“She tell me?--who tell me?--what? You frighten me, Edgar, you look so unlike yourself. I have been with Clare, and I don’t think she is well either. She looked agitated. I warned you, you remember, about that man----” “Don’t speak of him, lest I should hate him,” said Edgar. “And yet I have no cause to hate him--it is not his fault. I will turn back with you and tell you what Clare did not tell you. She might have confided in you, anyhow, even if there had been a chance that it was not true.” The Rector put his arm kindly within that of the agitated young man. He was the steadier of the two; he gave Edgar a certain support by the contact. “Whatever it is that agitates you so,” he said, “you are quite right--she might have told me; it would have been safe with me. Poor Clare! she was agitated too----” This allusion overwhelmed Edgar altogether. “You must be doubly kind to her when I am gone,” he said, hurriedly. “Poor Clare! That is another thing that must be thought of. Where is she to go to? Would you take her in, you who have always been so kind to us? I would rather she were with you than at the Doctor’s. Not that I have anything to do with it now; but one cannot get over the habits of one’s life in twenty-four hours. Yes, poor Clare, I had no right to it, as it appears; but she was fond of me too.” “Of course, she was fond of you,” said the Rector alarmed. “Come, Edgar, rouse yourself up. What does it mean this talk about going away? You must not go away. All your duties are at home. I could not give my consent----” And then Edgar told him succinctly, in the same brief words which he had used before, his extraordinary tale. He told it this time without any appearance of emotion. He was getting used to the words. This time he paid no attention to the incredulity of his listener. He simply repeated it with a certain dull iteration. Mr. Fielding’s exclamations of wonder and horror fell dully on his ears. He could not understand them. It seemed so strange that any one should be surprised at a thing he had known so long. “Sure,” he said with a smile; “am I sure of my own existence? No, I don’t mean of my own identity, for at present I have none. But I am as sure of it as that I am alive. Do you think it would be any pleasure to me to go and spread such news if it were not true?” “But, Edgar,----” began the Rector. “That is the curious thing,” he said musingly; “I am not Edgar. I suppose a man would be justified in keeping his Christian name--don’t you think so? That surely must belong to him. I could not be John or George all at once, after being Edgar all my life. Surely I keep that.” “My poor boy,” cried the Rector, in dismay. “My poor boy, come home, and lie down, and let me bring Somers up to see you. You are not well, you have been doing too much in town, keeping late hours, and---- You will see, a little rest will set you all right.”