oursing through his veins. "This is life," he would say to
himself; "I have only existed before, but now I am reborn into a new
world, and I have learned the secret of all the ages."

Every day his passion for Elizabeth Templeton increased, and the charm
and sweetness of her personality attracted him more powerfully. He had
never seen any one like her; she was so full of surprises, her nature
was so rich, so original, and yet so womanly, that the man whom she
blessed with her love could never have grown weary of her society.
Without an effort, simply by being herself, a truthful, noble-hearted
woman, she had dominated his strong nature and brought him to her feet.
Was she conscious of his devotion? This was a question that Malcolm
vainly tried to answer, but her manner perplexed and baffled him. She
was always kind and friendly, and her cordial welcome never varied, but
Malcolm could not flatter himself that he received any special
encouragement, or that she regarded him in any other light than a
trusted and valued friend. Now and then, when he found himself alone
with her, he fancied her manner had changed--that she had become quiet
and reserved, as though she were not at her ease with him. Was it only
his imagination, he wondered, that she seemed trying to keep him at a
distance, as though she were afraid of him? But such was his blindness
and infatuation that he drew encouragement even from this.

To Malcolm those summer days were simply perfect. His morning hours
were devoted to his literary work, and the essays were taking shape and
form under his hand. Never had his brain been clearer; he worked with a
facility that surprised himself. "I am inspired," he would whisper; "I
have a patron saint of my own now," and he would tell himself that no
name could be so sweet to him as Elizabeth. He would murmur it
half-aloud as he wandered in the woodlands in the gloaming--"Elizabeth,
Elizabeth"--and once as he said it, something seemed to rise in his
throat and choke him.

He had not forgotten Anna; he had never forgotten her in his life, for
his adopted sister was very dear to him.

Every week he wrote to his mother and also to her--pleasant, chatty
letters, full of affection and warm with brotherly kindness. If Anna
ever shed tears over them he never knew it.

With what touching humility she acknowledged his thoughtfulness!

"Another letter--how good you are to me!" she would say in her reply.
"Mother declares that y