d the relief of knowing that she was to
be trusted, left Kirke free to think of himself. His luggage was ready
packed for his contemplated journey to Suffolk the next day. It was
merely necessary to transport it from the hotel to the house in Aaron's
Buildings.

He stopped once only on his way to the hotel to look at a toyshop in one
of the great thoroughfares. The miniature ships in the window reminded
him of his nephew. "My little name-sake will be sadly disappointed at
not seeing me to-morrow," he thought. "I must make it up to the boy by
sending him something from his uncle." He went into the shop and bought
one of the ships. It was secured in a box, and packed and directed in
his presence. He put a ca rd on the deck of the miniature vessel before
the cover of the box was nailed on, bearing this inscription: "A ship
for the little sailor, with the big sailor's love."--"Children like to
be written to, ma'am," he said, apologetically, to the woman behind the
counter. "Send the box as soon as you can--I am anxious the boy should
get it to-morrow."

Toward the dusk of the evening he returned with his luggage to Aaron's
Buildings. He took off his boots in the passage and carried his trunk
upstairs himself; stopping, as he passed the first floor, to make his
inquiries. Mr. Merrick was present to answer them.

"She was awake and wandering," said the doctor, "a few minutes since.
But we have succeeded in composing her, and she is sleeping now."

"Have no words escaped her, sir, which might help us to find her
friends?"

Mr. Merrick shook his head.

"Weeks and weeks may pass yet," he said, "and that poor girl's story may
still be a sealed secret to all of us. We can only wait."

So the day ended--the first of many days that were to come.

CHAPTER II.

THE warm sunlight of July shining softly through a green blind; an open
window with fresh flowers set on the sill; a strange bed, in a strange
room; a giant figure of the female sex (like a dream of Mrs. Wragge)
towering aloft on one side of the bed, and trying to clap its hands;
another woman (quickly) stopping the hands before they could make any
noise; a mild expostulating voice (like a dream of Mrs. Wragge again)
breaking the silence in these words, "She knows me, ma'am, she knows me;
if I mustn't be happy, it will be the death of me!"--such were the
first sights, such were the first sounds, to which, after six weeks of
oblivion, Magdalen suddenly and strange