whiteness of the flesh began to soften and flush with roseate hues,--a faint sigh parted the reddening lips, the small, childlike hands, hitherto lying limp on either side, were raised as though searching for something in the air,--and then, slowly, easefully, and with no start of surprise or fear, Diana awoke from her long trance and stretched herself lazily, smiled, sat up for a moment, her hair falling about her in an amber shower, and finally stepped from her couch and stood erect, a vision of such ethereal fairness and youthful queenliness that all unconscious of his own action, Dimitrius sank on his knees in a transport of admiration, whispering: “My triumph! My work! My wonder of the world!” She, meanwhile, with the questioning air of one whose surroundings are utterly unfamiliar, surveyed him in his kneeling attitude as though he were a stranger. Drawing herself up and pushing back the wealth of hair that fell about her, she spoke in the exquisitely musical voice that was all her own, though it seemed to have gained a richer sweetness. “Why do you kneel?” she asked. “Are you my servant?” For one flashing second he was tempted to answer: “Your master!” But there was something in the stateliness of her attitude and the dignity of her bearing that checked this bold utterance on his lips, and he replied: “Your slave!--if so you will it!” A smile of vague surprise crossed her features. “Remind me how I came here,” she said. “There is something I cannot recall. I have been so much in the light and this place is very dark. You are a friend, I suppose--are you not?” A chilly touch of dread overcame him. His experiment had failed, if despite its perfection of physical result, the brain organisation was injured or destroyed. She talked at random, and with a lost air, as if she had no recollection of any previous happenings. “Surely I am your friend!” he said, rising from his knees and approaching her more nearly. “You remember me?--Féodor Dimitrius?” She passed one hand across her brow. “Dimitrius?--Féodor Dimitrius?” she repeated,--then suddenly she laughed,--a clear bright laugh like that of a happy child--“Of course! I know you now--and I know my self. I am Diana May,--Diana May who was the poor unloved old spinster with wrinkles round her eyes and ‘feelings’ in her stupidly warm heart!--but _she_ is dead! _I_ live!” She lifted her arms, the silver sheen of her mysterious gleaming garment falling back like unfurled wings. “I live!” she repeated. “I am the young Diana!--the old Diana is dead!” Her arms dropped to her sides again, and she turned to Dimitrius with a bewitching smile.