The stranger drew nigh her.  His glances, though still respectful, were fixed, long and searchingly, upon her face.  He seemed to study all its features, comparing them, as it would seem, with his own memories.  At length, as with a sense of maidenly propriety, she sternly turned away, he addressed her:—­

“Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears, though I have some claim to be an old acquaintance.  I, at least, have a better memory for my friends—­I have not forgotten her.”

Edith looked up in astonishment, but there was no recognition in her glance.  A feeling of mortified pride might have been detected in the expression of his countenance, as, with a tone of calm unconsciousness, she replied—­

“You are certainly unremembered, if ever known, by me, sir.  I am truly sorry to have forgotten one who styles himself my friend.”

“Who was—­who is—­or, rather, who is now willing again to be your friend, Miss Colleton,” was the immediate reply.

“Yes, and so I will gladly call you, sir, if you succeed in what you have promised.”

“I have yet promised nothing, Miss Colleton.”

“True, true! but you say you have the power, and surely would not withhold it at such a time.  Oh, speak, sir! tell me how you can serve us all, and receive my blessings and my thanks for ever.”

“The reward is great—­very great—­but not greater—­perhaps not as great, as I may demand for my services.  But we should not be ignorant of one another in such an affair, and at such a time as this.  Is it true, then, that Miss Colleton has no memory which, at this moment, may spare me from the utterance of a name, which perhaps she herself would not be altogether willing to hear, and which it is not my policy to have uttered by any lips, and far less by my own?  Think—­remember—­lady, and let me be silent still on that one subject.  Let no feeling of pride influence the rejection of a remembrance which perhaps carries with it but few pleasant reflections.”

Again were the maiden’s eyes fixed searchingly upon the speaker, and again, conflicting with the searching character of his own glance, were they withdrawn, under the direction of a high sense of modest dignity.  She had made the effort at recognition—­that was evident even to him—­and had made it in vain.

“Entirely forgotten—­well! better that than to have been remembered as the thing I was.  Would it were possible to be equally forgotten by the rest—­but this, too, is vain and childish.  She must be taught to remember me.”

Thus muttered the stranger to himself; assuming, however, an increased decision of manner at the conclusion, he approached her, and tearing from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had half-obscured them, he spoke in hurried accents:—­