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his sister, her eyes dry and bright, knelt beside her and pressed her in comforting arms. Then I saw the white-haired doctor turn mutely away. And I knew why I had come.
The body of Gordon Paige lay there, inert, lifeless. With all the power I knew I willed myself toward it.
The body of Gordon Paige stirred. He spoke. The light of sanity came back into his dead eyes. The doctor turned to him in amazement. A minute later he turned again.
"He lives! God knows how, but he lives. The crisis is past. He will recover."
And he did recover. The body of Gordon Paige won back to life and health.
But the soul within his body was the soul of Malcolm Rae!
WHAT is soul? What is self? I speak to you with the voices of Gordon Paige. I write, and the handwriting is that of Gordon Paige.
But I—the entity that dwells in the body of Paige—I am Malcolm Rae.
In the spring they brought the news of Malcolm Rae's death to Jane Cavanaugh. She loved him—she was heart-broken. But she found comfort in the presence of her old friend Gordon Paige.
We were married last week, Jane and I. It was in June, just a year after the June in which Rae had promised to return. When I told Jane I loved her, she said:
"I do love you, Gordon. But sometimes it seems wrong—after poor Malcolm dying. But—you're like him, Gordon. You're so like Malcolm that I can't blame myself for caring.
I wish I could tell her—that I am Malcolm.
But the world is too incredulous. I do not dare.
