Watching Mary Deane as she went softly to and fro in constant attendance on his needs, he was divided in his mind between admiration, gratitude, and--a lurking suspicion, of which he was ashamed.

As a business man, he had been taught to look for interested motives lying at the back of every action, bad or good,--and as his health improved, and calm reason again asserted its sway, he found it difficult and well-nigh impossible to realise or to believe that this woman, to whom he was a perfect stranger, no more than a vagrant on the road, could have given him so much of her time, attention, and care, unless she had dimly supposed him to be something other than he had represented himself.

Unable yet to leave his bed, he lay, to all appearances, quietly contented, acknowledging her gentle ministrations with equally gentle words of thanks, while all the time he was mentally tormenting himself with doubts and fears.

He knew that during his illness he had been delirious,--surely in that delirium he might have raved and talked of many things that would have yielded the entire secret of his identity.

This thought made him restless,--and one afternoon when Mary came in with the deliciously prepared cup of tea which she always gave him about four o'clock, he turned his eyes upon her with a sudden keen look which rather startled her by its piercing brightness suggesting, as it did, some return of fever.
"Tell me,"-- he said--"Have I been ill long?
More than a week ?" She smiled.
"A little more than a week,"-- she answered, gently--"Don't worry!" "I'm not worrying.