Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit.  She was moving on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and touching her arm in a respectful manner, said—­

“This direction, if you please.”

There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way.  He soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her ear said—­

“Your father is in this room.”

Eugenia entered alone.  Her father was standing near the fire in an attitude of deep thought.  He lifted his eyes as she entered, and looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments.  She saw in an instant that he was greatly changed—­that reason had, in fact, again assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.

“My dear, dear father!” she instantly exclaimed, springing toward him.

“Eugenia!  Eugenia!” he ejaculated, in turn, as he held her from him for a moment or two.  “Can this be my own Eugenia?  Surely we are both dreaming!  But it is!  It is!” and he drew her to his bosom, and held her there in a long-strained embrace.

“But what does all this mean, my dear child?  Why are we here?  What place is it?  Why am I so unlike myself that I doubt my own identity?  Why am I so changed?  Surely! surely!  I am not Hubert Ballantine!”

“Be composed, dear father!” said Eugenia, with an instinctive feeling of concern.  “We will go from here at once, and then we will talk over all that seems strange to you now.”

As she said this, Eugenia pulled a bell, and requested the attendant who answered to call the principal of the institution.  He came immediately, and she had a brief interview with him in regard to the propriety of removing her father instantly.  He acquiesced, and ordered a carriage to be brought to the door.  In this she entered with him, and directed the driver to take them to the Tremont House in Boston.  There handsome rooms were ordered, and every effort was made by her to cause external circumstances to assume a character similar to what he had been accustomed to in former years.  But her own appearance—­her plain, worn, meagre garments, and above all, her changed face, so pale, so thin, so careworn, so marred by years of intense suffering—­sadly perplexed him.  Still he had a faint glimpse of the truth, and as his mind’s eye turned intently toward the point from whence light seemed to come, he more than suspected the real facts in the case—­at least the leading fact, that he had been out of his mind for a long time.  He could remember distinctly the burning of the vessel at sea, and also the days and nights of suffering which were spent in open boats after leaving the vessel.  But all from that time was dim and incoherent, like the vagaries of a dream.