Gloomy days followed along the path of Drury Villard during the week succeeding his last interview with Updyke. The invalid upstairs was in bed, devoid of memory. She laughed, talked, sat up in bed, or in a perambulating chair was taken out among the flowers and trees each day. She recognized no one by name, not even her father, whose health was giving away under the strain. Her talk was of flowers and birds by day—and the stars by night.
"I'm going to be with them soon," said she, gaily—referring to the stars. "My mother is up there."
"And where is your father?" asked Villard, trying to aid her memory.
"I don't know—I'm expecting him any time," she answered eagerly, and Mr. Barbour, standing near and in plain sight, turned about sadly and walked away. His child no longer knew him.
Upon this situation, he brooded in silence. He felt himself an interloper upon the hospitality of a man he did not know. But Villard, farseeing and well disposed, invited him to stay on and gave him courage to do so.
"My home is your home," said he. "Some day she will come into complete recollection—and then, if my hopes are fulfilled, we shall become man and wife."
"God speed the day!" exclaimed Alexander Barbour fervently. "Everything is being done for her. You have placed us under great obligations."
But Villard would not have it that way.
"The good fortune is all mine," said he, emphatically—"and I have reason to believe that she will become my wife, even if I am some years her senior. There are forces beyond the skies that are working out my salvation, and that of your daughter. I won't go into the matter further than to say that I am sure the fates are on our side. When all is settled, you, who are creeping on in age, may call my home your own. You may come and go at will—no one will oppose your coming or your going. You will be a unit unto yourself."