By Berwen Banks

"But every day they grow clearer, do they not?"

"Yes, I think so. Have I been ill?"

"Yes, my dear fellow," said his uncle, gently laying his hand on his

arm, "you have been very ill, and your recovery depends entirely upon

your keeping your mind calm and restful. Do not attempt to remember

anything that does not come clearly into your mind; in fact, live in

the present as much as you can, and the past will come back to you

gradually."

At this moment Dr. Belton appeared on the verandah, having just

returned from a visit to one of the Sydney hospitals. After greeting

his friends, he sat down on a rustic chair, and with a stretch and a

yawn brought out from his coat pocket a leather pocket-book which he

flung across to Cardo.

"There, Cardo, is that yours?"

"Yes," he answered, carelessly taking the pocketbook and placing it in

his pocket.

"Come, you have disposed of it quickly; look at it again."

Cardo drew it out once more, and, looking at it more carefully, said: "I do not remember where I dropped it; but I do remember being in a

hot, scorching atmosphere, and feeling a terrific blow on my head, and

then--nothing more but cloud and darkness, until I awoke here to light

and memory, though that sometimes fails me, for I cannot remember

exactly what happened before that day of burning heat."

"Well! the blow on your head and the loss of your pocket-book I can

explain, for to-day in the Eastlake Hospital, I was with a dying man,

who confessed that about a year and a half ago he was standing idly on

the docks, when he saw a gentleman suddenly struck on the back of his

head by the swinging arm of a huge crane, used for lifting heavy

weights to and from the shipping. The young man fell forward, his

pocket-book--that one I have just given you--fell out of his pocket,

and was pounced upon by the man who died to-day. That was you, Cardo

Wynne; you were struck down insensible by the iron bar, and while you

were quickly surrounded by a crowd and carried to the hospital, the man

escaped with your pocket-book. He returned it to me with great

penitence, having spent all your money, I am afraid; but your papers, I

think, are intact, and I see you have in it a letter of credit upon the

Bank of Australasia."

"Why, yes," said Cardo, "I remember coming to the harbour in a ship.

What was it called? The Burrawalla!" and as he fingered the papers

in the pocket-book, and came upon his father's signature, Meurig Wynne,

he became much excited, and hunted eagerly until he found a folded

paper, out of which he drew a long curl of golden hair.