missing.  Bob and his wife landed from the river packet at the foot of the driveway, which led straight from the landing to the vine-covered, white-pillared portico.  Bob’s agony must have been awful when his wife clapped her hands in childish joy as she exclaimed, “Oh, Bob, what a pretty place!” She gave no sign that she had ever seen the great entrance, through which she had come and gone from her babyhood.  Bob took her to the library, to her mother’s room, to her own, to the nursery where were the dolls and toys of her childhood, but there came no sign of recognition, nothing but childish pleasure.  She looked at her aunts and uncles and the cousins with whom she had spent her life, bewildered at finding so many strangers in the otherwise quiet place.  As a last hope, they led in her old black foster-mother, who had nursed her in babyhood, who was the companion of her childhood and the pet of her womanhood.  There was not a dry eye in the library when she met the old mammy’s outburst of joy with the puzzled gaze of the child who does not understand.  The grief of the old negress was pitiful as she realised that she was a stranger to her “honey bird.”  The child seemed perplexed at her grief.  It was plain to all that the Sands home meant nothing to the last of the judge’s family.

Bob brought her back to New York and besought the aid of the medical experts of America and of the Old World to regain that which had been recalled by its Maker.  The doctors were fascinated with this new phase of mind blight, for in some particulars Beulah’s case was unlike any known instances, but none gave hope.  All agreed that some wire connecting heart and brain had burned out when the cruel “System” threw on a voltage beyond the wire’s capacity to transmit.  All agreed that the woman-child wife would never grow older unless through some mental eruption beyond human power to produce.  Some of the medical men pointed to one possibility, but that one was too terrible for Bob to entertain.

The first anniversary of their marriage found Bob and his wife settled in their new Fifth Avenue mansion.  He had bought and torn down two old houses between Forty-second and Forty-third Streets and had erected a palace, the inside of which was unique among all New York’s unusual structures.  The first and second floors were all that refined taste and unlimited expenditure of money could produce.  Nothing on those splendid floors told of the strange things above.  A sedate luxury pervaded the drawing-rooms, library, and dining-room.  Bob said to me, in taking me through them, “Some day, Jim, Beulah may recover, may come back to me, and I want to have everything as she would wish, everything as she would have had it if the curse had never come.”  The third floor was Beulah’s.  A child’s dainty bedroom; two nurses’ rooms adjoining; a nursery, with a child’s small schoolroom and a big playroom, with dolls and doll houses, child’s toys of every description in abandon, as though their owner