thin face was covered with a burning blush at these
unexpected words, his manner changed and grew very gentle. "Darling,
you need not be afraid of me. Every hair of your head is sacred to me,
for I love you dearly. I will take such care of you, my little Verity,
You will be my child as well as my wife. You can trust your old friend
Amias, can you not?" and though such an idea had never entered her
head, Verity's confidence in him was so great that she actually put her
hand in his and promised to marry him.

Never for one moment did she repent her resolution, and before the
wedding day arrived she had learned to love him dearly. Amias had not
long lost his mother, and the old house at Chelsea was empty when he
took Verity there after their brief honeymoon. She was almost
frightened at its magnificence until her husband explained to her that
they would be too poor to keep it all for themselves, and that a friend
of his had taken the drawing-room floor and would live with them.

Such were the outlines of the story related by Malcolm, but in reality
much of it was only learnt later on from Verity's lips; but even the
slight sketch as Malcolm told it affected Anna almost to tears.

"Oh, how she must have loved him!" were her first words when he had
finished. "Malcolm, I know you will laugh at my enthusiasm, but I think
Mr. Keston is one of the grandest and noblest of men. What a friend he
has been to her all her life--she owes her life and peace and happiness
to him! What would have become of her when she left the hospital if he
had not cared for her and placed her with those kind people at the
farm?"

"One can easily answer that question," returned Malcolm; "she would not
have been alive now. Her nerves were fearfully shattered, Anna, and she
was as weak as a baby when she arrived at the Hill Farm. Amias told me
himself that he carried her into house like an infant. There, dry your
eyes, lady fair, all's well that ends well. Now, as our hour is up, I
think we may safely venture into the studio again."

CHAPTER VIII

THE RECORD OF AN IMPOTENT GENIUS

And whether you climb up the mountain or go down the hill
to the valley, whether you journey to the end of the world or
merely walk round your house, none but yourself shall you meet
on the highway of fate.--MAETERLINCK.

The door of the studio was slightly ajar, and the sound of a singularly
sweet voice crooning out a lullaby was plainly a