was wandering. "It used to be," she said, passing one hand
across her forehead, as if in an effort of memory--"it used to be
Verrone--Christine Verrone, but I am not that happy-hearted girl the
nuns used to call by that name. This is not Christine Verrone. The very
flesh and blood and bones of this body are different--and surely in this
mind and heart and soul there is no tinge nor remnant of that old
Christine. How, then, can I be she? Oh! I have no home, no country, no
dwelling-place on earth; I have not even a name to be called by!"

Noel could bear no more. Taking her hands in his, he held them firmly,
and lo