“Oh, Phil!” Queenie cried, with streaming eyes; “and _I_ was mourning for _you_, and thinking you were dead, and was so sorry for having sent you away. Can you ever forgive me, Phil, for all I have made you suffer?” His answer, not given in words, was quite satisfactory, and then he went on: “They thought at last it must be my own name, and called me Queenie whenever they addressed me or spoke of me. The voyage was rather long, owing to adverse winds and the bad condition of the ship, but they reached their destination at last, and gave me at once into the charge of some English who were living there. But these could get no satisfaction from me with regard to my home, or friends, or name. I had fallen into a weak, half-imbecile, frame of mind, and was very taciturn and reserved, refusing sometimes to talk at all, though always, when I did speak, begging them to carry me home. At intervals I suffered greatly in my head, and even now at times, if I touch the spot upon my temple where I received the blow, I experience a sensation like an electric shock, showing that the injury I received was a most serious one. “And so the time wore on, and, as I was perfectly harmless, I was allowed to do as I pleased, and gradually, as I grew stronger in health, my mind regained its balance, and I was able to recall the past, or rather to remember up to the time when I was in the water holding to the grating of the boat. Everything else was a blank, and is so to me now. I have no recollection whatever of the voyage to Zanguibar, or of the months which followed my arrival there, and it was some little time before I could comprehend my position, or realize how long it was since I was at Madras and started with my friend on the excursion which ended so disastrously. My first act was to write at once to my father, who, I naturally supposed, must think me dead, but the letter was probably miscarried or lost, for it never reached him.