e visits continued for six weeks, and then, on the fourth visit,
just as April had starred the Chilterns with primroses, the nurse
whispered while they were walking through the ward's distraught glances:

"I think your mother will know you to-day."

"Why?" Jenny whispered back.

"I think she will, somehow."

Up the ward they went with hearts beating expectantly, while the voices
of the mad folk chattered on either side. "Look at her golden hair."
"That's St. Michael. Holy Michael, pray for us." One young woman with
pallid, tear-washed face was moaning: "Why can't I be dead, oh, why
can't I be dead?" And an old woman, gray as an ash tree, was muttering
very quickly to herself: "Oh, God help me; O, dear Lord help me!" on and
on without a pause in the gibbering reiteration. Some of the patients
waved and bobbed as usual, mopping and mowing and imparting wild secrets
from the wild land in which they lived, and others scowled and shook
their twisted fists. This time, indeed, their mother did look different,
as if from the unknown haunted valleys in which her soul was imprisoned
she had gained some mountain peak with a view of home.

"How are you, mother?" Jenny asked.

Mrs. Raeburn stared at her perplexed but not indifferent. Nor did she
try to hide herself as usual. Suddenly she spoke in a voice that to her
daughters seemed like the voice of a ghost.

"Is that little May?"

May's ivory cheeks were flushed with nervous excitement as, by an effort
of brave will, she drew near to the mad mother's couch.

"Yes, it is little May," said Mrs. Raeburn, fondling her affectionately.
"Poor little back. Poor little thing. What a dreadful misfortune. My
fault, all my fault. I shouldn't have bothered about cleaning up so
much, not being so far gone as I was. Poor little May. I'm very ill--my
head is hurting dreadfully."

Suddenly over the face of the tortured woman came a wonderful change, a
relief not mortal by its radiance. She sank back on her pillow in a
vision of consolation. Jenny leaned over her. "Mother," she whispered,
"don't you know me? It's Jenny! Jenny!" she cried in agony of longing to
be recognized.

"Jenny," repeated her mother, as if trying to make the name fit in with
some existing fact of knowledge. "Jenny?" she murmured more faintly.
"No, not Jenny, Cupid."

"What's she mean?" whispered May.

"She's thinking of the ballet. It was last time she saw me on the
stage."

"Cupid," Mrs. Raeburn went on. "Ye