At Torquay station, to my great surprise, a fresh-looking girl of my own age rushed up to me suddenly, and kissed me without one word of warning.  She was a very pretty girl, pink-cheeked and hazel-eyed:  and as she kissed me, she seized both my hands in hers, and cried out to me frankly: 

“Why, there you are, Una dear!  Cousin Emma telegraphed us what train you’d arrive by; so I’ve driven down to meet you.  And now, you’re coming up with us this very minute in the pony-carriage.”

“You’re Minnie Moore, I suppose?” I said, gazing at her admiringly.  Her sweet, frank smile and apple-blossom cheek somehow inspired me with confidence.

She looked back at me quite distressed.  Tears rose at once into her eyes with true Celtic suddenness.

“Oh, Una,” she cried, deeply hurt and drawing back into her shell, “don’t tell me you don’t know me!  Why, I’m Minnie!  Minnie!”

My heart went out to her at once.  I took her hand in mine again.

“Minnie dear,” I said softly, quite remorseful for my mistake, “you must remember what has happened to me, and not be angry.  I’ve forgotten everything, even my own past life.  I’ve forgotten that I ever before set eyes upon you.  But, my dear, there’s one thing I’ve not in a way forgotten; and that is, that I loved you and love you dearly.  And I ’ll give you a proof of it.  When I started, I knew none of you; and I told Aunt Emma I wouldn’t go among strangers.  The moment I see you, I know you’re no stranger, but a very dear cousin.  When I’ve forgotten myself, how can I remember you?  But I’ll go up with you at once.  And I’ll countermand the room I ordered by telegram at the Imperial.”

The tears stood fuller in Minnie’s eyes than before.  She clasped my hand hard.  Her pretty lips trembled.

“Una darling,” she said, “we always were friends, and we always shall be.  If you love me, that’s all.  You’re a darling.  I love you.”

I looked at her sweet face, and knew it was true.  And oh, I was so glad to have a new friend—­an old friend, already!  For somehow, as always, while the intellectual recollection had faded, the emotion survived.  I felt as if I’d known Minnie Moore for years, though I never remembered to have seen her in my life till that minute.

Well, I remained at the Moores’ for a week, and felt quite at home there.  They were all very nice, Cousin Willie, and Aunt Emily (she made me call her aunt; she said I’d always done so), and Minnie, and all of them.  They were really dear people; and blood, after all, is thicker than water.  But I made no haste to push inquiries just at first.  I preferred to feel my way.  I wanted to find out what they knew, if anything, about Berry Pomeroy.

The first time I ventured to mention the subject to Minnie, she gave a very queer smile—­a smile of maidenly badinage.

“Well, you remember that, any way,” she said, in a teasing little way, looking down at me and laughing.  “I thought you’d remember that.  I must say you enjoyed yourself wonderfully at Berry Pomeroy!”