my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer compared
with her was dross to me.

We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand
without an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the
happiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to
lave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my
rhapsodies must have an end.

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and
quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had
lent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.
She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim
waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and
turned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and
upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner
contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm
Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against
the oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with it
and had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her
curiosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. I
whispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and
then I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. I
noiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place in
Dorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filled
me with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in the
shadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self,
Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting
rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow,
save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which
the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously
perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be
deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the
most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she
thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a
copy of mine, I would straightway amend