"She says she has forgotten her own name," said Mrs. Chalmers, anxiously. "She will be all right by and by, mother. I only hope the return of memory will not bring her pain." The next time Hyacinth opened her eyes, she saw a keen, kind, shrewd face looking at her own, and a pair of dark eyes that smiled as she smiled. "You are getting better," said Dr. Chalmers. She raised her hand to her head, and then a slight look of alarm crossed her face. "Where is my hair?" she asked, wonderingly. "We sacrificed your hair to save your brain," he replied; "it was all cut off." Then he heard her give a profound sigh, and he guessed that memory was returning. He took one of the thin worn hands in his. "I do not want you to think of painful things just now," he said. "Will you bear in mind that nothing but absolute rest will restore you to health, and compose yourself accordingly?" Hyacinth did as she was advised: she discarded all painful thoughts from her mind, and consequently slept as she had not slept for many long weeks. She awoke one morning calm and composed, with reason and memory fully restored. She knew that she was Hyacinth Vaughan. Slowly and by degrees the terrible past returned to her. "I was in time, thank Heaven!" she said. "I was in time!" She remembered the crowded court--the hundreds of eyes that had been turned upon her--the thunder of applause that none of the officers could repress--the ringing cheers that followed Claude's release. But after that all was a blank. She remembered nothing that had passed since she stood in the assize court, blind and dizzy, until she opened her eyes in that pretty room. White, fragile, worn almost to a shadow, helpless as a child, she lay there now with reason in full sway. Dead to her old life, to her friends, her hopes, her plans--dead to her lover and her love--she was painfully beginning a new life, in which none of these had any part--a new life into which she felt that hope, love, or happiness could never come. A week later, and Hyacinth Vaughan, looking like a frail shadow of her former self, sat, propped up by pillows, in a large easy-chair that had been placed for her near the window; her nerveless hands were clasped, her large eyes, so sad and dreamy, lingered on the clouds that drifted rapidly over the sky. She was alone and deeply engrossed in thought; the time had come when she must speak to these people who had been so kind to her--when she must tell something of herself. They had been so kind to her, so attentive, so considerate--they had not even asked her name. Mrs. Chalmers always called her "child." Her son had a variety of names for her, the principal of which was Queen Mab. Such kindness could spring only from noble and generous hearts. Both mother and son had refrained from asking her any questions. Said Dr. Chalmers to his mother: "When she knows us, and feels that she can trust us she will speak."