illness, provided, of course, it were not contagious. She turned
reluctantly and descended to the kitchen to brew the desired tea.

Left alone, the patient sat up and looked about her with strained and
frightened eyes. Then she began to wring her hands, slowly, as if such a
gesture of torment was foreign to her habit. Her wide, clear brow
knitted with puzzled fear. Her lips were distorted as one who would cry
out and was held dumb. Presently she spoke.

"Where am I?" There was a long pause of nerve-racking effort as she
strove to remember. "_Who_ am I?" she cried hysterically. She sprang out
of bed and ran to the mirror over the dressing table. The face that
looked back at her was familiar, but she could not give it its name. A
muffled scream escaped her lips, and she held her clenched fists to her
temples as if she feared her brain would burst. "Martin!" she said at
last. "Martin--she called me Mrs. Martin. Who is she? When did I come
here?"

She seized her dressing case and went through its contents. Each article
was familiar; they were hers; she knew their faults and advantages. The
letter case had a spot on the back; she turned it over and found it
there. Letter case--the thought was an aspiration. With trembling
eagerness she clutched at the papers in the side pocket. Yes, there were
letters. She read the address, "Mrs. Martin Marteen"--yes, that was
herself. How strange! She had forgotten. The address was a steamer--that
seemed possible. There was a journey, a long journey--she vaguely
recalled that. But why? Where? She read the notes eagerly; casual _bon
voyage_ and good wishes; letters referring to books, flowers or bonbons.
The signatures were all familiar, but no corresponding image rose in her
brain. The last she read gave her a distinct feeling of affection, of