ms? And why am I
ashamed of it when I wake?"

That strange outburst encouraged me. I risked letting her know that I
had overheard her last words.

"If you trust me in your dreams, you only do me justice," I said. "Do
me justice now; give me your confidence. You are alone--you are in
trouble--you want a friend's help. I am waiting to help you."

She hesitated. I tried to take her hand. The strange creature drew it
away with a cry of alarm: her one great fear seemed to be the fear of
letting me touch her.

"Give me time to think of it," she said. "You don't know what I have got
to think of. Give me till to-morrow; and let me write. Are you staying
in Edinburgh?"

I thought it wise to be satisfied--in appearance at least--with this
concession. Taking out my card, I wrote on it in pencil the address of
the hotel at which I was staying. She read the card by the moonlight
when I put it into her hand.

"George!" she repeated to herself, stealing another look at me as the
name passed her lips. "'George Germaine.' I never heard of 'Germaine.'
But 'George' reminds me of old times." She smiled sadly at some passing
fancy or remembrance in which I was not permitted to share. "There is
nothing very wonderful in your being called 'George,'" she went on,
after a while. "The name is common enough: one meets with it everywhere
as a man's name And yet--" Her eyes finished the sentence; her eyes said
to me, "I am not so much afraid of you, now I know that you are called
'George.'"

So she unconsciously led me to the brink of discovery!

If I had only asked her what associations she connected with my
Christian name--if I had only persuaded her to speak in the briefest and
most guarded terms of her past life--the barrier between us, which the
change in our names and the lapse of ten years had raised, must have
been broken down; the recognition must have followed. But I never even
thought of it; and for this simple reason--I was in love with her. The
purely selfish idea of winning my way to her favorable regard by taking
instant advantage of the new interest that I had awakened in her was the
one idea which occurred to my mind.

"Don't wait to write to me," I said. "Don't put it off till to-morrow.
Who knows what may happen before to-morrow? Surely I deserve some little
return for the sympathy that I feel with you? I don't ask for much. Make
me happy by making me of some service to you before we part to-night."

I took her hand,