. And then--Oh, don't ask me! Don't!"

"I know. Now I do remember. It was that big motor car. I saw it coming.
But who brought me here? You--I remember you; I thought you were Hephzy.
And there was someone else."

"Yes, the doctor--the doctor they called--and Doctor Bayliss."

"Doctor Bayliss! Herbert Bayliss, do you mean? Yes, I saw him at the
'Abbey'--and afterward. Did he come here with me?"

"Yes. He was very kind. I don't know what I should have done if it had
not been for him. Now you MUST not speak another word."

I did not, for a few moments. I lay there, feebly trying to think,
and looking at her. I was grateful to young Bayliss, of course, but I
wished--even then I wished someone else and not he had helped me. I did
not like to be under obligations to him. I liked him, too; he was a good
fellow and I had always liked him, but I did not like THAT.

She rose from the chair by the bed and walked across the room.

"Don't go," I said.

She came back almost immediately.

"It is time for your medicine," she said.

I took the medicine. She turned away once more.

"Don't go," I repeated.

"I am not going. Not for the present."

I was quite contented with the present. The future had no charms just
then. I lay there, looking at her. She was paler and thinner than she
had been when she left Mayberry, almost as pale and thin as when I first
met her in the back room of Mrs. Briggs' lodging house. And there
was another change, a subtle, undefinable change in her manner and
appearance that puzzled me. Then I realized what it was; she had grown
older, more mature. In Mayberry she had been an extraordinarily pretty
girl. Now she was a beautiful woman. These last weeks had worked the
change. And I began to understand what she had undergone during those
weeks.

"Have you been with me ever since it happened--since I was hurt?" I
asked, suddenly.

"Yes, of course."

"All night?"

She smiled. "There was very little of the night left," she answered.

"But you have had no rest at all. You must be worn out."

"Oh, no; I am used to it. My--" with a slight pause before the
word--"work of late has accustomed me to resting in the daytime. And I
shall rest by and by, when my aunt--when Miss Cahoon comes."

"Miss Cahoon? Hephzy? Have you sent for her?"

My tone of surprise startled her, I think. She looked at me.

"Sent for her?" she repeated. "Isn't she here--in Paris?"

"She is in Interlaken, at the Victoria. D