“That is hemiplegia,” said Ethelbert, “and means ‘I strike one-half,’—so he is paralyzed on one side. If that is it, one corner of his mouth will be drawn a little, and one cheek will look in a sort, withered and drooping. If it is that, his mind will be curious.” “You are a cold-blooded thing, any way,” said Mrs. Mancredo, frightened and angry. Ethelbert opened her eyes reflectively. “Forgive me,” said the excitable woman, “and get into my carriage and come now.” “In a minute,” said Ethelbert; and in about that time she came back with her hat and her mother, whom she introduced, saying: “My mother will go, too.” And cutting some fresh roses she followed the two elder ladies into the carriage, and they drove away to the hotel. Reginald was awake when they entered; and Ethelbert had given the flowers to Mrs. Mancredo, who walked with them to the sick man. He smiled that strange half smile, which was contradicted by the paralyzed muscles on the other side of his mouth. “He will get on in a way, you know,—in a way,” said the physician. “He will perhaps be talking and about again, in a way, you know,—in a way.” “I found her, Reginald, she is here,” said Mrs. Mancredo, and she motioned to Miss Daksha to approach. A look of heavenly rapture overspread his countenance. In a strange, full voice he cried out: “My mother!” With an exclamation the physician started forward, but fell back, as Ethelbert said all motherly: “Yes, Reginald.” He looked at her with consuming eagerness. “You have been gone so long,” he said, a little thickly. “Where is Cousin Alitza?” A muffled shriek from Mrs. Mancredo thrilled through the room. “You know what he means!” asserted Ethelbert, looking at Mrs. Mancredo, who, with a perfectly bloodless face and a shrinking, stealthy step, approached. Reginald Grove looked at her puzzled, and then said fretfully, lifting his eyes to Ethelbert: “You have all been gone so long; see how she has grown.” There was an oppressive hush of bewilderment. The doctor was held back by the unmoved air with which Ethelbert kept her post, giving way to her as if she were the physician of the occasion in whom he trusted. She stood, gently stroking Reginald’s head. He raised his other hand and patted hers languidly, as a pleased child would do, and so presently fell asleep. Then the other physicians came in, and a little apart discussed the case, perplexed. “He called you Alitza. Your card was marked Corrinne,” said Ethelbert; and after scarce a moment’s halt Mrs. Mancredo said with truthful rapidity: “I am—I was—Alitza Corrinne Roccoca, his cousin. I have seen him but twice since I was seventeen, until I met him in this city. He loved me when we were children; he hated me when I was older. He never dreamed that Mrs. Mancredo was—is—Alitza.”