with great lightness and delicacy.
And as he bound it he said, "There, the pain will soon go."

Mary looked at him full, and said, slowly, "I believe it will." Then,
very thoughtfully, "It did--before."

These three simple words struck Hope as rather strange.

"It did before?" said he, and stared at her. "Why, when was that?"

Mary said, in a hopeless sort of way, "I don't know when, but long
before your time."

"Before my time, Mary? What, are you older than me?" And he smiled
sweetly on her.

"One would think not. But let me ask you a question, Mr. Hope?"

"Yes, Mary."

"Have you lived _two lives_?"

Said Hope, solemnly, "I have lived through great changes, but only
one life."

"Well, then," said Mary, "I have lived two; or more likely it was one
life, only some of it in another world--my other world, I mean."

Hope left off binding her wrist, and said, "I don't understand you." But
his heart began to pant.

The words that passed between them were now so strange that both their
voices sank into solemnity, and had an acute observer listened to them he
would have noticed that these two mellow voices had similar beauties, and
were pitched exactly in the same key, though there was, of course, an
octave between them.

"Understand me? How should you? It is all so strange, so mysterious: I
have never told a soul; but I will tell you. You won't laugh at me?"

"Laugh at you? Only fools laugh at what they don't understand. Why, Mary,
I hang on every word you say with breathless interest."

"Dear Mr. Hope! Well, then, I will tell you. Sometimes in the silent
night, when the present does not glare at one, the past comes back to me
dimly, and I seem to have lived two lives: one long, one short--too
short. My long life in a comfortable house, with servants and carriages
and all that. My short life in different places; not comfortable places,
but large places; all was free and open, and there was always a kind
voice in my ear--like yours; and a tender touch--like yours."

Hope was restraining himself with difficulty, and here he could not help
uttering a faint exclamation.

To cover it he took her wrist again, and bending his head over it, he
said, almost in a whisper, "And the face?"

Mary's eyes turned inward, and she seemed to scan the past.

"The face?" said she--"the face I can not recall. But one thing I do
remember clearly. This is not the first time my wrist--yes--and it was my
right wrist too--has be