get things in
this way."

The injury that his mind had sustained now assumed an aspect that was
serious indeed. The subtle machinery, which stimulates the memory, by
means of the association of ideas, appeared to have lost its working
power in the intellect of this unhappy man. I made the first suggestion
that occurred to me, rather than add to his distress by remaining
silent.

"If we talk of your daughter," I said, "the merest accident--a word
spoken at random by. you or me--may be all your memory wants to rouse
it."

He agreed eagerly to this: "Yes! Yes! Let me begin. Helena met you, I
think, at the station. Of course, I remember that; it only happened
a few hours since. Well?" he went on, with a change in his manner to
parental pride, which it was pleasant to see, "did you think my daughter
a fine girl? I hope Helena didn't disappoint you?"

"Quite the contrary." Having made that necessary reply, I saw my way to
keeping his mind occupied by a harmless subject. "It must, however, be
owned," I went on, "that your daughter surprised me."

"In what way?"

"When she mentioned her name. Who could have supposed that you--an
inveterate enemy to the Roman Catholic Church--would have christened
your daughter by the name of a Roman Catholic Saint?"

He listened to this with a smile. Had I happily blundered on some
association which his mind was still able to pursue?

"You happen to be wrong this time," he said pleasantly. "I never gave
my girl the name of Helena; and, what is more, I never baptized her.
You ought to know that. Years and years ago, I wrote to tell you that my
poor wife had made me a proud and happy father. And surely I said that
the child was born while she was on a visit to her brother's rectory.
Do you remember the name of the place? I told you it was a remote
little village, called--Suppose we put _your_ memory to a test? Can you
remember the name?" he asked, with a momentary appearance of triumph
showing itself, poor fellow, in his face.

After the time that had elapsed, the name had slipped my memory. When I
confessed this, he exulted over me, with an unalloyed pleasure which it
was cheering to see.

"_Your_ memory is failing you now," he said. "The name is Long Lanes.
And what do you think my wife did--this is so characteristic of
her!--when I presented myself at her bedside. Instead of speaking of our
own baby, she reminded me of the name that I had given to our adopted
daughter when I bapt