More than four years had passed since Holdsworth had arrived in Sydney. Mr. Sherman had long learned to think of him as settled in the colony, had increased his salary, and congratulated himself not only on the possession of a valuable and trustworthy assistant, but upon a pleasant, amiable, and thoroughly gentlemanly companion. No expression of a wish to leave had ever escaped Holdsworth’s lips. He appeared not only contented, but resigned to the affliction that had practically deprived him of all knowledge of his past existence. He came down to breakfast one morning with a face betokening great agitation. Mr. Sherman was in the breakfast-room, and instantly noticed Holdsworth’s air of bewilderment and distress. “Mr. Sherman,” exclaimed Holdsworth at once to him, “do you remember telling me that it was possible for my memory to be revived by a dream?” “Yes--has it happened?” “I cannot tell; but this much I know, that a voice sounded last night in my ears, and bade me return at once to England. It was a woman’s voice--it had a clearly-remembered tone--and I knew it in my sleep; but when I awoke and tried to recall it I could not.” “But your dream?” “That was all.” “Was your dream merely confined to the utterance of this voice?” “I can remember nothing more than the voice.” “And you cannot recall whose voice it resembled?” “No.” Mr. Sherman was silent, and Holdsworth watched him with anxiety, that was almost pathetic, so eager was his hope that his friend would find some light in this dim and curious night-fancy to help him with. “I can see nothing serviceable in this,” said Mr. Sherman presently, “but it is hopeful. Wait a while. This voice may return, or you may dream something more tangible. Remember,” he added with a smile, “that the morning light does not flood the world suddenly. The pale, faint gray comes first, and there are many gradations of brightness between the first peep of dawn and the rising of the sun.” But though Holdsworth waited, the voice did not return. Nevertheless it had sounded in his ears to some purpose. Day by day a longing grew in him to return to England, which became in time deep and fervent and irresistible. Superstition was the root of this yearning; but the poor fellow, urged by his instincts into an eternal searching amid the darkness, would scarcely pause to consider the nature of his keen desire, but submit to it as an ordinance from God commissioned to impel him into the Divine light of memory. Mr. Sherman watched his increasing restlessness in silence, waiting for him to declare his intention. He announced it one day.