"I understand you perfectly, and I thank you from my heart for dealing so wisely with him; but not another word--voices travel far in this clear silence--and they are just by." Indeed, the next moment a voice hailed them. "Hallo, you people," shouted Cedric, "have you been looking for glowworms or hunting moths? David is quite tired of waiting." "I am afraid we have dawdled," observed Elizabeth briskly. "Mr. Herrick and I were deep in conversation. I think we will not come any farther; I have done my lady's mile, or thereabouts. Good-night, Mr. Carlyon, I shall be over at the school to-morrow morning--" but here Elizabeth dropped her voice, and Malcolm heard no more. She was rather silent when she joined them, and left the conversation to Cedric. More than once Malcolm wondered what made her so thoughtful; but when they reached the house, and she bade him good-night in the hall, there was no coldness or abstraction in her beaming smile. "If you sleep as well as you deserve--" she said; but he chose to misunderstand her. "I should be hag-ridden and tormented, I fear." "Oh no, you would have rosy visions of celestial bowers," returned Elizabeth merrily. "Now; Mike," to the little dachshund, "let us make tracks for the upper regions. Good-night, Cedric." As Elizabeth paused at the foot of the staircase, Malcolm thought what a splendid subject she would make for a picture. The soft draperies gave her a queenly, aspect, and the white scarf that she still wore over her head lent her a mystic look; in her hand she carried a curious brass lamp of some antique design, and at her bosom were fastened, negligently, a great spray of crimson roses. "She looks like a St. Elizabeth in this dim lamplight," he thought. "Those red roses look like a dark stain on her breast. The figure, the turn of the head, is superb. If only Goliath could see her. Ah, now she has moved, and the illusion has gone--faded into thin air," and then Malcolm smiled at his own conceit and fancy as he took up his chamber candlestick. CHAPTER XI "A LITTLE EGOTISTICAL, PERHAPS" We always like those who admire us, but do not always like those whom we admire. --LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle. --MICHAEL ANGELO. The bedrooms at the Wood House opened on a wide corridor which extended the whole length of the house. It was known by the name of the Red Gallery, probably from the great stained-glass window through which the sunset glow filtered on summer evenings, and reflected purple and crimson stains on the tessellated pavement of the hall below. By some odd coincidence, a figure of the Thuringian queen St. Elizabeth was the subject of the window. Something in the figure and the pose of the crowned head of the saint reminded Malcolm of Elizabeth Templeton; but the meek beauty of the upturned face resembled Dinah.