Fenella’s brain being free of the fever, her splendid constitution and her youth asserted their prerogative to lead her to health, and the kindly doctor stood amazed at the progress she made toward convalescence. “You have nothing to do now but get well,” said he, “and you are getting well as if getting well were a fever in full power. You are building up as fast--ay, faster--than you lost.” She answered only with a smile. She took no particular interest in getting well, or in anything else, for that matter. Although the brain may have been relieved from the ravages of active disease, it was inert, lifeless. The fountains of memory were still frozen, or dried up. She knew she lay at her cottage in Guernsey, but she did not actively realize why she was there. She felt that if she made a great effort, she could tell herself the story of her presence upon the island; but she was languid, and took no interest in anything, not even in herself. “You may sit up for an hour to-morrow,” said the doctor, one day. She said: “Thank you, doctor.” He was careful not to call her by any name, and he told the nurse and maids not to address her as “Mrs. Orme.” “Let us get the body strong first,” thought he. “Until word comes from Lord Francis, we have nothing pleasant to say to her, and she may forget that she was ever ‘Mrs. Orme.’” So day slid into morrow, and brought no news--no word of any kind--and Lord Francis was a whole week gone, and the sufferer was allowed to move about a little. The good doctor concluded that Lord Francis had changed his intention again, and for some reason or other reverted to the condition of mind he had been in when he borrowed Lord Castleton’s yacht, and took himself away into southern seas beyond the voice of England. On the eighth day a letter came from London. It was addressed in a clerkly hand. It was the first letter that had come for Fenella since she had fallen ill. She was sitting in an armchair by the fire when she took it from the doctor, for he had given strict orders she was to get no letter except from his hand. The superscription was in such commonplace clerkly writing that the good doctor made sure that it was some ordinary business communication, one from her lawyer or trustee, or some other person connected with the routine of her affairs. She was now strong enough to stroll a short distance out-of-doors, and had taken a turn in the garden the day before, and was to walk a mile along the road later to-day when the sun grew stronger. “A letter from some of your business people,” said the man of science. “I hope it brings you good news.” A little rousing would not come amiss to the lovely invalid. It was addressed to “Mrs. Orme.” She broke the cover. It contained a brief note from her lawyer and a letter inclosed, the writing of which, a woman’s, was unfamiliar to her. The lawyer’s letter ran: DEAR MADAM: