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.