Ringing the bell which stood on the table beside him, he bade Cora, who appeared, to send Mrs. Amy to him.  Amy had not slept well, and was more easily confused than usual, but she came and asked what he wanted.  It did not occur to him to give her the note, which he kept in his hand while he said, in a much softer tone than that in which he had been talking to himself, “Have you sent things to Eliza Ann Smith,—­fruit and flowers and books, and my sea chair and a wheel chair, and a bonnet and shoes, and the Lord knows what else?”

Amy was bewildered at once.

“Eliza Ann Smith!” she repeated.  “I don’t know her.  Who is she?”

“Why, the girl that jammed a hole in Brutus’s neck and stained the cushions of my carriage, and broke her leg at Mrs. Biggs’s,” the Colonel replied.

At the mention of Mrs. Biggs, Amy’s face brightened.  Since the day after the accident, when she sent the hat and slippers, Eloise had not been mentioned in her presence, and she had entirely forgotten her.  Now she was all interest again, and said, “Oh, yes; I remember now, Poor girl!  I did send her a hat and some slippers, which I hated because I wore them when I sang.  Did they fit her?”

“Lord Harry!  How do I know?  It isn’t likely your shoes would fit her.  They would be a mile too small!” the Colonel said, and Amy asked, “Does she want anything?”

“No,” the Colonel replied.  “Somebody has sent her flowers and chairs and books and things.  She thought it was you and wished to thank you.”

“It was not I, and I am sorry I forgot her,” Amy rejoined, as she turned to leave him, with a confused feeling in her brain, and a pang of regret that she had perhaps neglected the little girl at Mrs. Biggs’s.

Once the Colonel thought to call her back and give her the note.  Then, thinking it did not matter, he let her go without it.  Just what influence was at work in Amy’s mind that morning it were difficult to tell.  Whatever it was, it prompted her on her return to her room to take the little red cloak from the closet where it was kept and examine it carefully.  It had been the best of its kind when it was bought, and, though somewhat faded and worn, had withstood the ravages of time wonderfully.  It had encircled her like a friend, both when she was sad and when she was gay.  It had been wrapped around the Baby, of whom she never thought without a pang and a blur before her eyes.  It was the dearest article she had in her wardrobe, and because of that and because she had been so forgetful, she would send it to Eliza Ann Smith!

“But not for good,” she said to Sarah, who was commissioned to take it to Eloise the next morning.  “She can keep it till she is well.  Somebody told me she had a sprained ankle.  I had one once, and I put it across my lap and foot, it was so soft and warm.  Tell her I am sorry I forgot about her.  I am not always quite myself.”

* * * * *