ot misunderstand her brother, even
if he doesn't confide in her?"

"Anna, you are right, and something is troubling me--something that can
never be set straight in this world; but not even to you can I speak of
it." Then she knew, and in her innocent love she would fain have
comforted him.

"I am very sorry--very, very sorry," was all she could find to say.

"I am sorry too," he returned gently, and then he kissed her cheek, and
Anna stole away sadly to her own room. If she shed tears they were for
him, and not for herself. Anna's affection for her adopted brother was
perfectly unconscious and selfless; she never indulged in unwholesome
introspection; she never asked herself why her heart ached that night,
and a sense of loneliness and desolation stole over her.

Malcolm was unhappy, that was her one thought--things had gone wrong
with him. Oh, if she could only give him his heart's desire! This
wonderful unknown Elizabeth--had she refused him? Was there some one
else? Alas, these questions were not to be answered. She must play her
part of a faithful little sister, who must ask nothing, refuse nothing.

Malcolm's ordeal was not yet over. When he threw away his cigarette and
went back to the drawing-room, he found his mother alone.

"I thought Anna was with you," he said apologetically, "or I would not
have stayed out there so long. I am afraid I must be going now."

"You have your latch-key," she returned quietly; "sit down a moment, I
want to speak to you, Malcolm. You are not yourself this evening,
something has gone wrong." Again Anna's very words. He was silent. Why
had his womankind such sharp eyes?

"I am a bit flattened out," he acknowledged, "but I shall be all right
in a day or two;" but she passed this by almost contemptuously.

"Something is troubling you," she continued, "and to judge by your
looks it is no light thing. You have grown thinner, Malcolm."

"Oh, I was always one of the lean kine," he returned lightly; but she
seemed almost affronted at the little joke.

"Does that mean you do not intend to tell me your trouble?" and here
her eyes grew very wistful. "You are my only son, Malcolm;" she never
called him her only child, her adopted daughter was too dear to her.
"Is there anything that I can do to help you?"

"Nothing--nothing," and he kissed her hand gratefully, for her motherly
tone touched his heart. "Mother dear, forgive me if I cannot speak to
you or Anna about this."

"Not even