CHAPTER 8 “THE PAST IS ALL A BLANK.”

It was four weeks before Sir Harold opened his eyes to the beauty of the summer world.

There was not much wrong with him bodily, but mentally he was a wreck. His memory had been completely destroyed.

He gazed wonderingly at his surroundings, and inhaled the odor of a hundred flowers that ornamented the table in the humble little room he occupied.

Near to a latticed window sat an old man reading, and Sir Harold watched him curiously. He never remembered to have seen him before.

John Hamilton glanced anxiously at his guest.

“Do you recognize me yet, Sir Harold?”

“Recognize you? No, sir. Who are you?”

“My name is Hamilton. I am the musician whose daughter sang to you at Annesley Park. Do you not remember falling from the train?”

“No, sir,” replied the baronet. “I think that you must be mistaken.”

John Hamilton sighed.

“You fell, and hurt your head terribly,” he went on, “and I have nursed you through a long mental illness. I did not call in a doctor for several reasons, one of which is that I once practiced the healing art myself.”

“I remember none of these things,” Sir Harold said; “I would not even know that my name were Sir Harold if you did not tell me so. The past is all a blank.”

“This is terrible—terrible!” John Hamilton groaned.

“I do not experience any of your terrors,” laughed the young man. “What a lovely day! If you will permit it, doctor, I would like to go out into the sunshine.”

“Certainly, sir! It may do you much good.”

He gazed anxiously at his guest for a few moments; then he assisted him to dress, and the light, boyish laughter of Sir Harold shocked him.

“He is happy now,” he thought, “and perhaps it will be a blessing to him if he never again awakens to his misery—the misery that I have heard was driving him from his home. It was my duty to warn his friends of his whereabouts, but I dared not do it. I should have brought ruin upon myself and child.”

Sir Harold nodded brightly to him as he left the room and strolled into the garden. And such a garden it was—of blossom and perfume! It seemed to be scented by many millions of flowers.

As he wandered about he whistled merrily. He did not dream that he was being watched by loving, anxious eyes. He knew of nothing but the happy present.

Then John Hamilton called Theresa to him, and bade her sing the songs in which Sir Harold had been so interested on that fatal day a month ago.