all go out, but not now.'

'Where am I? Who are you?'

He looked at Robert with a keen, furtive glance, in which were mingled
bewilderment and suspicion.

'I am your best friend at present.'

He started up--fiercely and yet feebly, for a thought of terror had
crossed him.

'You do not mean I am in a madhouse?'

Robert made no reply. He left him to suppose what he pleased. Andrew
took it for granted that he was in a private asylum, sank back in his
chair, and from that moment was quiet as a lamb. But it was easy to see
that he was constantly contriving how to escape. This mental occupation,
however, was excellent for his recovery; and Robert dropped no hint of
his suspicion. Nor were many precautions necessary in consequence; for
he never left the house without having De Fleuri there, who was a man
of determination, nerve, and, now that he ate and drank, of considerable
strength.

As he grew better, the stimulants given him in the form of medicine at
length ceased. In their place Robert substituted other restoratives,
which prevented him from missing the stimulants so much, and at length
got his system into a tolerably healthy condition, though at his age,
and after so long indulgence, it could hardly be expected ever to
recover its tone.

He did all he could to provide him with healthy amusement--played
backgammon, draughts, and cribbage with him, brought him Sir Walter's
and other novels to read, and often played on his violin, to which he
listened with great delight. At times of depression, which of course
were frequent, the Flowers of the Forest made the old man weep. Falconer
put yet more soul into the sounds than he had ever put into them before.
He tried to make the old man talk of his childhood, asking him about the
place of his birth, the kind of country, how he had been brought up,
his family, and many questions of the sort. His answers were vague, and
often contradictory. Indeed, the moment the subject was approached, he
looked suspicious and cunning. He said his name was John Mackinnon,
and Robert, although his belief was strengthened by a hundred little
circumstances, had as yet received no proof that he was Andrew Falconer.
Remembering the pawn-ticket, and finding that he could play on the
flute, he brought him a beautiful instrument--in fact a silver one--the
sight of which made the old man's eyes sparkle. He put it to his lips
with trembling hands, blew a note or two, burst into the tears of
we