"Isabella!" he repeated; then he passed his hand over his brows with a little pitiful gesture. "Then--Phil--is dead." It was not a question but an assertion. He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. Isabella seated herself close to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. Philippa stood just inside the door which she had shut; she was leaning against it and both her hands were pressing the wood behind her, as if the solid surface were the only thing firm in a world of chaos. There was no sound in the room except the slow ticking of the clock which seemed to be tolling for the vanished years. Suddenly Francis broke the silence. Sitting up and lifting a white, drawn face to Isabella, "Old friend," he said brokenly, "you would not lie to me--tell me--am I mad?" "No," she answered quickly, and almost sternly, "no, a thousand times no." "Then what does it mean? Phil, my little Phil, is gone--is dead--I know she is dead or she would be here--and mother--seventy-three years--my mother was not seventy-three. Phil is dead----" He paused and then turned to Philippa: "Who are you?" It was Isabella who answered him, framing her reply so that he could understand: "This is Jim's girl," she said. "Jim's girl?" he repeated. "Old Jim! Where is he?" and as she did not speak he threw out his arms with a quick despairing movement. "Dead?--are they all dead?" And instantly Isabella's hands closed on his in a strong close grip. "What does it mean?" he cried again. "It means, dear Francis, that you have been very ill for a long, long time--that years have passed without your knowing it, and that the years in passing have robbed us of our dear ones." "How long?" he asked in a low whisper. "Twenty-two years," she answered steadily. "When did Phil die?" "Nearly twenty years ago." "Twenty years!" he echoed; "and I did not know!" "You did not know because you had an accident which destroyed your memory." "An accident?" "Yes. The horse you were riding threw and injured you." Again he looked at Philippa. "Then," continued Isabella, speaking slowly and distinctly, "Jim's girl came to stay here, and quite by chance she came into your room, and you thought she was Phil--and gradually your memory has come back." "And to-day--I have seen my mother's grave--and read her message. It was a message, wasn't it, Isabella?" He spoke wistfully, almost like a child. "Yes; I think she meant it to be a message for you." "Dear mother! I have thought that Phil was with me--I did not know; but when I read the dates--it made me remember, and I could not understand. She has gone--and Phil has gone--and I am here alone." "No, not alone, dear Francis." He thought for a while. "But, have I not seen Bill? Who lives here now? And Goodie?--surely Goodie is real----" "Yes; Goodie and Robert Gale have been with you all through, but it is Bill's son who lives here, now."