‘What is the matter?’ exclaimed Mrs. Richards, coming out of her berth, that was immediately beside where I stood. ‘Is it you, Miss C----? I did not know your voice. Are you poorly?’ ‘No,’ I answered; ‘a sudden fancy--but I cannot give it a name--I cannot recall it--I don’t know the meaning of it. Oh, my head, my head!’ and I sat down at the table and leaned my brow upon my hands. ‘A little passing feeling of weakness,’ said Mrs. Richards. ‘Only think what this poor lady has suffered,’ she added, addressing the young woman, who had risen and gone a few paces away, and was now standing and holding the baby and staring. ‘How could any one hope to be speedily well after such sufferings as this lady has passed through? But I know what will do you good, dear;’ and she slipped into her berth and returned with a glass of her cherry-brandy, which she obliged me to drink. ‘And now,’ said she, ‘come to your cabin and compose yourself, and then you shall pay Mrs. Lee a visit.’ ‘I do not feel ill,’ said I, as I seated myself in my cabin; ‘it was a sensation. I cannot describe it. I was holding the baby, and as I looked at it I--I----’ ‘It might have been a little struggle of memory,’ said the stewardess. ‘But it gave me nothing--it showed me nothing--it told me nothing,’ ‘Never mind,’ said the stewardess. ‘How do you know but it may mean that it is your memory waking up? I have read that people who have been restored to life after having been nearly hanged or nearly drowned suffered tortures, much worse tortures than when in their death struggles. Might it not be the same with the memory? It is not dead in you, but it is lying stunned by something dreadful that happened to you. _Now_ it may be waking up, and its first return to life is a torment. Let us hope it, dear. And how do you feel now?’ ‘I should feel happy if I could believe that what you say is true.’ ‘Well, you must have patience and keep your heart cheered up.’ She then looked at my hair, and saying aloud, but to herself, ‘Yes, I believe it will be the very thing,’ she left me. When she returned she bore in her hand a little mob-cap of velvet and lace. ‘Put this on,’ said she. ‘It is one of four that were given to me last voyage by a lady-passenger. I intended them for a friend in Sydney, but you are welcome to them. Wear it, my dear.’ I put the cap on, and certainly it did improve my looks. ‘I will not thank you for your kindness with my lips,’ said I; ‘if I began to speak my thanks I should tire you out long before I could end them.’ She interrupted me. ‘Do not talk of thanking me. I declare, Miss C----, I am never so happy as when I am being helpful and useful to others, and there are many like me. Oh, yes! most of us have larger and kinder hearts than we give one another credit for. Do you feel equal now to paying a visit to the saloon?’