Everything else was gone entirely, except now and then when vague glimpses of something in the past bewildered and perplexed her.

Her pantomime of the dying woman and the child had not been repeated for more than a year, for now her acting always took the form of the tragedy in the Tramp House, with herself in the carpet-bag and a lay figure dead beside her.

But gradually, as Arthur questioned her, the old memories began to come back and shape themselves in her mind, and he said at last: 'It was like this--playin' you was a sick lady and I was your nurse.

I can't think of her name, I guess I'll call her Manny.

And there must be a baby; that's me, only I can't think of my name.' 'Call it Jerry, then,' Arthur suggested, both interested and amused, though he did not quite understand what she meant.
But he was passive in her hands, and submitted to have a big handkerchief put over his head for a cap, to hold on his arm the baby she improvised from a sofa-cushion of costly plush, around which she arranged as a dress an expensive tablespread, tied with the rich cord and tassel of his dressing-gown.
'You must cry a great deal,' she said, 'and pray a great deal, and kiss the baby a great deal, and I must scold you some for crying so much, and shake the baby some in the kitchen for making a noise, because, you know, the baby can walk and talk, and is me, only I can't be both at a time.' She was not very clear in her explanations, but Arthur began to have a dim perception of her meaning, and did what she bade him do, and rather enjoyed having his face and hands washed with a wet rag, and his hair brushed and _turled_, as she called it, even though the fingers which _turled_ it sometimes made suspicious journeyings to her mouth.