xcept that I am very weak. Uncle
has been kind, but most of his time has been devoted to that woman. He
says that it is a very interesting case. She became conscious a few days
ago, and has gained strength since. She will be on deck in a day or two,
he thinks. I'm anxious to see her. I want to see if there really is
anything familiar in her face. It's fortunate for her that clothing of
Mrs. Raymond's is on board. She'd be in a plight, else. I asked Uncle
John what her name was. He looked queer, and said that he didn't know.
Strange that he hasn't asked her. The sailor, Jones, seems quite
recovered and has taken his place among the crew. We were rather
short-handed, and the captain was glad enough to have him. He can be of
service. But the woman can be nothing but a trouble, to me at least, for
I must see her daily, I suppose. And yet I am anxious to see her, too.
This fever has left me rather childish as well as weak.

April 3.--Thank God for these pages to which I can talk, else I should
go mad, I think. Could you read these words as they flow from my pen,
mother, you might well wonder whether I had not indeed gone mad. But I
will be quite calm while I tell of what fate, or Satan, or whatever evil
power it is, has done for me. I was sitting on the deck this morning,
still very weak, when I heard footsteps behind me, and Uncle John's
voice saying, "Good-morning, Arthur." I turned and saw him standing near
me, and leaning on his arm Helen Rankine! I write these words calmly
enough now. Can you imagine what I felt when I saw her? I staggered to
my feet, muttered some incoherent words, and would have fallen had not
Uncle John sprang to my side and caught me. "Why, what's the matter,
Arthur? Calm yourself, my boy. Is it possible that you know this young
lady?"

By a supreme effort of will, aided by the memory of that day when we
last parted, I drew myself up and bowed, and I said that I had had the
great honor of once knowing Miss Helen Rankine, and that I had had no
idea that it was she we were fortunate enough to have rescued.

Uncle looked at me in wonder as I said these words with sneering
politeness. The girl looked at me questioningly, but there was no shadow
of recognition on her face.

"Then your name is Helen Rankine?" said Uncle John kindly, turning
toward the girl and speaking as though to a little child.

A troubled look passed over her face, and then she said quietly, "I do
not know. I cannot remember."