“You must have revived hours ago,” said Dr. Pemberton, after I had rallied sufficiently to prove to him that my crisis was over, and the usual symptoms of returning convalescence had been manifested.  “I have marked your seizures narrowly, the periods are perfect—­have limited them to eighteen hours latterly—­nay, sometimes to twelve; they used to be four-and-twenty.  You were due back again in port, little craft, at nine or ten o’clock this morning.”

“Back again from where, Dr. Pemberton?”

“How should I know, my dear?  Some unknown shore—­Hades, perhaps.  Who knows what becomes of the soul when the body is wrapped in stupor or sleep, any more than when it is dead?  You came partially to yourself at five this afternoon.  I had just come in then, having been unavoidably detained.  We administered, or tried to administer, wine—­but too slowly; you fell back again into unconsciousness—­drifted off to sea once more; but this last effort of Nature was successful.  It is all very mysterious to me.  Have you no memory of having revived before?”

“Yes, I was conscious for some time this morning—­for nearly an hour, I think.”

“At what hour?  Who was with you?”

“At ten o’clock.  I heard the hall clock strike that hour soon after I opened my eyes.  I counted every stroke.  There were persons in the room at the time, but no one knew of my recovery of consciousness.  I lay as if spellbound.  I heard conversation and understood it; I remember every word of it yet—­I shall ever remember it.  But, when they came to me, I was unable to speak or make a sign.”

“Unable, or unwilling?  I have said before, Miriam, the will has much to do with all this.  It is a sort of magnetic seizure, I sometimes think.”

“Both, perhaps, involuntary; but I certainly did not wish to grow unconscious again.”

“Yet you wanted to die a while ago—­child, child, there is something wrong here!  What is it?  Tell me frankly.  I heard of the scene with Mr. Stanbury—­the passionate old man was very unwise to excite you so; he meant well, though, no doubt—­he always does.  What more has occurred?  Now, tell me candidly—­much depends on the truth—­has any one been unkind?”

“Whatever I say to you, Dr. Pemberton, must be under the pledge of confidence,” I replied; “otherwise I shall keep my own counsel.”

“Surely, Miriam.”

“Well, then, I overheard some one saying, when I revived this morning, that I was epileptic, and it troubled me.  Now, I call upon you solemnly to answer me truthfully on this point.  Of what character is my disease?—­speak earnestly.”

“I do not know—­not epilepsy, certainly; partially nervous, I think—­one of Nature’s strange safety-valves, I suppose.”

“You would not deceive me?”

“Not under present circumstances, surely; not at any time after such an appeal as yours.”

“Did Dr. Physick ever pronounce my disease epilepsy?  You consulted together about it once, I believe.  Do tell me the truth about this matter,” laying my hand on his arm.