d quietly. "It is good
to see you again." And if she felt any surprise at his altered looks
she did not betray it in her even tone.

He laid his hand in hers without speaking as his eyes scanned her face.
"Isabella!" he cried "It is Isabella!" There was no doubt in the
words, only something of terror.

"Isabella!" he repeated; then he passed his hand over his brows with a
little pitiful gesture. "Then--Phil--is dead."

It was not a question but an assertion.

He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. Isabella
seated herself close to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

Philippa stood just inside the door which she had shut; she was leaning
against it and both her hands were pressing the wood behind her, as if
the solid surface were the only thing firm in a world of chaos. There
was no sound in the room except the slow ticking of the clock which
seemed to be tolling for the vanished years.

Suddenly Francis broke the silence.

Sitting up and lifting a white, drawn face to Isabella, "Old friend,"
he said brokenly, "you would not lie to me--tell me--am I mad?"

"No," she answered quickly, and almost sternly, "no, a thousand times
no."

"Then what does it mean? Phil, my little Phil, is gone--is dead--I
know she is dead or she would be here--and mother--seventy-three
years--my mother was not seventy-three. Phil is dead----" He paused
and then turned to Philippa: "Who are you?"

It was Isabella who answered him, framing her reply so that he could
understand: "This is Jim's girl," she said.

"Jim's girl?" he repeated. "Old Jim! Where is he?" and as she did not
speak he threw out his arms with a quick despairing movement.
"Dead?--are they all dead?"

And instantly Isabella's hands closed on his in a strong close grip.

"What does it mean?" he cried again.

"It means, dear Francis, that you have been very ill for a long, long
time--that years have passed without your knowing it, and that the
years in passing have robbed us of our dear ones."

"How long?" he asked in a low whisper.

"Twenty-two years," she answered steadily.

"When did Phil die?"

"Nearly twenty years ago."

"Twenty years!" he echoed; "and I did not know!"

"You did not know because you had an accident which destroyed your
memory."

"An accident?"

"Yes. The horse you were riding threw and injured you."

Again he looked at Philippa.

"Then," continued Isabella, speaking slowly and distinctly, "Ji