"What will you do?" inquired her father, in deep solicitude.
"See, here's his picture," she replied, taking it from a table near—"the one he gave me just before he marched away. Let him look at that and recall himself. Then I will enter. Oh, I've planned it all! My self-control will be perfect. Would I deserve the name of woman if I were weak or hysterical? No, I would do my best to rescue any man from such a misfortune, much more Albert, who has such sacred claims."
"That's a good idea of yours about the photograph. Well, I guess I must let Nature have her own way again, only in this instance I advise quiet methods."
"Trust me, Doctor, and you won't regret it."
"Nerve yourself then to do your best, but prepare to be disappointed for the present. I do not and cannot share in your confidence."
"Of course you cannot," she said, with a smile which illuminated her face into rare beauty. "Only love and faith could create my confidence."
"Miss Helen," was the grave response, "would love and faith restore
Captain Nichol's right arm if he had lost it?"
"Oh, but that's different," she faltered.
"I don't know whether it is or not. We are experimenting. There may be a physical cause obstructing memory which neither you nor any one can now remove. Kindness only leads me to temper your hope."
"Doctor," she said half-desperately, "it is not hope; it is belief. I could not feel as I do if I were to be disappointed."