CHAPTER VIII.
THE DOMAIN OF A GREAT MERCHANT.
To one who has gazed for many hours upon whirling scenes, and who at his journey's end has gone to sleep in an unfamiliar place, the question of self-identity presents itself at morning and of the dozing faculties demands an answer.

Henry lay in bed, catching at flitting consciousness, but missing it.

He tried to recall his own name, but could not.

One moment he felt that he was on board a ship, rising and sinking with the mood of the sea; then he was on a railway train, catching sight of a fence that streaked its way across a field.

He saw a boy struggling with a horse that was frightened at the train; he saw a girl wave her beflowered hat--a rushing woods, a whirling open space, a sleepy station.