rari have marred her handiwork." And all the rest of the day Malcolm
thought of Leah with strange kindness and pity.

CHAPTER XXXI

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT

Many a one, by being thought better than he was, has
become better.
--JOWETT.

Not as little as we dare, but as much as we can.
--BISHOP OF WESTCOTT.

Malcolm wrote to Dinah that afternoon, giving her a full account of his
interview with Leah Jacobi; then he spent the rest of the day making up
arrears of work. The last post brought him a reproachful little note
from Anna.

"Mother thinks you have forgotten us. Why are you staying away in this
unmannerly fashion, you naughty boy?" she wrote. "It is ten whole days
since you were here, and we both feel lone and lorn without you"--and
so on. But under the playful words he could detect a shade of
earnestness.

Tired as he was, and needing rest sorely, he answered the letter and
posted it before he slept.

Anna read it aloud to Mrs. Herrick the next morning, and they both
agreed that it was a charming letter. The dear home people must forgive
his seeming neglect, it said, for it was not possible for him to put in
an appearance just yet. He was arranging a troublesome affair for a
friend that gave him a great deal of anxiety and worry. He had been to
Oxford, and might have to go down again, and he could not spare an hour
for social duties.

"Oxford--I wonder if the business concerns his friend Cedric
Templeton," observed Anna thoughtfully. But Mrs. Herrick only looked
grave and said she did not know, and that evidently Malcolm did not
wish to enlighten them. She spoke dispassionately and not in the least
as though his reserve troubled her; but Anna was rather absent and
distrait the rest of the day. She had watched Malcolm narrowly and had
come to the conclusion that he had something on his mind. All his
attempts at gaiety, his little jokes, his badinage, did not deceive her
for a moment. Trouble had come to him. In some ways he was a changed
man: he looked older, graver, and in repose his features had a
care-worn expression, as of one who has worked hard in turmoil of soul.
And this trouble--could it be connected in any way with this mysterious
Elizabeth, of whom he never spoke? Ah, that was the question over which
Anna pondered so heavily as her fair head bent over her typewriter.

Malcolm had ordered an early breakfast again in hi