same girl. She knows no more of you than she knows of me,
whom she never saw in her life before. Another thing, if she is Helen
Rankine, she is engaged to John Bruce. Perhaps she wears his ring on her
finger. You and I as gentlemen are bound to do what we can to deliver
her to him as speedily as possible. And I pray God that we may see her
meet him in her right mind, the same free-hearted English girl that he
is now dreaming of."

I bowed my head, but could not say a word. Is Uncle John right, and have
I been a weak, blind fool of a boy, thinking that the girl, who was
merely kind, was encouraging me to love her? I feel my face burn at the
thought. I can't think clearly yet, but I see my duty.

April 10.--If I lacked proof of the girl's identity, I have it now.
Yesterday we sat together on the deck for hours, I trying gently to lead
her back to the past. Helen Rankine used to wear several valuable rings.
Now she wears but one. "You have a pretty ring," I said, pointing to her
hand! How white and dimpled it used to be. How I longed to catch it to
my lips, to kiss the pretty rosy-tipped fingers! Her hand! Now brown
with wind and sun, but still dimpled and rosy tipped. Like a child she
laid it in mine.

"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty ring."

"Where did you get it, Helen?" I asked.

"I don't remember," she said quietly.

"May I look at it?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," and she slipped it from her finger and laid it in my hand.

"What are these letters engraved within?" I asked.

"Are there letters there?" she said. "I didn't know it. So there are. To
H. R., from J. B. What does that mean?"

"Don't you know?" I asked. Oh, it was hard to see that calm face, to
hear that calm voice. Better the blush and silent avowal of love, even
for another, than that blank gaze.

"No. I do not know what those letters mean," she answered.

"Perhaps 'H. R.' stands for your own name," said I.

She smiled like a happy child. "Yes, yes. That must be it. But the 'J.
B.,' what do they stand for?"

I hesitated--who would not?

"Perhaps they stand for--for John Bruce," I said slowly, looking her
steadily in the eyes. She returned the gaze with the calm confidence of
a child.

"Who is John Bruce?" she asked. "I can't remember John Bruce."

My heart gave a great leap, then sank like lead. Am I then such a
villain that I rejoice at the thought that Helen Rankine has no memory
of her lover? Where is the hate that I boasted of? It has gon