“And so you were in India most of the time while you were abroad?”

“Yes; we lived in India nearly three years.”

“In Bombay?”

“I was in Bombay, but Father was absent a good deal of the time.”

“Did you go to school?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling.

Dinner was ready.  After dinner the Doctor and I sat under the trees.  I told him of my wish to return to my company.

“Perhaps it is just as well,” said he.

“I think I am fit for duty,” said I.

“Yes, you are strong enough,” said he.

“Then why are you reluctant?”

“Because I am not quite sure that your health is safe; you ran a narrower risk than your condition now would show.”

“And you think there is danger in my reporting for duty?”

“Ordinary bodily exertion will not injure you; exposure might; the weather is very warm.”

“There will be nothing for me to do—­at least, nothing very hard on me.”

“Danger seems at present averted,” said Dr. Khayme.  “Your depression has gone; if you are not worse to-morrow, I shall not oppose your going.”

I plunged into the subject most interesting to me:  “Doctor, do you remember telling me, some ten years ago, that you did not think it advisable for me to tell you of my experiences?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“And that it was best, perhaps, that I should not think of them?”

“Yes,” he replied,

“Yet you referred last night to what you called my peculiar powers.”

“Yes, and said that it is possible to make great use of them.”

“Doctor, do you know that after I left you in Charleston I had a recurrence of my trouble?”

“I had at least suspected it.”

“Why do you call my infirmity a peculiar power?” I asked.

“Why do you call your peculiar power an infirmity?” he retorted.  Then, with the utmost seriousness, he went on to say:  “Everything is relative; your memory, taking it generally, is better than that of some, and poorer than that of others; as it is affected by your peculiar periods, it is in some features far stronger than the average memory, and in other features it is weaker; have you not known this?”

“Yes; I can recall any object that I have seen; its image is definite, if it has been formed in a lapse.”

“But in respect to other matters than objects?”

“You mean as to thought?”

“Yes—­speculation.”

“In a lapse I seem to forget any mere opinion, or speculation, that is, anything not an established fact.”

“Suppose, for instance, that you should to-day read an article written to show that the moon is inhabited; would you remember it in one of your ’states’?”

“Not at all,” said I.

“Suppose you should hear a discussion of the tariff question; would you remember it?”

“No, sir.”

“Suppose you should hear a discussion upon the right to coerce a seceded State, and should to-day reach a conclusion as to the truth of the controversy; now, would you to-morrow, in one of your ‘states,’ remember the discussion?”