Again Winnie paused as if awaiting some question, or at least some remark from me.

‘Did you make no inquiries about me?’ I said.

‘Oh yes,’ said she; ’my grief at the loss of my father was very much increased by my not being able to see you.  Mrs. Shales told me that you were ill—­very ill.  And altogether, you may imagine my misery.  Day after day I got worse and worse news of you.  ’And day after day it became more and more certain, that my father had perished in the way people supposed.  I used to spend most of the day on the sands, gazing at the landslip, and searching for my father’s body.  Every one tried to persuade me to give up my search, as it was hopeless, for his body was certain to be buried deep under the new tongue of land.’

‘But you still continued your search, Winnie?’ I said, remembering every word Dr. Mivart had told me in connection with her being found by the fishermen.

’Yes, I found it impossible not to go on with it.  But one morning after there had been a great storm followed by a further settlement of the landslip, I went out alone on the cliffs.  I said to myself, “This shall be my last search.”  By this time the news of your illness and the anxiety I felt about you helped much in blunting the anxiety I felt about my father’s loss.  But on this very morning I am speaking of something very extraordinary happened.

’Don’t tell me, Winnie.  For God’s sake, don’t tell me!  It will disturb you; it will make you ill again.’

She looked at me in evident astonishment at my words.

‘Don’t tell you, Henry?  Why, there is nothing to tell,’ said she.  ’As I was walking along the sands, looking at the new tongue of land made by the landslip, I seem to have lost consciousness.’

‘And you don’t know what caused this?’

’Not in the least; unless it was my anxiety and want of sleep.  This was the beginning of the long illness that I spoke of, and I seem to have remained quite without consciousness until a few weeks ago.  I often try to make my mind bring back the circumstances under which I lost consciousness.  I throw my thoughts, so to speak, upon a wall of darkness, and they come reeling back like waves that are dashed against a cliff.’

’Then don’t do so any more, Winnie.  I know enough of such matters to tell you confidently that you never will recall the incidents connected with your collapse, and that the endeavour to do so is really injurious to you.  What interests me very much more is to know the circumstances under which you came to yourself.  I am dying with impatience to know all about that.’

II

‘When I came to myself,’ said Winifred, ’I was in a world as new and strange and wonderful as that in which Christopher Sly found himself when he woke up to his new life in Shakespeare’s play.’

She paused.  She little thought how my flesh kindled with impatience.