“I married a man whom I did not love, yet I kept him from knowing the truth.” And the second: “My eight children which I bore my husband gave me much joy and some sorrow. I was so proud of my son, Charlie.” And the last: “I was known as the rich spinster of the place where I lived. Ah, they little knew that money does not, can not, make one happy. Why had I to be sterile?” To my dying day, I shall hear that plaintive, unselfish question. And when they tap my skull, the answer will be graven there. The strange professor put the metal balls and the tubes back in their place, and closed the valise. We issued forth again upon the sidewalk. “Why was it that only women spoke?” I asked. “Because most women die keeping the true secrets of their existence; whereas few men can maintain a life-long self within a self. Men are more vain, but they have less pride than women. Goodnight! Good-bye!” Without another word the strange professor took a passing street car and left me stark alone. And I walked for hours before I cared, or rather dared, to go to my hotel. Daylight was coming through the windows when at last I reached my rooms. The mummy case was gone! The closet door was open, and the closet empty! I went into Sandy’s room, and there he sat awaiting me. “Lor’, maarstar, you done do me wrong. I jest come home, after tryin’ to spy on you. I sees you once with two gen’lemen.” “What? Were there three of us, Sandy?” “Yes, maarstar, you know one of them was yaller. He never did look like he come from this country.” “Do you swear it, Sandy?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I sirtainly do, maarstar;” said he, looking up at me as if I were bereft of my reason. “Thank heaven!” I uttered aloud, “I almost thought that I might be going mad. We must leave this city, Sandy, for while I am here, I keep thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking of the days I spent here once as a boy. Oh, Sandy, that morning in May when I awoke to find that it was true! Too true! You remember, the following February Miss Susanne died?--Let us pack the trunks.” XII When I was a child of four, long, long ago, as it seems to me, some friend gave my father a setter dog. And my father named him “Tim,” for the giver’s name was Timothy.