Some dinner was brought to me by a very civil under-steward, who stated that Mrs. Richards was too busy to attend upon me, but that she would be having occasion to call upon me later on. Being without the power of contrasting, I was unable to understand how fortunate I was in having fallen into the hands of such a man as Captain Frederick Ladmore. I did not imagine that other captains would not use me equally well; indeed, I never gave that view of the matter a thought. I ate and drank, and accepted all the kindnesses which were done me as a child might, and yet I was grateful, and the tears would stand in my eyes when I sat alone and thought of what had been done for me; but my gratitude and my appreciation were not those of a person whose faculties are whole. The under-steward had lighted the lamp, and when he fetched the tray I got into my bunk and sat in it and asked myself all the questions which occurred to me. I then arose and took the glass from the cabin wall, and returning to my bunk fixed my eyes upon my reflection. It may be, I thought to myself, that I do not know who I am, because ever since I returned to consciousness my face has been obscured and deformed by sticking-plaister and a bandage. If I remove the bandage I may know myself. So I took the bandage off and looked. The lint dressing came away with the bandage and exposed the injury, and I saw that my right eyebrow was of a pale red, with a long dark scar going from the temple to above the bridge of the nose. The hair on the brow was entirely gone, and my face, having but one eyebrow, had a wild odd foreign look. I also perceived that my nose, where it was indented betwixt the brow and the bridge, was injured. It was necessary to view myself in profile to gather the extent of this injury; and this I could not do, having but one glass. Then I said to myself, it may be that I am disfigured beyond recognition of my own eyes. In the case of my face it is not my memory that is at fault. Calamity and horror of mind have ravaged my face, and I do not know myself. If my face was now as it had been prior to the disaster that has blinded my mind and rendered me the loneliest woman in the world, the sight of it would give me back my memory. I continued to gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I then readjusted the bandage, hung up the glass, and resumed my seat in my bunk. I was sitting motionless, with my eyes rooted to the deck, when the door was vigorously thumped and thrown open, and Mr. McEwan entered. He stood awhile looking at me, swaying on wide-spread feet to the movements of the ship, and then exclaimed: