but the landlady of the hotel, who at once
insisted on his entering the house, and reading
Kirke's letter to her husband. The same night
Captain Wragge was in London, and was
closeted with the sailor, in the second-floor
room at Aaron's Buildings.

The serious nature of the situation, the
indisputable certainty that Kirke must fail in tracing
Magdalen's friends, unless he first knew who she
really was, had decided the captain on disclosing
part, at least, of the truth. Declining to enter
into any particulars—for family reasons, which
Magdalen might explain on her recovery, if she
pleased—he astounded Kirke by telling him that
the friendless woman whom he had rescued, and
whom he had only known, up to that moment, as
Miss Bygrave—was no other than the youngest
daughter of Andrew Vanstone. The disclosure,
on Kirke's side, of his father's connexion with
the young officer in Canada, had followed
naturally, on the revelation of Magdalen's real name.
Captain Wragge had expressed his surprise, but
had made no further remark at the time. A
fortnight later, however, when the patient's
recovery forced the serious difficulty on the doctor
of meeting the questions which Magdalen was
sure to ask, the captain's ingenuity had come, as
usual, to the rescue.

"You can't tell her the truth," he said, "without
awakening painful recollections of her stay
at Aldborough, into which I am not at liberty
to enter. Don't acknowledge, just yet, that
Mr. Kirke only knew her as Miss Bygrave of
North Shingles, when he found her in this house.
Tell her boldly that he knew who she was, and
that he felt (what she must feel) that he had an
hereditary right to help and protect her, as his
father's son. I am, as I have already told you,"
continued the captain, sticking fast to his old
assertion, "a distant relative of the Combe-
Raven family; and, if there is nobody else at
hand to help you through this difficulty, my
services are freely at your disposal."

No one else was at hand; and the emergency
was a serious one. Strangers undertaking the
responsibility might ignorantly jar on past
recollections, which it would, perhaps, be the
death of her to revive too soon. Near relatives
might, by their premature appearance at the
bedside, produce the same deplorable result.
The alternative lay between irritating and alarming
her by leaving her inquiries unanswered—or
trusting Captain Wragge. In the doctor's
opinion, the second risk was the least serious risk
of the two—and the captain was now seated at
Magdalen's bedside in discharge of the trust
confided to him.

Would she ask the question which it had been
the private object of all Captain Wragge's
preliminary talk, lightly and pleasantly to provoke.
Yes: as soon as his silence gave her the
opportunity, she asked it:—Who was that friend of
his living in the house?

"You ought by rights to know him as
well as I do," said the captain. "He is the
son of one of your father's old military friends
—when your father was quartered with his
regiment in Canada. Your cheeks mustn't flush
up! If they do, I shall go away."

She was astonished, but not agitated.
Captain Wragge had begun by interesting her in the
remote past, which she only knew by hearsay,
before he ventured on the delicate ground of her
own experience.

In a moment more, she advanced to her next
question:—What was his name?

"Kirke," proceeded the captain. "Did you
never hear of his father, Major Kirke—
commanding officer of the regiment in Canada?
Did you never hear that the major helped your
father through a great difficulty, like the best of
good fellows and good friends?"

Yes: she faintly fancied she had heard
something about her father, and an officer who had
once been very good to him when he was a young
man. But she could not look back so long.—
Was Mr. Kirke poor?

Even Captain Wragge's penetration was
puzzled by that question. He gave the true
answer, at hazard. "No," he said, "not
poor."

Her next inquiry showed what she had been
thinking of.—If Mr. Kirke was not poor, why did
he come to live in that house?

"She has caught me!" thought the captain.
"There is only one way out of it—I must
administer another dose of truth. Mr. Kirke
discovered you here by chance," he proceeded aloud;
"very ill, and not nicely attended to. Somebody
was wanted to take care of you, while you were
not able to take care of yourself. Why not Mr.
Kirke? He was the son of your father's old
friend—which is the next thing to being your
old friend. Who had a better claim to send for
the right doctor, and get the right nurse— when
I was not here to cure you with my wonderful
Pill? Gently! gently! you mustn't take hold
of my superfine black coat sleeve in that
unceremonious manner."

He put her hand back on the bed; but she
was not to be checked in that way. She
persisted in asking another question.—How came
Mr. Kirke to know her? She had never seen
him; she had never heard of him in her life.

"Very likely," said Captain Wragge. "But
your never having seen him, is no reason why he
should not have seen you."

"When did he see me?"

The captain corked up his doses of truth on
the spot, without a moment's  hesitation.

"Some time ago, my dear. I can't exactly
say when."

"Only once?"

Captain Wragge suddenly saw his way to the
administration of another dose. "Yes," he said.
"Only once."

She reflected a little. The next question
involved the simultaneous expression of two ideas
—and the next question cost her an effort.

"He only saw me once," she said; "and he
only saw me some time ago. How came he to
remember me, when he found me here?"

"Aha!" said the captain. "Now you have