"I must know. I shall become delirious again if you do not tell me." "My dear, dear Alfred, I cannot--I must not. You don't fancy for a moment I am going to help you back into illness! You shall know all in a little time; and now I must run away and tell father and mother and Edith of the good change in you." "Send Edith to me, or mother. Either will tell me." "You are not to see any one but me to-day until Dr. Santley comes. There's a dear fellow--rest content until I come back to you. Already you have talked too much." She left the room in spite of his cry of protest and entreaty. In a slow, hopeless, helpless way his mind began working again. Little by little some figures of the past reappeared, but not the central one, the main incident. He knew an event of eminent unpleasantness had occurred, and he knew it did not concern any member of his own family. He knew it did not concern himself closely, and yet that he had a profound interest in it. Santley was mixed up with it in one way or another, but how he could not tell. The law had been invoked; but in what manner or in whose regard was concealed from him. He had a faint memory of a crowded room. Only one figure stood out boldly, and that Tom Blake's. He knew his name, and could describe him with minute accuracy; but why this man and his name were so clearly defined in his recollection he could not tell. Around Blake shone a fierce light; but whence it came or why it was there he could not say. He felt Blake had to do with the legal matter; but in what relation or capacity he could not determine. At length he resolved to give up trying to solve the riddle, and to go to sleep again. It seemed better to go asleep and forget everything than to lie awake remembering imperfectly. A shaded lamp was burning in the room when he again awoke. His mind was now more vigorous and clear. Still there was great confusion and uncertainty. He called, and his sister Madge got up and came to him with a basin of arrowroot. She told him that Dr. Santley had called and seen him while he slept, and that he was going on very well indeed, but that there was no use in his asking questions; and, in fact, that he was not to talk at all, but rest perfectly quiet, take his food and go to sleep again--sleep and food being his chief needs now. Young Paulton protested and expostulated, but in vain; so he was left in the same state of vague uncertainty which he was in when he awoke. Next morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, all that had been lost came back to him in a flash. Nothing was wanting. The repose of the night and the food had invigorated his brain, and allowed it to fill in the gaps which existed the night before. Madge was not in the room when he awoke. The moment she came back he said: "My memory was quite cloudy yesterday; it is as clear as ever it was to-day. I now remember everything. I can recall my walk in the rain. How long have I been ill?" "This is the sixth day."