"You must not spoil me like this, my darling," and he raised her hand to his lips.
"You know I love to do it," returned Elizabeth gently.

And then she brought a low chair to his side, and placed herself where he could see her.

He would lie for hours contentedly watching her as she worked or read to him.

Sometimes the thin hand would touch a fold of her dress caressingly, as though even that were sacred to him, and not a change of the speaking face or an intonation of her voice would be lost on him.
Perhaps no two men were more dissimilar than David Carlyon and Malcolm Herrick, and yet they were alike in this, that they each loved Elizabeth with a profound and noble love.
"You are looking serious, dear," he said presently, as Elizabeth made a pretence of sorting the silks of her embroidery.

That little piece of embroidery with its gay silken flowers became one of Elizabeth's dearest relics.