The door opened, as he waited, and some of the guests came out. Two or three carriages drove up: there was a call for a hansom, a whistle, and an answering shout. Francis Trent watched the proceedings with a sort of stupid attention. They reminded him of the previous night when he had seen Ethel Kenyon coming out of the theatre after her farewell performance. But on that occasion he had passed unnoticed and unrecognized. This was not now to be the case. Suddenly a woman on the threshold of Mr. Brooke's house caught sight of the weary, shabby figure leaning against the railings. Francis heard a little gasp, a little cry, and felt a hand upon his own. "Francis! is it you? have you really come back?" It was Mary Kingston who looked him in the face. He returned the gaze with lack-lustre, unseeing eyes. When the fever-fit of rage left him, he was still subject to odd lapses of memory. One of these had assailed him now. He did not recognize his wife in the very least. "I--I don't know you," he said. "Go away, woman. I'm not doing any harm." There is nothing so piteous as the absence of recognition of the patient's best friends in cases of brain-disease. Francis Trent's condition sent a stab of pain to Mary's innermost heart. She forgot where she was--she forgot her duties as doorkeeper; she remembered only that she loved this man, and that he had forgotten her. She cried aloud---- "Francis, I am your wife." "I have no wife," said the distraught man, looking listlessly beyond her. "I am here to see Oliver--he is to give me some money." "Don't you remember Mary, Francis? Look at me--look at me." "Mary?" he said, doubtfully. "Oh, yes, I remember Mary. But you are not Mary, are you?" "Yes, indeed I am. Where have you been all this time? Oh, my poor dear, you can't tell me! You are ill, Francis. Let me take care of you. Can you tell me where you live?" But he could not reply. His head drooped upon his breast: he looked as if he neither saw nor heard. What was she to do? Of one thing Mary was certain. Now that she had found her husband, she was not going to lose sight of him again. She would go with him whithersoever he went, unless he repelled her by force. She gave one regretful thought to her young mistress, and to a certain project which she had determined to put into effect that night, and then she thought of the Brookes no more. She must leave them, and follow her husband's fortunes. There was no other way for her.