cks for the upper regions. Good-night, Cedric."

As Elizabeth paused at the foot of the staircase, Malcolm thought what
a splendid subject she would make for a picture. The soft draperies
gave her a queenly, aspect, and the white scarf that she still wore
over her head lent her a mystic look; in her hand she carried a curious
brass lamp of some antique design, and at her bosom were fastened,
negligently, a great spray of crimson roses. "She looks like a St.
Elizabeth in this dim lamplight," he thought. "Those red roses look
like a dark stain on her breast. The figure, the turn of the head, is
superb. If only Goliath could see her. Ah, now she has moved, and the
illusion has gone--faded into thin air," and then Malcolm smiled at his
own conceit and fancy as he took up his chamber candlestick.

CHAPTER XI

"A LITTLE EGOTISTICAL, PERHAPS"

We always like those who admire us, but do not always
like those whom we admire.
--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.
--MICHAEL ANGELO.

The bedrooms at the Wood House opened on a wide corridor which extended
the whole length of the house. It was known by the name of the Red
Gallery, probably from the great stained-glass window through which the
sunset glow filtered on summer evenings, and reflected purple and
crimson stains on the tessellated pavement of the hall below. By some
odd coincidence, a figure of the Thuringian queen St. Elizabeth was the
subject of the window. Something in the figure and the pose of the
crowned head of the saint reminded Malcolm of Elizabeth Templeton; but
the meek beauty of the upturned face resembled Dinah.

The gallery was carpeted, and comfortably furnished with easy-chairs
and one or two oak settles; the walls were covered with pictures. On
winter afternoons, when a great beech log burnt cheerily in the
fireplace, it must have been a pleasant place for a twilight gossip
before dressing for dinner. As the family was small, several of the
bedrooms had never been used; they were twelve in number, and an artist
friend of the sisters had suggested that each chamber should bear the
name of a month of the year. By a happy conceit which had greatly
delighted them, he had with his own hand not only illuminated the name,
but had with exquisite taste painted a spray of flowers that were
typical of each month. For example, over Elizabeth's