From her manner it was only too plain that she was filled with remorse. I really pitied her, for she was a light-hearted, flighty, little woman who loved gaiety, and, without an evil thought, had no doubt allowed her friends to draw her into that round of amusement. They sympathised with her--as every woman who marries an old man is sympathised with--and they gave her what pleasures they could. Alas! that such a clanship between women so often proves fatal to domestic happiness. Judged from a logical point of view it was merely natural that young Mrs. Courtenay should, after a year or two with an invalid husband, aged and eccentric, beat her wings against the bars. She was a pretty woman, almost as pretty as her sister, but two years older, with fair hair, blue eyes, and a pink and white, almost doll-like complexion. Indeed, I knew quite well that she had long had a host of admirers, and that just prior to her marriage with Courtenay it had been rumoured that she was to marry the heir to an earldom, a rather rakish young cavalry officer up at York. To restore her to consciousness was not a difficult matter, but after she had requested me to tell her the whole of the ghastly truth she sat speechless, as though turned to stone. Her manner was unaccountable. She spoke at last, and to me it seemed as though the fainting fit had caused her an utter loss of memory. She uttered words at random, allowing her tongue to ramble on in strange disjointed sentences, of which I could make nothing. "My head! Oh! my head!" she kept on exclaiming, passing her hand across her brow as though to clear her brain. "Does it pain you?" I inquired. "It seems as though a band of iron were round it. I can't think. I--I can't remember!" And she glanced about her helplessly, her eyes with a wild strange look in them, her face so haggard and drawn that it gave her a look of premature age. "Oh! Mary, dear!" cried Ethelwynn, taking both her cold hands. "Why, what's the matter? Calm yourself, dear." Then turning to me she asked, "Can nothing be done, Ralph? See--she's not herself. The shock has unbalanced her brain." "Ralph! Ethelwynn!" gasped the unfortunate woman, looking at us with an expression of sudden wonder. "What has happened? Did I understand you aright? Poor Henry is dead?" "Unfortunately that is the truth." I was compelled to reply. "It is a sad affair, Mary, and you have all our sympathy. But recollect he was an invalid, and for a long time his life has been despaired of." I dared not yet tell her the terrible truth that he had been the victim of foul play. "It is my fault!" she cried. "My place was here--at home. But--but why was I not here?" she added with a blank look. "Where did I go?" "Don't you remember that you went to London with the Hennikers?" I said. "Ah! of course!" she exclaimed. "How very stupid of me to forget. But do you know, I've never experienced such a strange sensation before. My memory is a perfect blank. How did I return here?"