Holdsworth closed the door, and a whole hour passed before he rose to remove his clothes. There was something in the recollection of the thrill which the name of Hanwitch had sent through him, that impelled him to bend the whole energies of his mind to the word, and he strove with memory passionately and fiercely, but could not wrench a syllable from her. He repeated the name until it lost even its sense as the designation of a town. Nevertheless, every moment made his longing to visit it deeper. There must be _some_ reason why this name had so stirred him. The names of other English counties and cities had been pronounced before him and by him over and over again, but they touched no chord, they awoke no echo in his mind, however dim and elusive. If memory would only define the object he sought! This it would not do. He was a wanderer, obeying the dictation of blind instinct, which urged without guiding him. Of all his past, nothing was present to his mind. He knew not what he sought. His was an affliction crueller than blindness, for a blind man could say: “A beloved one has strayed from me. I seek her. I see not, indeed, those who surround me, but my mission has form and substance in my mind, and my inquiries cannot _always_ prove fruitless.” But Holdsworth was commanded by a mysterious emotion which controlled without enlightening him. _Something_ had been lost--_something_ was to be found. He felt his want, but could not explain it to himself. No man could help him, since no man could guess what was the thing he looked for. When he left his chair he sank upon his knees and asked God in broken tones to help him--to direct him into the path that should lead him to the light--to aid him in his yearning to re-illuminate his memory. CHAPTER XXI. FOR HANWITCH. If a man has one good reason for being grateful for living in these times, it is because they are _not_ coaching days. The old stage-coach, the Wellerian coachman, the spruce guard with his horn and his jokes, the fat people inside, the gruff people outside, all contributed a picturesque detail to the age they belonged to; but I have generally found that the more picturesque an object is, the fitter it is to be surveyed at a distance only.