"I—I don't know you," he said. "Go away, woman. I'm not doing any harm."
There is nothing so piteous as the absence of recognition of the patient's best friends in cases of brain-disease. Francis Trent's condition sent a stab of pain to Mary's innermost heart. She forgot where she was—she forgot her duties as doorkeeper; she remembered only that she loved this man, and that he had forgotten her. She cried aloud——
"I have no wife," said the distraught man, looking listlessly beyond her. "I am here to see Oliver—he is to give me some money."
"Don't you remember Mary, Francis? Look at me—look at me."
"Mary?" he said, doubtfully. "Oh, yes, I remember Mary. But you are not Mary, are you?"
"Yes, indeed I am. Where have you been all this time? Oh, my poor dear, you can't tell me! You are ill, Francis. Let me take care of you. Can you tell me where you live?"
But he could not reply. His head drooped upon his breast: he looked as if he neither saw nor heard. What was she to do?
Of one thing Mary was certain. Now that she had found her husband, she was not going to lose sight of him again.
She would go with him whithersoever he went, unless he repelled her by force. She gave one regretful thought to her young mistress, and to a certain project which she had determined to put into effect that night, and then she thought of the Brookes no more. She must leave them, and follow her husband's fortunes. There was no other way for her.