“I don’t see but we _could_ take him in at the house,” said Caley, reflectively. “There is a small room empty in the garret, I know. It ain’t much more than a closet, to be sure, but if he could put up with it for a night or two, just till he found a better, I would run across and see what they say.” Malcolm wondered at the change in her, but could not hesitate. The least chance of getting settled in the house was a thing not to be thrown away. He thanked her heartily. She rose and went, and they sat and talked till her return. She had been delayed, she said, by the housekeeper; “the cross old patch” had objected to taking in anyone from the stables. “I’m sure,” she went on, “there ain’t the ghost of a reason why you shouldn’t have the room, except that it ain’t good enough. Nobody else wants it, or is likely to. But it’s all right now, and if you’ll come across in about an hour, you’ll find it ready for you. One of the girls in the kitchen--I forget her name--offered to make it tidy for you. Only take care--I give you warning: she’s a great admirer of Mr MacPhail.” Therewith she took her departure, and at the appointed time Malcolm followed her. The door was opened to him by one of the maids whom he knew by sight, and in her guidance he soon found himself in that part of a house he liked best--immediately under the roof. The room was indeed little more than a closet in the slope of the roof with only a sky-light. But just outside the door was a storm-window, from which, over the top of a lower range of houses, he had a glimpse of the mews-yard. The place smelt rather badly of mice, while, as the sky-light was immediately above his bed, and he had no fancy for drenching that with an infusion of soot, he could not open it. These, however, were the sole faults he had to find with the place. Everything looked nice and clean, and his education had not tended to fastidiousness. He took a book from his bag, and read a good while; then went to bed, and fell fast asleep. In the morning he woke early, as was his habit, sprang at once on the floor, dressed, and went quietly down. The household was yet motionless. He had begun to descend the last stair, when all at once he turned deadly sick, and had to sit down, grasping the balusters. In a few minutes he recovered, and made the best speed he could to the stable, where Kelpie was now beginning to demand her breakfast. But Malcolm had never in his life before felt sick, and it seemed awful to him. Something that had appeared his own, a portion --hardly a portion, rather an essential element of himself--had suddenly deserted him, left him a prey to the inroad of something that was not of himself, bringing with it faintness of heart, fear and dismay. He found himself for the first time in his life trembling; and it was to him a thing as appalling as strange. While he sat on the stair he could not think; but as he walked to the mews he said to himself: