“Oh, how happy and gay I was in those first few days!  There was not a thought of the past, not an ambition or desire of any sort to bother me.  Just to live seemed pleasure enough.  I enjoyed eating and sleeping; I loved to talk and laugh; I was glad to have work to occupy me—­and that was all!  Then things began to happen that puzzled me.  The man Hopkins declared he could not trust me because I had once been a thief, and I wondered if he could speak truly.  I resented the thought that I may once have been a thief, although I wouldn’t mind stealing, even now, if I wanted anything and could take it.”

“Oh, Eliza!” gasped Louise.

“It sounds wicked, doesn’t it?  But it is true.  Nothing seems to influence me so strongly as my own whims.  I know what is good and what is bad.  I must have been taught these things once.  But I am as likely to do evil as good, and this recklessness has begun, in the last few days, to worry me.

“Then I met a young man here—­he says his name is Tom Gates—­who called me his dear Lucy, and said I used to love him.  I laughed at him at first, for it seemed very absurd and I do not want him to love me.  But then he proved to me there was some truth in his statement.  He said his Lucy had a scar on her left arm, and that made me afraid, because I had discovered a scar on my own arm.  I don’t know how it got there.  I don’t know anything about this old Lucy.  And I’m afraid to find out.  I’m afraid of Lucy.”

“Why, dear?”

“I cannot tell.  I only know I have a horror of her, a sudden shrinking whenever her name is mentioned.  Who was she, do you suppose?”

“Shall I tell you?” asked Louise.

“No—­no!  Don’t, I beg of you!” cried Eliza, starting up.  “I—­I can’t bear it!  I don’t want to know her.”

The protest was passionate and sincere, and Louise marvelled at the workings of this evidently unbalanced intellect.

“What would you like to do, dear?” she inquired.

“I’d like to remain Eliza Parsons—­always.  I’d like to get away from her—­far away from anyone who ever heard of that dreadful Lucy who frightens me so.  Will you help me to get away, to escape to some place where no one will ever be able to trace me?”

“Do you think you would be happy then?”

“I am sure of it.  The only thing that makes me unhappy now is the horror that this past life will be thrust upon me.  I must have had a past, of course, or I shouldn’t be a grown woman now.  But I’m afraid of it; I don’t want to know anything about it!  Will you help me to escape?”

She looked eagerly at Louise as she asked this pitiful question, and the other girl replied, softly:  “I will be your friend, Eliza.  I’ll think all this over, and we will see what can be done.  Be patient a little while and as soon as I find a way to free you from all this trouble I’ll send for you, and we’ll talk it over together.”

“Will you keep my secret?” demanded Eliza, uneasily.