minute it all had happened. Just how, no one knew. An agonized
scream from the little maid, Anita, who was walking behind them, a
momentary sight of the tiny, brown-faced Italian boy, her brother, right
in the pathway of the swinging car as it rounded the curve--Malcom's
spring--and then the boy and himself lying out on the roadside against
the wall.

The vigorous crying of the little boy as he rushed into his sister's
arms, evinced his safety, but there was a quiet about Malcom that was
terrifying.

He had succeeded in throwing the child beyond the reach of the car, but
had himself been struck by it, and consciousness was gone.

The little group, so happy a moment before, now hung over him in silent
fear and agony. Howard hastened back to get the carriage, and returned
to find Malcom slowly struggling to awaken, but when moved, he again
fainted; and so, lying in his uncle's arms, with his pale mother and
tearful Margery sitting in front, and the others, frightened and
sympathetic, hurrying behind, Malcom was brought home through the
wonderful sunset glow upon which not one bestowed a single thought.

Chapter VII.

A Startling Disclosure.

'_Tis even thus:
In that I live I love; because I love
I live: Whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain to the other._

--TENNYSON.

[Illustration: CLOISTER, MUSEUM OF SAN MARCO, FLORENCE.]

Many days of great distress followed. Everything else was forgotten in
the tense waiting. There were moments of half consciousness when
Malcom's only words were "All right, mother." It seemed as if even in
that second of plunging to save the child he yet thought of his mother,
and realized how she would feel his danger. But happily, as time wore
on, the jarred brain recovered from the severe shock it had received,
and gradually smiles took the place of anxious, questioning looks, and
merry voices were again heard, and the busy household life was resumed.

Although Malcom could not accompany them, the proposed visit to the old
monastery, San Marco, for study of Fra Angelico's paintings was made by
the others.

As they wandered through the long corridors, chapel, refectory, and the
many little cells, now vacant, from the walls of which look forth soft,
fair faces and still fresh, sweet colors laid there almost five hundred
years ago by the hand of the painter-monk, they talked of his devotion,
of his unselfish life and work; of his rej