Indeed, Cardo's gentle ways, together with his handsome person, had

endeared him to all who came in contact with him, and there was not one

in the house, from the cook in the kitchen to Dr. Belton's youngest

child, who would not have rejoiced to see health restored to the

invalid.

One evening, when Jack, a boy of twelve, returned from school, he came

bounding into the room in which Cardo sat with his eyes fixed on a

newspaper, which he had not turned nor moved for an hour, Sister Vera

sitting at the window with her work.

"See, Mr. Williams," said the boy, "what Meta Wright gave me, some

gilded gingerbread! isn't it pretty? I have eaten a pig and a

lamb--now there is a ship for you."

Cardo put down the paper, and taking the gingerbread in his thin

fingers, looked at it with eyes that gradually filled with tears.

"Gingerbread?" he said, looking next at the boy, "gilded gingerbread in

the moonlight!"

Sister Vera's eyes and ears were instantly on the alert, while she made

a sign of silence to the boy.

Cardo continued to look at the gingerbread. Suddenly he held up his

finger and seemed to listen intently.

"Hush!" he whispered, "do you hear the Berwen?" and he ate his

gingerbread slowly, sighing heavily when it was finished.

This was good news for Dr. Belton, told garrulously at tea by his young

son, and more circumstantially by Sister Vera; but for long afterwards

there was no further sign of improvement in Cardo.

It was not until three more months had passed that another sign of

reviving memory was seen in him, and again it was Jack who awoke the

sleeping chord.

"Isn't it a shame?" he said, excitedly running into the room one day;

"mother is cutting Ethel's hair; says she's getting headaches from the

weight of it. Rot, I call it! See what a lovely curl I stole," and he

handed it to Cardo, who first of all looked at it with indifference,

but suddenly clutching it, curled it round his finger, and became very

excited.

"Whose is it?" said Sister Vera, standing over him.

His lips trembled and with a husky voice he said.

"Valmai--" The sound of the name seemed to charm his ear, for he

continued to speak it in all sorts of varying tones--sometimes in

whispering tones of love--at others in loud and imploring accents.

"Oh, Valmai, Valmai!" he called, and when Dr. Belton entered the room,

he held out his hands towards him, and in a beseeching voice cried,

"Valmai! Valmai!"

There was no rest for anyone in the hospital that night, for all night

long the house echoed with the cry of "Valmai! Valmai!"

On the following morning, endeavouring to create some distraction from

this ever-recurring cry, Dr. Belton drove his patient with him for some

miles into the bush; the fresh air and motion seemed to quiet his

brain, and he fell into the silent stupor so constantly hanging over

him.




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