All at once a thought came to him as an inspiration. Cedric had been giving way to a perfect paroxysm of despair, and Malcolm had with some sternness remonstrated with him on his want of manliness and self-control. "You are making things worse," he said; "why don't you take your trouble like a man?" But the rebuke only exasperated Cedric. "Oh, it is all very well for you to talk," he returned angrily, "but if you were in my place you would not bear it any better. You are so immaculate, Herrick, you can't make allowance for a poor miserable devil like me. I don't believe you have ever cared for a woman in your life. Good heavens!" as he caught sight of Malcolm's face, "do you mean that you have ever been in love?" Then it was that the thought came to Malcolm--Cedric should know that he was a fellow-sufferer. "I do mean it," he returned steadily, "and I also mean to say that your love is as water unto wine compared to mine; that is, if we can call such mad infatuation by so sacred a name." And there was a tone of contempt in Malcolm's voice that made Cedric wince. "Don't be so hard on a fellow," he muttered. "My dear boy, I would not be hard on you for worlds; if I speak of myself at such a moment, it is only that you may see that I am fully competent to sympathise with you." "Won't you tell me more, Herrick?" "No, dear lad, I think not, except that my case is even more hopeless than yours, for the only woman I have loved or can love will soon marry another man," and here Malcolm's face looked gray and worn. "I need not add," he continued hastily, "that all this is between us both." "Of course--of course," was the eager answer. "I am awfully sorry--I am indeed. I wish I had not bullied you so." Malcolm smiled a little sadly. "Never mind that now. I only want to say this, we must take our punishment like men, and not whine like fractious children who want the moon--the moon is no nearer for all that." He sighed a little bitterly, for he was tired and depressed; and after that Cedric was more reasonable, and Malcolm regained some of his lost influence. It was nearly morning before Malcolm could induce him to lie down on the couch; he had flatly refused to take possession of Malcolm's bed. "I could not rest quietly in bed," he said piteously; "let me lie here while you write your letter;" for it had been arranged between them that Malcolm should send a note to Dinah by the early post; but long before the letter was written the worn-out lad was sleeping heavily. Malcolm covered him up with rugs before he slipped out to the post. Malcolm did not write a very long letter.