"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands! Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned eagerly forward. "What are you looking at?" she asked. "At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly. "What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection. Yes, it was as he had expected--her forefinger was rough. She was Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion, yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this moment. "Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in the sight of her lord. "They are--" He checked himself; he had almost added--the prettiest hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that you have quite spoiled one little finger." "Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I know I can." Further proof of her identity, if he needed it. "Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise your talents--only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in future." "I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the offending finger. There was a pause. "Do tell me something about my past life," said she. "I have been lying here wondering and wondering." "What do you want to know?" "Everything. In the first place, are my parents living? Oh, I hope so!" Here was a poser. Cyril had no idea whether her parents were alive or not, but even if they were, it would be impossible to communicate with them for the present, so he had better set her mind at rest by denying their existence. "No, my dear, you are an orphan, and you have neither brothers nor sisters," he added hastily. It was just as well to put a final stop to questions as to her family. "Nobody of my own--nobody?" "Nobody," he reiterated, but he felt like a brute. "Have I any children?" was her next question. Cyril started perceptibly. "No, no, certainly not," he was so embarrassed that he spoke quite sharply. "Oh, are you glad?" She stared at him in amazement and to his disgust Cyril felt himself turning crimson. "Now I'm sorry," she continued with a soft sigh. "I wish I had a baby. I remember about babies." "I--I like them, too," he hastened to assure her. Really this was worse than he had expected.