After fluctuating between life and death, however, for many weary hours, Sir Albert Gerald rallied. He was thirty-two, in the very prime of his youth and strength; unfavourable symptoms disappeared one by one, and he began to rally. His first thought, as he was returning to full consciousness, and that all his pain and agony were gradually yielding to his strong powers of recovery, was of the girl, who, looking like a pitying angel, had bravely sat alone with him, and had, by her presence of mind, saved him; and he had seen her tears. Had she not been there.... There would have been a late search; his men might have thought it strange that his expected signal was not made and might have looked for him. Then he told himself it would have been too late. He lay wondering who she was, where she lived, and how he could ever thank her, not knowing her name, when one day his servant was arranging his books, and he asked him to put one or two beside him, he might feel inclined to read. He lay still, however; terribly weakened as he was, he dreaded moving. He was so bruised and so battered it seemed impossible he should ever stride across the hills and follow any of his old occupations again. His eye dwelt idly on the binding of the books before him, and he wondered if it would bring back suffering if he looked into one. Thoughts become monotonous when they are full of a certain fear; then, with that quick recognition of small facts that often accompanies great prostration of strength, he saw a strange book lying amongst his own. With great caution and not without some pain he drew the book towards him, and, with all the difficulty of a man accustomed to use his right hand, now so useless, he opened it. "Tennyson!" he said softly to himself; then he looked at the fly-leaf and saw written, in an unformed girlish sprawl, Grace Rivers. "How did that book get among mine?" he thought, perplexed and puzzled. The attentive John came in again and his master asked him the question. "It was lying by you when you fell, Sir Albert. I did not know it was not yours." "Ah, I see," said his master, pleased by the conviction that he now knew the name of the girl who lived in his memory so distinctly. A little later he called his servant to him and complained of the dulness he felt lying there. "Perhaps the landlord would come and talk to me; that would be better than nothing." "Yes, Sir Albert." "Unless he is busy. I have nothing particular to say to him. You will explain this to him." "Yes, Sir Albert." "Mind you make it clear," continued the sick man, but John was out of hearing.