Donald's legs! Zo turned to her father, and
recovered her dignity. Maria herself could hardly have spoken with more
severe propriety. "I wish to go home," said Zo.

Ovid had only to look at Carmina, and to see the necessity of immediate
compliance with his little sister's wishes. No more laughing, no more
excitement, for that day. He led Zo out himself, and resigned her to her
father at the door of his rooms on the ground floor.

Cheered already by having got away from Miss Minerva and the nurse,
Zo desired to know who lived downstairs; and, hearing that these were
Ovid's rooms, insisted on seeing them. The three went in together.

Ovid drew Mr. Gallilee into a corner. "I'm easier about Carmina now,"
he said. "The failure of her memory doesn't extend backwards. It begins
with the shock to her brain, on the day when Teresa removed her to this
house--and it will end, I feel confident, with the end of her illness."

Mr. Gallilee's attention suddenly wandered. "Zo!" he called out, "don't
touch your brother's papers."

The one object that had excited the child's curiosity was the
writing-table. Dozens of sheets of paper were scattered over it,
covered with writing, blotted and interlined. Some of these leaves had
overflowed the table, and found a resting-place on the floor. Zo was
amusing herself by picking them up. "Well!" she said, handing them
obediently to Ovid, "I've had many a rap on the knuckles for writing not
half as bad as yours."

Hearing his daughter's remark, Mr. Gallilee became interested in looking
at the fragments of manuscript. "What an awful mess!" he exclaimed. "May
I try if I can read a bit?" Ovid smiled. "Try by all means; you will
make one useful discovery at least--you will see that the most patient
men on the face of the civilised earth are Printers!"

Mr. Gallilee tried a page--and gave it up before he turned giddy. "Is it
fair to ask what this is?"

"Something easy to feel, and hard to express," Ovid answered. "These
ill-written lines are my offering of gratitude to the memory of an
unknown and unhappy man."

"The man you told me of, who died at Montreal?"

"Yes."

"You never mentioned his name."

"His last wishes forbade me to mention it to any living creature. God
knows there were pitiable, most pitiable, reasons for his dying unknown!
The stone over his grave only bears his initials, and the date of his
death. But," said Ovid, kindling with enthusiasm, as he laid his hand on
his m