“Railroad accident.  Four days ago, locomotive and two passenger-cars off the track, down forty feet upon the rocks and stones, and all there was of a river,” my father replied, with evident regret that the company had been so unfortunate, as well as his individual self.

“Who is it?” was my next question.

“Don’t know, darling; haven’t the least idea.  He has the softest brown, curling hair of his own, with a wig over it.  Can’t find out his name, or anything about him.  I like him, though, Anna.  He’s like somebody! used to know.  I brought him here from the hospital, several days ago, but he hasn’t given me much peace since, and the people down below think I’m as crazy as he; but I cannot help it; I will not turn him out now.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, father.  We’ll manage him superbly.  I’ll chain him for you.”

My father rose up, comforted by my words, and said “it was time for tea.”  We went down.  I was the Sophie of Aaron’s home, at my father’s table.

“Papa,” I said, as if introducing the most ordinary topic of conversation, “what was the occasion of sister Mary’s death?  She was only seventeen.  How young to die!”

My father sighed, and said,—­

“Yes, it was young.  She had fever, Anna.  One of those long, low fevers that mislead one.  I did not think she would die.”

“Was Mary engaged to be married, father?”

Dr. Percival looked up at his daughter Anna with the look that says, “You’re growing old,” although she was twenty-three, and never had gone so far in life as his eldest daughter at seventeen.

“She was, Anna.”

“To whom, father?”

“Perhaps you’ve seen him, Anna.  I hear that he is come home.  His name is Axtell,—­Abraham Axtell.”

I told my father of the first words,—­where we had found him, tolling the bell,—­and of his mother’s death, and his sister’s illness.

“Incomprehensible people!” was my father’s sole ejaculation, as he went to look after the deranged patient.

I occupied myself for an hour in picking up the reins of government that I had thrown down when I went to Redleaf.  Looking into “our room,” and not finding father there, I went on, up to my own room.  A warm, welcoming fire burned within the grate.  I thought, “How good father is to think for me!” and with the thought there entered in another.  It came in the sudden consciousness that the room was prepared for some one else than me.  I glanced about it, and saw the strange, wild man, with eyes all aglow, looking at me from out the depths of my wonted place of rest.  No one else was in the room.  I turned around to leave, but, dropping my precious box of margarite, I stooped to pick it up.

“It is a good harbor to sail into.  I’m content,” said the voice from the corner, before I could escape.

I met father coming in.

“Why, how is this?” he said to me.

“You didn’t tell me you had given up my room,” I said.