n
the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a
kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand.
I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then,
there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was
Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what
the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly
afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I
heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?"

Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from
her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember?

"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague
about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and
the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called
my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that
evening, Helen?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Was it beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, Ronnie."

"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."

"By-and-by, dear."

"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"

"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures;
such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of
your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your
manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance
through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw
light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do
that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do
not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this
carefully."

"Is it all right?"

"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such
brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety,
I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do
not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it
all over, and you will tell me."

His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first
she had seen for so long.

"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am
glad I am not altogether a rotter."

After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so
unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to
answer it.

She glanced at h