her."

"But it is not a pet name of mine, my dear sir," said Dr. Rob
deliberately. "It is the young lady's own name, and a pretty one, too.
'Rosemary for remembrance.' Is not that Shakespeare?"

"Describe her to me," insisted Garth, for the third time.

Dr. Mackenzie glanced at Jane. But she had turned her back, to hide the
tears which were streaming down her cheeks. Oh, Garth! Oh, beautiful
Garth of the shining eyes!

Dr. Rob drew Deryck's letter from his pocket and studied it.

"Well," he said slowly, "she is a pretty, dainty little thing; just the
sort of elegant young woman you would like to have about you, could you
see her."

"Dark or fair?" asked Garth.

The doctor glanced at what he could see of Jane's cheek, and at the
brown hands holding on to the mantelpiece.

"Fair," said Dr. Rob, without a moment's hesitation.

Jane started and glanced round. Why should this little man be lying on
his own account?

"Hair?" queried the strained voice from the bed.

"Well," said Dr. Rob deliberately, "it is mostly tucked away under a
modest little cap; but, were it not for that wise restraint, I should
say it might be that kind of fluffy, fly-away floss-silk, which puts
the finishing touch to a dainty, pretty woman."

Garth lay back, panting, and pressed his hands over his sightless face.

"Doctor," he said, "I know I have given you heaps of trouble, and
to-day you must think me a fool. But if you do not wish me to go mad in
my blindness, send that girl away. Do not let her enter my room again."

"Now, Mr. Dalmain," said Dr. Mackenzie patiently; "let us consider this
thing. We may take it you have nothing against this young lady
excepting a chance resemblance in her voice to that of a friend of
yours now far away. Was not this other lady a pleasant person?"

Garth laughed suddenly, bitterly; a laugh like a hard, sob. "Oh, yes,"
he said, "she was quite a pleasant person."

"'Rosemary for remembrance,'" quoted Dr. Rob. "Then why should not
Nurse Rosemary call up a pleasant remembrance? Also it seems to me to
be a kind, sweet, womanly voice, which is something to be thankful for
nowadays, when so many women talk, fit to scare the crows; cackle,
cackle, cackle--like stones rattling in a tin canister."

"But can't you understand, doctor," said Garth wearily, "that it is
just the remembrance and the resemblance which, in my blindness, I
cannot bear? I have nothing against her voice, Heaven knows! But I tell
yo