"Sorely afflicted. She has no memory, she seems to have no mind. From one day to another she cannot recollect. Each day is new to her; she has no memory. Even her own name is strange to her. When my master is here I see her only in his presence, and am not allowed to speak to her. When he is absent I see more of her; it is necessary; she has no one else to attend to her. But even then she utters but a very few words. Once only did we have a conversation while the master was away. It was against his commands, but I could not help it. He gives his orders what I shall do during his absence, and I am to do those things, and nothing more. To give her her meals, to give her her medicine, not to allow her to pass the gates. For years she has not been outside those walls." "You are wandering, madame. Once you had a conversation with her. Inform us what was said." "I pitied her, and asked her whether she had no friends she wished to see. 'Friends!' she said, and looked at me wonderingly. 'The world is dead!' I could have shed tears, there was such misery in her voice. I addressed her by her name. 'Mersac!' she exclaimed. 'Who is Mlle. Mersac?' 'But, mademoiselle,' I said, 'it is yourself.' 'Are you sure of that?' she asked. 'Why, yes,' I answered, 'it is certain.' She shuddered and said, 'I had dreams, I think, when I was a child, but I am an old woman now.' 'Mademoiselle,' I cried, 'you are young, you are beautiful!' 'It is you who are dreaming,' she said, 'I am an old woman. The world is dead. This house is my tomb!' That is all that passed; she would not speak another word. If I had dared, if I had not been poor and had known what to do and how it was to be done, I would have tried to find her friends, for what hope of recovery is there for her in such a place as this? For me who have not long to live---I am seventy-five--it does not matter. I have lived here all my life, and I shall die here; there is no other place for me to die in, and I am content that it should be so. But even I had my bright years when I was a young woman. I had a lover, I had a husband, I had children; they are all dead now, and but for my dying brother and his little girl I am alone. I was not so beautiful as mademoiselle; I was not a lady as she is. That is plainly to be seen. At her time of life she should be bright and happy; she should have a lover; she should have friends, companions. They might wake her up, for though she is not dead she might as well be." The old woman spoke very feelingly, and I patted her on the shoulder. "Thank you," she said, as though I had bestowed a gift upon her. "She is a French lady?" questioned Rivers. "Oh, no; she is English." "English! But her name is French." "It may not be hers. She is perhaps sent here to be forgotten. It is sad, very sad!" "Apart from this loss of memory, from this forgetfulness of herself, is she in health?"