efore."

Isabella did not move, but Philippa could see that her breath was
coming fast as though she had been running; otherwise she gave no sign
of having heard.

"He has been very ill," continued the girl, "but he is better now."

The older woman rose suddenly from her seat and moved a few steps
forward, and stood with her back towards her companion and with one
hand on the oaken pillar as though to steady herself.

"Is he--conscious?" she asked in a low voice.

"He recognises the doctor and his old nurse, but we cannot tell how
much he remembers about his long illness."

"Is he--happy?"

"I think he is perfectly happy," replied Philippa slowly.

There was a short silence, and then Isabella resumed her seat.
Philippa glanced at her and then turned away her eyes, but she answered
the unspoken question she had read in her friend's face.

"It is impossible to say. The doctor cannot tell. At first he thought
it would be only a matter of days or perhaps weeks; but now the
improvement has been very great, and it seems as though if all goes
well he might live some time. You see, his memory returned quite
suddenly, and the shock was very great. It was almost too much for his
strength. We can only go on from day to day. It is useless to look
forward."

At last Isabella spoke. "You must forgive me," she said brokenly, and
with an evident effort to regain her composure. "But it is a long time
since I have heard his name. I thank you for telling me, but--there is
something I cannot understand. What are you doing here--you--a child,
with a face and form of the past?"

"I met him quite by accident. I went into his room, mistaking it for
my own, on the first evening after my arrival. I came to stay with
Marion Heathcote, who is an old friend of mine."

"And he?"

"He thinks I am----"

Isabella nodded. "It was the sight of you recalled his memory?"

"Yes."

"And you have not undeceived him?"

"It was not possible to tell him of his mistake. He was too weak."

"Tell me some more, please."

And Philippa told her, beginning from the beginning. She told her of
the doctor's plea--of Jane Goodman's words--of all the phases of his
recent illness--only of his words of love to her she did not speak.
And during the recital Isabella watched her with a look of deep
scrutiny, but she did not interrupt. Only when the story was all told
she said--

"I wonder why you did it?"

"There was nothing else to