“It is better to wake her,” Mrs. Lindsay said; “she is having a troubled dream.  Wake up, my child, here is a friend waiting to see you.”

She laid her hand very gently on Myrtle’s forehead.  Myrtle opened her eyes, but they were vacant as yet.

“Are we dead?” she said.  “Where am I?  This is n’t heaven—­there are no angels—­Oh, no, no, no! don’t send me to the other place—­fifteen years,—­only fifteen years old—­no father, no mother—­nobody loved me.  Was it wicked in me to live?” Her whole theological training was condensed in that last brief question.

The, old man took her hand and looked her in the face, with a wonderful tenderness in his squared features.  “Wicked to live, my dear?  No indeed!  Here! look at me, my child; don’t you know your old friend Byles Gridley?”

She was awake now.  The sight of a familiar countenance brought back a natural train of thought.  But her recollection passed over everything that had happened since Thursday morning.

“Where is the boat I was in?” she said.  “I have just been in the water, and I was dreaming that I was drowned.  Oh!  Mr. Gridley, is that you?  Did you pull me out of the water?”

“No, my dear, but you are out of it, and safe and sound:  that is the main point.  How do you feel now you are awake?”

She yawned, and stretched her arms and looked round, but did not answer at first.  This was all natural, and a sign that she was coming right.  She looked down at her dress.  It was not inappropriate to her sex, being a loose gown that belonged to one of the girls in the house.

“I feel pretty well,” she answered, “but a little confused.  My boat will be gone, if you don’t run and stop it now.  How did you get me into dry clothes so quick?”

Master Byles Gridley found himself suddenly possessed by a large and luminous idea of the state of things, and made up his mind in a moment as to what he must do.  There was no time to be lost.  Every day, every hour, of Myrtle’s absence was not only a source of anxiety and a cause of useless searching but it gave room for inventive fancies to imagine evil.  It was better to run some risk of injury to health, than to have her absence prolonged another day.

“Has this adventure been told about in the village, Mrs. Lindsay?”

“No, we thought it best to wait until she could tell her own story, expecting her return to consciousness every hour, and thinking there might be some reason for her disguise which it would be kinder to keep quiet about.”

“You know nothing about her, then?”

“Not a word.  It was a great question whether to tell the story and make inquiries; but she was safe, and could hardly bear disturbance, and, my dear sir, it seemed too probable that there was some sad story behind this escape in disguise, and that the poor child might need shelter and retirement.  We meant to do as well as we could for her.”