About eleven o’clock they came, carrying a bunch of roses and a pile of newspapers. The girl held out her arms in the pathetic appeal of a lost child, and both Linda and Dot kissed her tenderly.
“How’s the head this morning?” asked Dot, cheerfully, as she put the flowers into a vase.
“Oh, it’s better—but—” She glanced eagerly at the newspapers. “Have you looked at those yet? Has—anybody—reported my loss?”
“I’m afraid not, dear,” replied Linda, sympathetically. “Only ourselves. But give them time. If you lived far in the country, as you surely must, they perhaps couldn’t reach them. But when they read of the accident, and see the description of you, they’re sure to come after you.”
“You haven’t been able to remember yet who you are?” inquired Dot.
The girl burst into tears; the strain of it all, in her weakened condition, was too much for her.
“No, I haven’t,” she sobbed.
“Try to think about the house you lived in,” suggested Linda. “The room you slept in—the dining room—the garden. Shut your eyes and imagine!”
“When I shut my eyes, all that I can see is that ghost! No, no—I’m afraid of darkness.”
“Then try to remember your father or your mother. Their eyes—their smiles—” put in Dot.