"Yes, 'twas that he answered when they asked him if he had struck," I exclaimed.

"It must have been an awful scene," she said, and her shoulders quivered. "When you were at your worst you would talk of it, and sometimes of what happened to you in London, of that ride in Hyde Park, or--or of Vauxhall," she continued hurriedly. "And when I could bear it no longer, I would take your hand and call you by name, and often quiet you thus."

"And did I speak of aught else?" I asked eagerly.

"Oh, yes. When you were caliper, it would be of your childhood, of your grandfather and your birthdays, of Captain Clapsaddle, and of Patty and her father."

"And never of Dolly, I suppose."

She turned away her head.

"And never of Dolly?"

"I will tell you what you said once, Richard," she answered, her voice dropping very low. "I was sitting by the window there, and the dawn was coining. And suddenly I heard you cry: 'Patty, when I return will you be my wife?' I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice."