up at the windows of the house, at the creepers that climbed its walls, at the sloping roof and the irregular chimney-stacks.     

       Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes were full of an inward expression that told me she was struggling with forgetfulness and desired recollection.     

       I was silent, wondering.     

       At last she said: “Ronald, I have never been in the North of England before, never set foot in Cumberland; yet I seem to know this terrace walk, those very flower-pots, the garden, the look of that roof, those chimneys, even the slanting way in which that great creeper climbs. Is it not—is it not very strange?”      

       She gazed up at me, and in her blue eyes there was an expression almost of fear.     

       I smiled down on her. “It must be your fancy,” I said.     

       “It does not seem so,” she replied. “I feel as if I had been here before, and often, or for a long time.” She paused; then she said: “Do let me go into the house. There ought to be a room there—a room—I seem almost to see it. Come! Let us go in.”      

       She took my hand and drew me towards the hall door. The servants were carrying in the luggage, and there was a certain amount of confusion and noise, but she did not seem to notice it. She was intent on something; I could not tell what.     

       “Do show me the house, Ronald—the drawing-room, and—and—there is another room I wish to see.”      

       “You shall see them all, dear,” I said. “You are excited. It is natural enough. This is the drawing-room.”      

       She glanced round it hastily.     

       “And now the others!” she exclaimed.     

       I took her to the dining-room, the library, and the various apartments on the ground-floor.     

       She scarcely looked at them. When we had finished exploring, “Are these all?” she asked, with a wavering accent of disappointment.     

       “All,” I answered.     

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