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 on my opinion—I should have told you to go to a specialist. If I had, you would have been saved many bitter years, and poor George Moore many wasted ones. I blame myself very much, Leslie.’ I told him not to do that—he had done what he thought right. He has always been so kind to me—I couldn’t bear to see him worrying over it.”

“And Dick—George, I mean? Is his memory fully restored?”

“Practically. Of course, there are a great many details he can’t recall yet—but he remembers more and more every day. He went out for a walk on the evening after Dick was buried. He had Dick’s money and watch on him; he meant to bring them home to me, along with my letter. He admits he went to a place where the sailors resorted—and he remembers drinking—and nothing else. Anne, I shall never forget the moment he remembered his own name. I saw him looking at me with an intelligent but puzzled expression. I said, ‘Do you know me, Dick?’ He answered, ’I never saw you before. Who are you? And my name is not Dick. I am George Moore, and Dick died of yellow fever yesterday! Where am I? What has happened to me?’ I—I fainted, Anne. And ever since I have felt as if I were in a dream.”

“You will soon adjust yourself to this new state of things, Leslie. And you are young—life is before you—you will have many beautiful years yet.”