That night was a restless night for Adelina. There were mysteries she could not unravel. She could not reconcile Ralph's lapse of memory with the perfect self-poise subsequently evinced. She knew that a single instance of forgetfulness would not have been perceived by her with such readiness had it not been for antecedent knowledge of mental derangement. Memory had not proved treacherous regarding any other fact, however trivial, which had been mentioned in his hearing. There was another thing which troubled Adelina—Ralph's assumption that Harold and Mary were the benefactors, not of himself, but of the brother whom neither had seen. She had not wanted to talk the matter over again with her friends. It would only accentuate the sad feelings of each. She wanted time (of which commodity she soon had a sufficiency) to think it all over in the solitude of her own room. Once there, she found it equally as difficult to arrive at any just estimate of the truth. She dreamed that Ralph appeared with his brother, and commanded her sternly to choose between them.

She awoke with a shudder to find the sun shining brightly in her window, as if to beseech her to come out and enjoy his glories. She quickly responded to the manifest entreaty, only too thankful to discover that the long night—a night of troubled thought and dreams, was over. When at intervals of consciousness, she had tried to concentrate her vagrant thoughts to some purpose, she could only vaguely feel that there was something she was incapable of adverting; and so, when morning came at last, she was determined to accept such diversion as was offered.

Accordingly, arrayed in one of her most becoming gowns, she descended the stairs, and walked out on the veranda. It was characteristic of her, that when she was inwardly troubled she invariably took the greatest care in making her toilet, perhaps feeling that her spirits might ultimately assume the nature of her garb.

Adelina was soon joined by Ralph, who looked radiantly happy. He evidently thought that her propinquity was enough for the present, let the future bring what it might. He had so long been denied a sight of her, that it is to be doubted whether he even gave that future a thought. His buoyancy could not be otherwise than infectious; added to that were Adelina's strenuous efforts to shake off the unwelcome thoughts of the preceding night, to which she knew that she would succumb if left to herself—without the incentive of trying to appear cheerful before others. Those imbued with such altruism have some recompense even in this world, where reward so seldom seems to come for right doing—that of submerging their own woes in the happiness or reverses of others.

It was later in the morning that Adelina had further cause for sorrow. She had gone to her room for a volume of poems in order to find a quotation which Ralph had laughingly insisted she had misquoted. Adelina, in turn, asserted that he would regret that she had gone only to prove him wrong. Sad he certainly did look when she returned.

He was holding a bit of paper in his hand, as if deliberating whether he ought to continue its perusal or not. He was standing where she left him, but how different were his expression and manner. When she turned to him with a look of inquiry, his only answer was:

"I had not thought you could deceive me."

Deceive him? When had she ever deceived him? She knew she had never done that, even before she had begun to care for him, and now that she was beginning to care, surely it was cruel to accuse her thus.

He mistook her silence for confirmation of her guilt, for was it not her own handwriting which he held? And could you censure him for believing his senses?

Adelina was secretly blaming him for this lack of faith, which was only natural as she was the one doubted, and consequently, knew her own innocence. She could not prove the falsity of her alleged imperfection, until she heard the charges against her, and her pride kept her silent for a time. She disdained the idea of asking the question which would tell her all. How beautiful she looked. Even Ralph was thinking of her beauty, her proud, refined face appealing as it did to his sense of the esthetic. How he hated himself for worshiping the external beauty until he could penetrate beneath the surface and see if she were really worthy of being revered. Ralph viciously crumpled the unoffending paper in his hand. Had it not been the cause of sudden, maddening pain to him? Adelina's absence had, at most, been only a question of a few minutes. Her bewildered look, on her return, ought to have been sufficient to reassure Ralph, and that probably was the reason that he eventually held the fragment of paper towards her. Adelina took it, and with a blanching face, read an excerpt from her journal. It had probably blown from the open window of her room. She remembered that she had carelessly left her writing on a desk quite near the window. The writing was to the purport that she loved some one whose mind was affected, but the bare statement was unaccompanied by any appellation which might lead to its elucidation.

Adelina's first thought was: "Does he know he has been in that state?" But, of course, he must, or he would not have applied the sentence to himself. She could see that such a circumstance would wound him intensely, for she now believed he was aware of his deficiency.

She felt so regretful of her own carelessness, that she seemed to overlook the fact that he had accused her most wrongfully, and was desirous of making such reparation as lay in her power.

"Ada, you might at least have told me there was another."

"Another what?" she returned with astonishment.

It was Ralph's turn to betray excessive surprise.

"If you loved some one else you could have told me. That, surely, was due me."

"To whom do you think my unfortunate words apply?"

It suddenly occurred to her that it might be possible for Ralph to assume that a third person was involved. She was glad that Ralph should be in ignorance of his real condition, for she now began to think he was; yet she certainly could not do herself the injustice of letting Ralph think she had voluntarily deceived him to the extent of permitting him to believe there was another in whom she was interested.

The previous evening Adelina had acknowledged to Ralph, in response to his eager inquiry, the fallacy of what she was pleased to term his absurd beliefs in her power to attract others—not that he believed it, but he had been led to believe that she did not love any one else. It began to dawn on Adelina that Ralph might not have applied the words to himself at all. Here was a dilemma. She could not let Ralph impute such a deception to her. A thought flashed across her mind—why not let Dr. Ellis impart the whole sad story to Ralph? She felt that it was cowardly in her, and yet she realized her own impotence to assume the task. A more potent cause towards disinclination for the undertaking was her complete ignorance of the effect of such a disclosure to Ralph. Poor, bewildered fellow. It seemed to him that everyone had changed. Adelina's eyes filled with tears. She averted her face, not too soon, however, for Ralph to note their existence.

"Forgive me," he said brokenly and humbly; "but this means so much to me."

"Here is Dr. Ellis now. Ask him to tell you all."

"Dr. Ellis? What can he know of our affairs?"

"Nevertheless, Ralph, do as I say. If he refuses to tell you, then I must also. I leave you with him."

Giving a few hasty words of explanation to the doctor, she hastened away.