CHAPTER XXIX.
"SHE IS A WICKED WOMAN" Am I cold-- Ungrateful--that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so! not cold, but very poor instead.
-- E.

BARRETT BROWNING.
To love, is to be made up of faith and service.
-- SHAKESPEARE.
It was half-past six when Malcolm reached the well-known station, and taking a fly bade the man drive him to the "King's Arms," an old-fashioned inn of good repute about half a mile distant from the Wood House.

Here he secured a room for the night; ordered supper, of which he partook without appetite; then sallied forth to pay his call.
It was late in October, and the darkness of the country roads surprised him, accustomed as he was to the well-lighted London streets; he could scarcely find out his bearings until a welcome light streamed out from the windows of the Crow's Nest.

Malcolm lingered a moment at the little gate.

"It was there I dwelt in my fool's paradise," he muttered, "and tried to eat of the forbidden fruit.