It was the tone of authority and for an instant she answered to it. Her harsh voice held a faint Scotch accent.

"There'll be no decent people here at this hour o' the nicht. Be off. You'll get no boat. Nor the hussy either. The dog's well used to guarding it."

"How dare you!" Esther was so angry at being called a hussy that she forgot how frightened she was and faced the woman boldly. But the old hard eyes stared straight into her young indignant ones and showed no softening. Next moment old Prue had pushed the girl aside and disappeared in the darkness of the wooded path.

"Quick!" The doctor's tone was crisp and steady. "The canoe is our chance. Jump in, while I hold it—in the bow, anywhere!"

"But the paddle! She has taken the paddle!" Even as she objected she obeyed. The frail craft rocked as she slid into it, careful only not to overbalance; next moment it rocked more dangerously and then settled evenly into the water under the doctor's added weight.

"Sit tight!" Carefully he leaned over her, steadying the canoe with one hand on the float. In the other she saw the glint of a knife, felt the confining rope sever, felt the strong push which separated them from the float and then, just as a great dog, fiercely silent now, bounded from the path above, a paddle rose and dipped and they shot out into the lake.

"If he follows and tries to overturn us I'll have to shoot him," said the doctor cheerfully. "But he won't. Hark to him!"

The long bay of the baffled dog rose to the stars.

"There was an extra paddle in the boat-house," he explained. "I took it out when we first came down—in case of accident. Old She-who-must-be-obeyed must have forgotten it. It is a spliced paddle but we shall manage excellently. Luckily I know how to use it. All I need now is direction. Lady, 'where lies the land to which this ship must go?'"

"'Far, far away is all the seamen know,'" capped Esther, laughing. "But if you will keep on around that next point and then straight across I think we ought to get there—Oh, look! there is the moon! We had forgotten about the moon!"

They had indeed forgotten the moon. And the moon had been part of their programme too. Both remembered at the same moment that, according to schedule, they were now supposed to be almost home, running down Coombe hill by moonlight.

"This is much nicer," said Esther, comfortably.

"But—" he did not finish his sentence. Why disturb her? Besides it certainly was much nicer! The forgotten moon bore them no malice. A soft radiance grew and spread around them, the whole sky and lake were faintly shining though the goddess herself had not yet topped the trees. The shadows were becoming blacker and more sharply defined. In front of them the point loomed, inky black. Like a bird of the night the little canoe shot towards it, skimmed its darkness and then slipped, effortless, into shining silver space. The smile of the moon! Pleasing old hypocrite! Always she smiles the same upon two in a canoe!

They were paddling toward her so that her light fell full on the doctor's face—a clean cut, virile face, manly, stern, yet with a whimsical sweetness hidden somewhere.

"How handsome he is!" thought Esther, exactly as the moon intended.

"Strong, too," her thought added as the light picked out his well-set shoulders and the sweep of the arm which sped the paddle so lightly yet so strongly up and down. Clear, yet soft, the moon showed no touch of grey in the hair (although the grey was there) nor did she point out the markings which were the legacy of strenuous years. Seen so, he appeared no older than she who watched shyly from girlish eyes.

With a little shiver of utmost content Esther settled herself against the thwart of the canoe.

Manlike he did not know the meaning of that shiver.

"Fool that I am!" he exclaimed. "You are cold, and behold we have left behind the shawl of Mrs. Sykes' grandmother!"

"Indeed we have not! The dog would have torn it to bits. I assure you the shawl of the venerated ancestress was in the canoe before I was."

"Then wrap yourself up. It is wonderful how cool the nights are."

Esther was not cold. But it is sometimes pleasant to be commanded. This is what enables man to persist in a certain pleasing delusion regarding woman's natural attitude. When she occasionally pleases herself by a simulation of subjection he immediately thrills with pride, crying, "Aha! I have her mastered!" Of course he finds out his mistake later.

It pleased Esther, though not cold, to wrap herself in the shawl and it pleased Callandar to see her do it. I assure you it left the whole question of the subjection of women quite untouched.

The moon knew all about it but, feminine herself, she favoured the deception. Around the girl's dark head she drew a circle of light. The branching tendrils of her hair, all alive and fanlike now in the coolness of the night, made a nimbus of black and silver from which her shadowed face shone like a faint pure pearl. As he seemed younger, so did she seem older; under the moon she was no longer a child, but a woman with mysterious eyes.

An impulse came to him—the rare impulse of confidence! Suddenly it seemed that what he had mistaken for self-sufficiency had been in reality loneliness. He had learned to live to himself not because he was of himself sufficient but because no one else, save the Button Moulder, had ever come within speaking distance. Lorna Sinnet, for all his admiration of her, had established no claim upon his confidence, yet now, with this young girl, whom he had known but a few weeks, a new need developed—a need to talk of himself! A primitive need indeed, but, like all primitive needs, compelling.

We need not follow the history. Perhaps, reported, it would not seem very lucid. There were blanks, unsaid things, twists of phrase, eloquent nothings which, wonderfully understandable in themselves, do not report well. Somehow he must have made it plain, for Esther understood it and understood him, too, in a way which we, who have never sailed with him under the moon, cannot hope to do. Faults of expression are no hindrance to this kind of understanding. He did not talk well, was clumsy, not at all eloquent, but magically she reconstructed the hopes and dreams of his ambitious youth. From a few bald phrases she fashioned the thunderbolt which shattered them, saw him stunned, then alive again, struggling. With every ready imagination she leaped full upon the fires of an ambition which accepted no check but fed upon difficulty and overleapt obstacles. Between stories of his early college life, her sympathy sensed the deadly strain which his narrative missed and, long before he mentioned it, her foresight had descried the coming of hard won success.

But the really vital thing, the core of the short history, she followed slowly word by word, anxiously. It told of wonders which she did not know—love, passion, despair! Now indeed he seemed to be speaking in a strange language—yet not strange entirely. She hid each broken phrase in her heart, knowing them rare, and wondering at the treasure entrusted to her. Some of her girlhood she left behind her as she listened. Something new, yet surely old, stirred faintly. What was this love he spoke of? The breath of bygone passion brushed across her untouched soul and left it trembling!

Into the long silence which followed the story her voice drifted like a sigh.

"If she could only have lived until you came!"

It was of the girl wife she thought. Her heart was full of an aching pity for that other girl whom life had cheated of her sweetest gift. More than the man who had lived out a bitter expiation, did she pity her who had missed the fight, slipped out of the struggle. Death seemed to Esther such a terrible thing. The new life stirring in her shuddered at the thought of mortality. That breath of the divine which we name Love began already to proclaim itself immortal.

Yet Molly, that other girl, had loved—and died.

The doctor, too, was lost in self communings. Already, with the words not cold upon his lips, he was surprised that he had told the story. How could he? Why had he? That pitiful little story of Molly which had been too sacred for the touch of a word. Above all, why had the telling been a relief? It was a relief, he knew that. Somewhere, in the silver waters of Pine Lake he had buried a burden. He felt lighter, younger. Had his very love for Molly become a load whose proper name was remorse? Had his heart harboured regret and fear under the name of sorrow? Or had he never loved at all, never really sorrowed? Had the thing he called love been but a boy's hot passion caught in the grip of a man's awakening will, a mistake made irrevocable by a stubbornness of purpose which could not face defeat? Whatever it had been, it had come to be a burden. And the burden had lightened—it pressed no longer. In a word, he was free! He was his own man again, unafraid, able to look into his heart, to open all the windows—no dark corners, no haunting ghosts! He could enter now without the dread of echoing footsteps or wistful, half-heard whisperings. The shade of pretty, childish Molly would vex no more.

The relief of it—the pain of it! It was like a new birth.

Meanwhile the strong, sure strokes were bringing them swiftly nearer the opposite shore where yellow dots of light proclaimed the position of the summer cottages. One dot, larger, detached itself from the others and indicated the flare on the end of the landing float. Outlines began to be darkly discernible, the moon's silver mirror was shivered by lances of gold. Very soon their journey would be ended.

The paddle dipped more slowly. Esther sighed, and sat up straighter. Considering all the trouble they had taken, neither of them seemed overjoyed to be so near the desired haven.

"We are nearly there," said Callandar obviously.

Esther looked backward over their shining wake. Something precious seemed to be slipping away on those fairy ripples. Yet all she could find to say was—

"We have come very fast. You must be tired."

Strange little commonplaces, how they take their due of all the wonderful hours of life! Esther wriggled out of the shawl, smoothed her hair, arranged her ruffled collar. Callandar shipped his paddle and resumed his coat.

"Where to, now?" he asked practically.

"There is only one landing, we shall be right on it in a moment. Then—there are several of the cottagers whom I know. But I think Mrs. Burton will be the best. She has often asked me to visit her and is such a dear that the present unexpected arrival will not make me less welcome."

"That's good! As for me, I'll make for the station and send the telegrams. They won't be seriously anxious yet, do you think? Then—there is a train I think you said?"

"You have missed that. But there is a very early morning train, a milk train—O gracious!" Esther broke off with a start of genuine consternation. "To-morrow is Sunday!"

"Naturally!" in surprise.

"How horribly unfortunate! The milk train doesn't run on Sunday!"

"Does the milk object to Sunday travelling?"

"Don't joke!" forlornly. "It's dreadful that it should be Sunday. People will talk!"

"Oh, will they?" The doctor was immensely surprised. "Why?"

"Because it's Sunday."

"What has Sunday got to do with it? They can't talk. Here you are safe and sound with your friend Mrs. Burton by 9 o'clock, an intensely respectable hour even in Coombe. What can they say?"

"But it's Sunday! You will return home, by rail, on Sunday. Every one will know. Your breaking of the Sabbath will be put down to careless pleasuring. It will hurt your practice terribly!"

Callandar laughed heartily. But before he could reply the quick bursting out of a blaze upon the shore startled them both. "What is it?" he asked apprehensively.

"Only a bonfire! Some one is giving a bonfire party. It is quite the fashionable thing. There will be songs and speeches with lemonade and cake. Oh, hurry! We shall be in time for the programme."

The mysterious woman, born of the moon, was gone. In her place was a rumple-haired, bright-eyed child. Callandar took up the paddle with a whimsical smile.

"Sit still or you'll overturn the canoe!" he said warningly. And across the narrowing stretch of water floated the opening sentiments of the patriotic cottagers.

"O Canadah, our heritage, our love—"



CHAPTER XIV

Henry Callandar, resting neck-deep in the cool green swimming pool, tossed the wet hair out of his eyes and whistled ingratiatingly to a watching robin. A delightful sense of guilt enveloped him, for it was Sunday morning and, since his experience at Pine Lake a week ago, he had learned a little of what Sunday means in Coombe. Esther had been quite right in fearing that his return by train upon that sacred day might deal a severe blow to his prestige—at least until Mrs. Sykes had had time to explain to every one how unavoidable it had been—and he knew that if he were to be caught in his present delightful occupation his Presbyterian reputation might be considered lost forever.

The robin twittered at him prettily but refused to be beguiled. Sunday bathing was not among its weaknesses. Presently it flew away.

"Gone to tell the minister, I'll be bound!" murmured Callandar. "'Twill be a scandal in the kirk. I'll lose all my five patients. Horrid little bird!"

Smiling, he drew himself from the embrace of the faintly shining water and retiring to the willow screen began to dress with that virtuous leisureliness which characterises those who rise before their fellows. He had the world to himself; a world of cool, sweet scents, pure light and Sabbath quiet—that wonderful quiet which seems a living thing with a personality of its own, so different is it from the ordinary quiet of work-a-day mornings.

The primrose sky gave promise of a beautiful day. The blue grey vault overhead was already filling with shimmering golden light, the drooping willows and the dew-wet grass were stirring in the breeze of dawn, the voice of the water sang in the stillness.

Callandar slipped his blue tie snugly under the collar of his white flannel shirt and sighed with the ecstasy of health renewed. A half-forgotten couplet hummed through his brain.

"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky—"

"And it's a hymn, too, or I'm a Dutchman," he declared, much edified. "That proves that swimming on Sunday is quite compatible with proper orthodoxy of mind. Shouldn't wonder if the Johnnie who wrote that wrote it on Sunday morning after a dip. I'll tell Mrs. Sykes he did anyway—where in thunder did I put my boots?"

The missing articles had apparently fulfilled the purpose of their being by walking away, or else the robin had collected them as evidence! Callandar chuckled at a whimsical vision of them in a church court, damningly marked "Exhibit 1." But as he searched for them the utter peace of the morning fled and suddenly he became conscious that he and the willows no longer divided the world between them. Some one was near. He felt eyes watching. The curious half-lost instinct which warns man of the approach of his kind, told him that he was no longer alone. The doctor fixed a stern eye on the screening willows.

"Zerubbabel!" he commanded, "come out of there at once, sir!"

A stirring in the bushes was the only answer.

The doctor glanced at his bootless feet.

"Bubble," more mildly, "if you want a swim—"

"It isn't Bubble," said a meek voice, "it's me. Are you dressed enough for me to come out?" Without waiting for an answer the elfish face of Ann appeared through the willow tangle. "If you're looking for your boots," she remarked kindly, "they're hanging on that limb behind you."

But boots no longer absorbed the doctor.

"Come out of those willows, both of you!"

"There's only me," still meekly. "And I didn't come to swim. I came for you. Honour bright! The Button Man's here."

"What?"

"Yes, he is. He came in a big grey car and was sitting on the doorstep when Aunt got up. He told her not to disturb you, but of course Aunt thought that you ought to know at once and when she found that you were gone"—a poignant pause!

"Yes, when she found me gone—"

"When she found you gone," slowly, "she said you must have been called up in the night to a patient!"

"Did she really?" The doctor's laugh rang out.

"And I hope the Lord will forgive her for such a nawful lie!" finished Ann piously.

"He will, Ann, He will! You can depend on that. He has a proper respect for loyalty between friends. Did I understand you to say that you had seen my boots? Oh, yes, thanks! Now I wonder what can have brought our Button Man back so soon? He didn't by any chance say, I suppose?"

"Him?" with scorn. "Not much fear! I'll do up your boots if you like."

"Thanks, no. That would be using unseemly haste. Button-men who go visiting on Sunday must learn to wait. Don't you want to have a splash, Ann? I'll walk on slowly, you can easily catch me up!"

The child looked enviously at the now sparkling water, but shook her head.

"I'd love to. But I dasn't. Aunt always knows when I've been in. Even if I go and muddy myself afterwards, she knows. She says a little bird tells her."

"A robin, I'll bet. I know that bird! Sanctimonious thing! He was watching me this morning and went off as fast as he knew how, to spread the news. Ann, you have lived in this remarkable town all your life. Can you tell me just why it is wicked to go swimming on Sunday?"

Ann looked blank. "No. But it is. You're likely to get drowned any minute! Not but what I'd risk it if it wasn't for Aunt. I'm far more scared of Aunt than I am of God," she added reflectively.

"Why, Ann! What do you mean?"

"Well, you never can tell about God, but Aunt's a dead sure thing! If she says you'll get a smack for going in the river you'll get it—but God only drowns a few here and there, for examples like."

"Look here!" Callandar paused in his stride and fixed her dark eyes by the sudden seriousness in his own. "You've got the thing all wrong. God doesn't drown people for swimming on Sunday. He isn't that sort at all. He—He—" the unaccustomed teacher of youth faltered hopelessly in his effort to instruct the budding mind, but Ann's eyes were questioning and at their bidding the essential truth of his own childhood came back to him. "God is Love," he declared firmly. "Great Scott! a person would think that we lived in the Dark Ages! Don't you let 'em frighten you, Ann. What are you allowed to do on Sunday anyway?"

"Church," succinctly. "And Sunday-school and church and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"Well, that's something. Jolly good book, the 'Pilgrim's Progress'!"

"Yes," dubiously. "If it didn't use such a nawful lot of big words. And if he'd only get on a little faster. He was terrible slow."

"So he was. Well, let us be merry while we can. I'll race you to the orchard gate."

At the gate they paused to regain their lost breath and sense of decorum for, across the orchard, the veranda could be plainly seen with the trim figure of Professor Willits in close proximity to the taller and gaunter outline of Mrs. Sykes. With one of her shy quick gestures, the child slipped her fingers from the doctor's hold and sped away through the trees. Her friendship with Callandar was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to Ann, but she was not of the kind which parades intimacy.

"Patient dead?" asked Willits dryly after they had shaken hands.

"Patient?" Then, catching sight of the flaming red in the cheeks of his landlady, "Dead? Certainly not. Even my patients know better than to die on a morning like this. But whatever possessed you to disturb a righteous household? Mrs. Sykes, he doesn't deserve breakfast, but I do. When do you think—"

"In just about five minutes, Doctor. Soon's I get the coffee boiling and the cream skimmed. I didn't know," with an anxiously reproving glance, "but what you might want to get washed up after you got in."

"I—no, I think I'm quite clean enough, Mrs. Sykes. But it was very thoughtful of you to wait—"

"Aunt, the coffee's boiling over!" The warning was distinctly audible and, with a gesture of one who abandons an untenable position, Mrs. Sykes retreated upon the kitchen.

The visitor watched her flight with mild amaze.

"I suppose I should seem curious if I were to ask why the excellent Mrs. Sykes imperils her immortal soul in your behalf? But why in the name of common sense is the peril necessary? It isn't a crime, is it, for a medical man to get up early and go for a swim?"

"You forget what day it is," said Callandar solemnly. "Or rather, you never knew. I myself was not properly acquainted with Sunday until I came to this place. Your presence here is in itself a scandal. People do not visit upon the Seventh day in Coombe."

"No? You should have informed me of the town's eccentricities. As it is, if my presence imperils your social standing you can seclude me until the next train."

"Better than that," cheerfully, "I can take you to church."

The alarmed look upon the professor's face was so enticing that Callandar continued with glee:

"Why not? I have always thought your objection to church-going a blot upon an otherwise estimable character. Hitherto I have been too busy to attend to it, but now—"

"Quit chaffing, Harry! I came up because I had to see you. You pay no attention to my letters. I never dreamed that you would stay a month in this backwater. What is wrong? What is the matter with you?"

"Look at me—and ask those questions again."

The keen eyes of the Button-Moulder looked deep into the doctor's steady ones. There was a slight pause. Then—

"Yes, I see what you mean. I saw it as you came across the orchard." The sharp voice softened. "My anxiety for your health could hardly survive the way in which you leaped that fence! But all this makes it only the more mysterious. Have you found the fountain of youth or—or what?"

Callandar threw an affectionate arm over the other man's shoulders.

"I am young, amn't I! Trouble is, I didn't know it." He ruffled his hair at the side so that the grey showed plainly. "Terrible thing when one loses the realisation of youth! But I've had my lesson. I'll never be old again, never!"

In spite of himself the professor's straight mouth curved a little. A spark of pride glowed in his cool eyes as he bent them upon the smiling face of his friend. Yet his tone was mocking as he said, "Then it is the fountain of youth? One is never too old to find that chimera."

"It's not something that I've found, old cynic. It's something that I've lost. Look at me hard! Don't you notice something missing? Did you ever read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'?"

"The Pilgrim's—"

"Breakfast is ready!" called Ann, teetering on her toes in the doorway.

"The Pil—"

"And Aunt—says—will—you—please—come—at—once—so's—the coff—ee—won't—be—cold!" chanted Ann.

"Yes, Ann. We're coming."

"But I want to know—"

"Old man, I'll tell you after breakfast. I want you to see me eat. I wish to demonstrate that there is no deception. A miracle has really happened. No one could observe me breakfasting and doubt it!"

When they were seated he looked guilelessly into the still disapproving face of Mrs. Sykes. "Perhaps you are wondering, as I did, what has brought Professor Willits back to Coombe," he said, "but time and space mean little to professors, and the fact is that Willits has long wished to hear a sermon by the Reverend Mr. Macnair. He is coming with me this morning. Perhaps you hadn't better mention it, though. It might disturb Mr. Macnair to know that so eminent a critic was listening to him."

The eminent critic frowned grimly and took a fourth cream biscuit without noticing it.

"Not a mite!" declared Mrs. Sykes. "The man ain't born that can fluster Mr. Macnair. Nor yet the woman, unless it's Esther Coombe—Land sakes, Doctor! I forgot to tell you how that cup tips! Ann, get a clean table napkin. I hope your nice white pants ain't ruined, Doctor? I really ought to put that cup away but it's a good cup if it's held steady and I hate to waste good things. Last time it tipped was when the Ladies' Aid met here. Mrs. Coombe had it and the whole cup spilled right over her dress. I was that mortified! But she didn't seem to care. I can't imagine what's the matter with that woman. She's getting dreadful careless about her clothes. Next time I met her she wore that same dress, splash an' all! 'Tisn't as if she hadn't plenty of new things,—more than they can afford, if what folks say is true. You haven't met Mrs. Coombe yet, have you, Doctor?"

"She is away from home."

"Well, when you do meet her you'll see what I mean, or like as not you won't, being a man. Men never seem to see anything wrong with Mary Coombe. But Esther must feel dreadful mortified sometimes when her Ma forgets to get hooked up behind. Esther's as neat as a pin. Always was. Why, even when she got home last week after that awful time you and she had up at Pine Lake, and her having to stay overnight without so much as a clean collar, she walked in here as fresh as a daisy—won't you let me give you some more coffee, Professor?"

"Thank you, yes. You were saying—"

"Willits, do you think so much coffee is good for you?"

"Land sakes, Doctor, my coffee won't hurt him! It never seems to trouble you any. As I was saying, one would almost have thought that what with picnicking in the bush all day and trapesing around in a canoe half the night and having to stay where she wasn't expected and wouldn't like to ask the loan of the flat-irons—"

"Please, Mrs. Sykes, don't let Ann eat another biscuit. I don't want her to be ill just when I want a day off to take Willits to church. Willits, as your medical adviser, I forbid more coffee. He will really injure himself, Mrs. Sykes, if I do not take him away. He isn't used to breakfasts like this and his constitution won't stand it."

Mrs. Sykes beamed graciously under this delicate compliment and confiscated Ann's latest biscuit with a ruthless hand. "If you gentlemen would like to sit in the parlour—" she offered graciously. But Callandar with equal graciousness declined. The office would do quite well enough. Willits might want to smoke. "And as it-seems that my watch has stopped," he added, "perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us when it is time to change for church."

The professor settled himself primly upon the hardest chair which the office contained and refused a cigar.

"You seem to have acquired a reprehensible habit of fooling, Henry," he said. "Your language also is strange. When, for instance, you say 'change for church,' to what sort of transformation do you refer?"

Callandar chuckled.

"Only to your clothes, old chap. Don't worry. You wouldn't expect me to go to church in flannels?"

"I should not expect you to go to church at all."

"Well, the fact is, old man, you are painfully ignorant. I do go to church, and the proper church costume for a professional man is a frock coat and silk hat. But as you are a traveller, and as you are not exactly a professional man, I shall not lose caste by taking you as you are."

The imperturbable Willits waived the point. "I understood you to say, also, that your watch had stopped. Was that a joke?"

"No such luck!" The doctor took out his watch and shook it. "Mainspring gone, I'm afraid!"

"A month ago," said the professor, "if your watch had stopped you would have had a fit."

"Really! Was I ever such an ass? Well, I'm not the slave of my watch any longer. Time goes softly in Coombe. Aren't you glad I'm not taking a fit?"

"I am glad. But I want to understand."

"Then let's return to the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Ann and I were talking about it this morning. Do you remember the man with the pack on his back and how when he reached a certain spot the pack, seemingly without effort of his own, fell off and was seen no more?"

Willits reflected. The doctor was thoroughly in earnest now. "I seem to recollect the incident to which you refer," he said after a pause. "If I remember rightly it is an allegory and is used in a definitely religious sense. The man with the pack meets a certain spiritual crisis. Do I understand that you—er—that you have experienced conversion? I am not guilty of speaking lightly of so important a matter, but I hardly know how to frame my question."

The doctor tilted back his chair and looked dreamily out of the window. "I did not mean you to take my illustration literally. My religious beliefs are very much the same as they have always been. To a materialist like you they seem, I know, absurdly orthodox; to a church member in good standing they might seem fatally lax; but such as they are I have not changed them. Still, I was, as you know, a man with a burden. You may call the burden consequence or what you will, the name doesn't matter. The weight of that youthful, selfish, unpardonable act which bound a young girl to me without giving her the protection which that bond demanded, was always upon me, crushing out the joy of life. The news of her death made no difference, except to render me hopeless of ever making up to her for the wrong I had done. Her death did not set me free, it bound me closer.

"I seemed like one caught in the tow of some swift tide, always fighting to get back, yet eternally being drawn away. The tide still flows out, for the tide of human life is the only tide which never returns, but I have ceased to struggle. I no longer look back. It is not that God has forgiven me (I have never been able to think of God as otherwise than forgiving), it is that I have forgiven myself."



CHAPTER XV

"It amounts to this, then," said Willits presently. "You are cured. The balance is swinging true again. It has taken a long time, but the cure is all the more complete for that. Now, when are you coming back to us?"

Callandar did not answer.

"You are needed. Not a day passes that your absence is not felt. You used to have a strong sense of responsibility toward your work. What has become of it?"

"I have it still. I am not slighting my work by taking time to build myself into better shape for it."

"But you will simply stagnate here!" querulously. "You are becoming slack already. You let your watch run down."

The doctor laughed.

"If many of my patients could do the same without worry they would not need a doctor. Half of the nervous trouble of the age can be ultimately traced to watches which won't run down. Leisure—unhurried leisure—that is what we want. We've got to have it!"

"Piffle! I shall hear you talk about inviting your soul next."

"Well, if I do he is in better shape to accept the invitation than he used to be."

The professor's gesture was sufficiently expressive.

"Very well. I give up. Remember, I advise against it. I think you are making a mistake!—I'll have that cigar now. I suppose one is allowed to smoke in the garden?"

"Yes, do, that's a good fellow! I must run up and make myself presentable. I suppose you haven't seen Lorna lately?"

"I have seen her very lately. She asked to be remembered."

"Oh, you old prevaricator! Lorna never asked to be remembered in her life. What she really said was, 'If you see Harry give him my love!'"

"If she did, you don't deserve it! Oh, boy," with sudden earnestness, "why will you make a fool of yourself? She's a woman in a thousand. Others see it if you don't. Since you've been away, MacGregor is paying her marked attention."

"Good old Gregor!" The doctor's exclamation was one of pure pleasure. "And yet you say my absence isn't doing any good? Go along with you! Take your cigar and wait for me underneath the Bough. I'll not be long."

He was long, however. The professor's cigar and his cogitations came to an end together without the promised reappearance. Even when he returned to the office it was empty except for Ann, who in the stiffest of starched muslin and whitest of stockings was spread out carefully upon the widest chair. Her black hair was parted as if by a razor blade and plastered tightly in slablike masses while the tension of the braids was such that they stuck out on either side of the small head like decorated sign posts. Weariness, disgust and defiance were painted visibly upon the elfish face.

"This is the best chair!" said Ann politely, "but if you'll excuse me I shan't get up. Every time I sit down it makes a crease in a fresh place. By the time church is over I look like I was crumpled all over. It's the starch!" she added in sullen explanation.

Willits, who liked children but did not understand them, essayed a mild joke.

"Did you put some starch in your hair too?"

Ann flushed scarlet with anger and mortification and made no answer.

"It looked much nicer at breakfast," blundered on the professor genially. "If I were you I should unstarch it—" he paused abashed by the glare in Ann's black eyes and turned helplessly to Callandar, who had just come in, resplendent in faultless church attire.

"Don't listen to him, Ann!" said the doctor. "Button moulders are so ignorant. They know absolutely nothing about hair or the necessity for special tidiness on Sundays. All the same, I'm afraid we shall have a headache if we don't let a reef out somewhere. Sit still a moment, Ann. I was always intended for a barber."

To the fresh astonishment of Willits his friend's skilful hands busied themselves with the tightly drawn hair which, only too eager for freedom, soon fell into some of its usual curves. With a quick, shy gesture the child drew the adored hand to her lips and kissed it. Callandar turned a deep red. The professor chuckled, and Ann, furious at betraying herself before him, fled precipitately, the crackling starch of her stiff skirts rattling as she ran.

For a moment Willits enjoyed his friend's embarrassment and then, as the probable meaning of the frock coat began to dawn upon him, his expression changed to one of apprehension.

"You weren't in earnest about that church nonsense, were you?"

"Certainly. If you need a clean collar take one of mine, and hurry up. The first bell has stopped ringing."

"But I'm not going!"

"Not if I ask you nicely?"

"But why? What are you going for?"

"Come and see."

The shrewd eyes of the professor grew coldly thoughtful.

"That is exactly what I shall do," he decided.

From the home of Mrs. Sykes upon Duke Street to the First Presbyterian Church upon Oliver's Hill is a brisk walk of fifteen minutes. As Coombe lies in a valley, Oliver's Hill is not a hill, really, but a gentle eminence. It is a charming, tree-lined street bordered by the homes and gardens of the well-to-do. It is, in fact, the street of Coombe, and to live upon Oliver's Hill is a social passport seldom mentioned but never ignored.

As if social prominence were not enough, it had another claim upon the affections and memories of many, for up this hill every Sunday in a long and goodly stream poured the first Presbyterians who were not only the elect but also the elite of Coombe. To see Knox Church "come out" was one of the sights of the town and, decorously hidden behind a muslin curtain, a stranger might feast his eyes upon greatness unrebuked. It was said at one time that every silk hat in Coombe attended Knox Church, but this was vainglory, for it was afterwards proved that several repaired to St. Michael's and at least one to the Baptist tabernacle. With this explanation you will at once understand why the sidewalk was a few feet broader upon the church side of Oliver's Hill, and if this circumstance savours to you of ecclesiastical privilege we can only conclude that you are not Presbyterian, and request you not to be so narrow-minded.

As the doctor and his half-reluctant friend turned at the foot of the hill they were immediately absorbed by the stream pressing upwards, for the last bell had already begun to ring.

"We're all right," whispered Callandar encouragingly. "It rings for five minutes."

The professor opened his lips to say something, but shut them with a snap. There was probably method in the doctor's madness but it was method which would never be disclosed through much questioning. With an expression of intense solemnity he fixed his eyes, gimlet-like, upon the middle button of the Sunday blouse of the lady in front of him and followed up the hill. To the absurdly low-toned remarks of his companion he vouchsafed no reply whatever.

They entered the church to the subdued rustle of Sunday silks and the whisper of Sunday voices. At the door some one shook hands with Callandar and remarked in a ghostly whisper that it was a fine day. A grave young man, in black, led them to a pew half way down the aisle. Most of the pews were already full, the latest comers showing slight signs of hurry; and as they seated themselves the bell stopped and the organ began.

There was a moment's expectant interval and then two doors, one at either side of the pulpit, opened simultaneously and the minister entered from one side, the choir from the other. Before the minister walked a very solemn man with abnormally long upper lip. This was Elder John MacTavish, a man of large substance, of great piety and poor digestion. It was upon this latter account that the doctor always observed him with peculiar interest, for had not Mrs. Sykes declared that if he should only be called in once to prescribe for John MacTavish's stomach his future in Coombe was secure?

"Doctor Parker is doing him just no good at all," she reported. "So keep an eye on him. If he looks especially dour it's a good sign."

"Would you say that he looks especially 'dour'?" whispered Callandar to Willits.

"I should. Why?"

"Oh, nothing—only it's a good sign! Hush!"

When the minister has entered the pulpit at Knox Church there is a moment during which you may bow your head, or, if you consider this popish, you may cover your face with your gloved hand. It is a moment of severe quiet. One does not dare even to cough. Hence the doctor's warning "hush!"

But this morning the quiet was rudely broken. Somewhere, just outside the open windows, sounded a laugh; a young, clear, unrestrained laugh, then the call of a sharp whistle, and next moment, through the doors not yet closed, hurtled something yellow and long-legged! With a joyous bark it rushed along the nearest aisle, across the front of the pulpit, down the other aisle and out at the door again.

The congregation was amazed and grieved. Its serenity was shaken, even the minister seemed disturbed. Some younger members of the choir giggled. It was most unseemly.

"Naughty dog!" said the voice outside the window. "Go home! Don't dare to lick my hand!"

One of the choir members grew red in the face and choked. It was outrageous! And then, as if nothing at all had happened, the girl who had been the cause of the whole unfortunate incident entered and walked down the aisle. She appeared to be quite undisturbed; was, in fact, smiling. Every eye in the church followed her as, a little out of breath, a little flushed, with dark hair slightly disarranged as if from an exciting chase, she took her seat, unconscious, or careless, of them all. The minister, who had paused with almost reproachful obviousness, gave out the opening psalm and the congregation freed itself from embarrassment with an accustomed flutter of hymn-books.

Going to church was somewhat interesting after all, thought Professor Willits. Then, in common with the rest of the congregation, he detached his eyes from the girl's exquisite profile and focused them upon the minister.

Friends of the Rev. Angus Macnair asserted that he was a man in a thousand. For that matter he was a man in any number of thousands; for his was a personality, true to type, yet not likely to be duplicated. Born of a Highland Scotch father and a Lowland Scotch mother, he developed almost exclusively in his father's vein. Loyal in the extreme, narrow to fanaticism, passionate, emotional, yet trained to the cold control of a red Indian, he was a man of power, at once the victim and the triumph of his creed.

Early in life he had come under a conviction of sin, had received assurance of forgiveness and of election and, before he had left the Public School, his Call had come. From that time forward he had burnt with a fierce fire of godliness which, together with a natural incapacity for seeing two sides to anything, had carried him safely through the manifold temptations to unbelief and heresy which beset a modern college education. Many wondered that a man so gifted should remain in Coombe, but the explanation is simple. He suited Coombe; the larger churches of the larger cities he did not suit. Lax opinions, heretical doctrines, outlooks appallingly wide were creeping in everywhere. It is safe to say that in most of the churches of his own faith he would have seemed bravely but hopelessly behind the times. But in Coombe he had found his place. Coombe was conservative. Coombe Presbyterians were still content to do without frills in the matter of doctrine. Coombe could still listen to hell fire and, if not unduly disturbed, did not at least smile behind its hand.

Something of all this the Button-Moulder, student of men, felt as he watched the sombre yet glowing face of the preacher.

The sermon that morning was one of a series dealing with the Commandments and the text was, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour." The speaker had the scholar's power of concentration, the orator's power of delivery. He was both poignant and personal. He seemed to do everything save mention names. Some sinners in that congregation, thought Willits, had undoubtedly been bearing false witness, and were now listening to a few plain words! Cautiously he glanced around, almost expecting to see the tale of guilt and sorrow legibly imprinted upon some culprit's face. But no one seemed at all disturbed, save one old lady who glared back at him an unmistakable "Thou art the man!" The congregation sat, serenely, soberly attentive, testifying their entire agreement with the speaker by an occasional sigh or nod. The more fiery the preacher's denunciations, the more complacent his hearers. In astonishment Willits realised that, if appearances go for anything, no one in Knox Presbyterian Church had ever borne false witness against anybody!

The collecting of the offering was somewhat of an anti-climax, as was also the anthem by the choir, the latter consisting of a complicated arrangement of the question, "If a man die shall he live again?" reiterated singly by all parts in succession, by duets and quartets and finally by the whole choir, without so much as a shadow of an answer appearing anywhere.

Willits gave a long sigh as they stepped into the summer day again. It had not been uninteresting, but he was quite ready for lunch. The doctor, on the contrary, seemed unaccountably to linger. He even paused to talk to a fat lady in mauve velvet who had mauve cheeks to match.

"So glad to see you in church, Doctor! Young men, you know, are inclined to be young men! And these nice days—very tempting, I'm sure! Is your friend a stranger?"

Callandar gravely introduced Willits, who became immediately convinced that this mauve lady was the most unpleasant person he had ever seen and doubtless the very person to whom the minister had spoken in his sermon.

Why had Callandar let him in for this? Why was he waiting around for anyway? There he was, shaking hands with some one else—this time it was the girl who had laughed.

"May I present my friend, Professor Willits, Miss Coombe?"

The girl extended a graceful hand and for an instant the professor was permitted a look into eyes which caused him to set his firm lips somewhat grimly.

"And I know, Willits, you will be delighted to meet our pastor, Mr. Macnair."

A spark began to glow in the professor's eye, but Callandar's face was guileless. The minister shook hands with professional heartiness, but his gaze, Willits thought, was wandering. He began to feel interested.

"Very fine day," he remarked imperturbably.

"Lovely, lovely," agreed the minister, still heartily. The mauve lady was waiting for the pastoral handshake, but he did not notice her. He was watching the dark girl talking to Callandar.

"What is so rare as a day in June?" said Willits, with deliberate malice.

"Ah, yes, very much so. Delighted to have met you. You will excuse me, I'm sure. Annabel," with an impatient glance toward a stout, awkward woman in the background, "if you are not quite ready I think Miss Coombe and I will walk on." He moved toward the dark girl as he spoke and Willits followed.

"Then I'll have to come some other day to get the roses," they heard Callandar say. "But remember I haven't a single flower in the office. So it will have to be soon."

"At any time," answered the girl, flushing slightly.

"No flowers?" repeated the minister, a little fussily, "dear me, I will speak to my sister. Annabel will be delighted to send you any quantity, Doctor. You must really drop in to see our garden, some day. Sunday, of course, is a busy day with me. Come, Miss Esther. Good morning, Doctor. Good morning, Professor. Glad to see you at our services any time—"

Bowing courteously, the minister moved away, followed perforce by Miss Coombe. (An invitation to lunch at the manse is an honour not to be trifled with.) Perforce also the doctor stood aside and Willits caught the look, half shy, half merry, which the girl threw him from the depths of her remarkable eyes. It was really quite interesting, and rather funny. Not often had he seen fair ladies carried off from under the nose of Henry Callandar. Transferring his glance quickly to the face of his friend, he hoped to surprise a look of chagrin upon his abashed countenance, but the countenance was not abashed, and the look which he did surprise there startled him considerably. Henry Callandar, of all men, to be looking after any girl with a look like that!

Well, he had been invited to come and see. And he had seen.



CHAPTER XVI

As Esther walked away, demurely acquiescent, by the side of the Rev. Mr. Macnair she was conscious of a conflict of emotions. The sight of the doctor's disappointed face as he stood hat in hand, awoke regret and perhaps a trifle of girlish gratification. She had been sorry herself to miss that half hour among the roses but she was still too young and too happy to know how few are such hours, how irrevocable such losses. Also, it had seemed good to her maidenly pride that Dr. Callandar should know—well, that he should see—just exactly what he should know and see she did not formulate. But underneath her temporary disappointment she felt as light and glad as a bird in springtime.

The minister was speaking, but he had been speaking for several moments before Esther's delighted flutter would permit of her listening to him. When at last her thoughts came back she noticed, with a happy-guilty start, that his tone was one of dignified reproof.

"Naturally we all understand," he was saying, "at least I hope we all understand, that you are not primarily to blame. At the worst one can only impute carelessness—"

"Oh, but it wasn't carelessness! You don't know Buster. He's the cleverest dog! He hid. I had no idea that he was with me until he bounded past me at the church door. And though I whistled and tried to grab him he was in before I knew it. I'll make him sit up meekly and beg your pardon."

A flush of what in a layman might have been anger crimsoned the minister's cheek.

"You are well aware," stiffly, "that I am not referring to the incident of the dog."

"To what then? I am sorry I wasn't listening but you seemed to be scolding and I couldn't think of anything else." Even the abstruse Mr. Macnair saw that her surprise was genuine. His tone grew gentler.

"You are very young, Miss Esther. But since I must speak more plainly, I was referring to that mad escapade of a week ago. Don't misunderstand me, the blame undoubtedly rests upon the man who was thoughtless enough, selfish enough, to put you in such a position."

"Whatever do you mean?" Esther was torn between anger and a desire to laugh. But seeing the earnestness in his face, anger predominated. "Can you possibly be referring to the breakdown of Dr. Callandar's motor?" she asked coldly.

"I refer to the whole unfortunate adventure. If your step-mother had been at home I feel sure it would not have happened. She would never have permitted the excursion to take place."

The girl's dark brows drew together in their own peculiar manner.

"Let us be honest," she suggested. "You know quite well that my step-mother would not have bothered about it in the least."

"I feel it my duty," went on the minister, "to tell you that there were some peculiar features in connection with the disablement of the motor. I understand from the mechanician who accompanied Dr. Callandar to the spot for the recovery of the machine that there was really very little the matter. A short ten minutes completed the necessary repairs."

"Ten minutes? Oh, how silly he must have felt—the doctor I mean. After all the hours he spent and the things he said." She laughed with reminiscent amusement. "He threw the monkey wrench at it, too. And he thought he knew so much about motors!"

Her companion observed her with sombre eyes. Was it possible that she had actually missed the point of his remark?

"Can you understand," he said slowly, "how a man used to driving a motor car can have been entirely baffled by so slight an accident? To me it seems—odd!"

"So Dr. Callandar thought, only he expressed it more forcibly."

"And you?"

"Well, I suppose I was heartless. But it was the funniest thing I ever saw!" Esther's laughter bubbled again.

They were now at the manse gate. He saw that he must hasten.

"My dear Miss Esther, let us be serious. I do not like to disturb your mind but I have a duty in this matter. Has it never occurred to you that this so-called accident may not have been so—so—er—entirely—er—irremediable, so to speak, as it was made to appear?"

"Do you mean that he did it on purpose?" The tone was one of blank amazement. Esther's hand was upon the gate but forgot to press the latch. She was a quick brained girl and the insinuation in the minister's words had been patent. Yet that he should be capable of such an idea seemed incredible! Had he been looking at her he would have seen the clear red surge over her face from neck to brow and then recede, but not before it had lighted a danger spark in her eyes.

"You did mean that!" She went on before he could answer. The scorn in her voice stung. But the Reverend Angus was not a coward.

"That was my meaning. You are a young and inexperienced girl. You go upon an excursion with a man whom none of us know. An accident, a very peculiar accident, happens. You are led to believe that the damage is serious, but later, when the matter is investigated, it is found to have been trifling. What is the natural inference? What have you to say?"

"It has been said before," calmly.

"Well—"

"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor."

They faced each other, the man and the girl. And the man's eyes fell.

"God forbid that I should do so," he murmured.

Esther's face softened. Her anger was not proof against humility.

"If you are really disturbed about it," she said slowly, "I can reassure you. You say that you do not know Dr. Callandar. But I do know him. The whole situation rests upon that. He is a man incapable of the caddish villainy you impute. Why he could not repair the car, I cannot say. I think," with a smile, "that he does not know quite as much about cars as he thinks he does. But he did his best, I know that! When we found his efforts useless we took the only course possible and made at once for the canoe. We had to steal it, you remember, but the doctor showed no faltering in that. He was also prepared to shoot the dog. And you have my word for it that he made no attempt to swamp the canoe or to otherwise complicate matters. I arrived at Mrs. Burton's by ten minutes past nine. She was delighted to see me. Dr. Callandar walked over to the station and sent telegrams to Aunt Amy and Mrs. Sykes. He returned to Coombe upon the morning train. I remained with Mrs. Burton and came back in time for school on the milk train Monday morning. That is the whole story of the adventure and, to be frank, I enjoyed it immensely."

The minister shook his head, but he could say no more. His attitude had not changed, yet he felt a sense of shame before the straightforward honesty of Esther's outlook. She had no sense of the evil of the world. That very fact seemed to make the world less evil.

"When will Mrs. Coombe be back?" he asked abruptly.

Immediately the girl's frank look clouded. "I do not know," she said. "She hardly ever tells me when she is returning. She may be at home any day now. You know how impulsively she acts."

"Yes—just so." The minister's manner was absent. "The fact is I wish very much to speak with your mother regarding a certain matter. Not the matter we have been discussing, we will say no more of that, but a matter of great importance to—er—to me. The importance is such indeed that I doubt if I am justified in delaying longer if you have no idea of when I may expect to see her."

Had Esther been noticing she must have remarked the unusual agitation of his manner, but Esther was not noticing.

"Is it anything you could discuss with me?" she asked innocently. "Mother cares less and less for business. Unless it is something quite private she will probably turn it over to me in any case."

"But this is not—er—a matter of business. Not exactly. Not a business matter at all, in fact. It is a matter which—"

"Oh, there you are!" Miss Annabel's voice was breathless but gratified and free from the faintest suspicion of having arrived, as usual, at exactly the wrong moment. "Are you showing Esther the new rose, Angus? Such a disappointment, Esther, my dear! I had quite made up my mind that it was to be red. It came out pink, and such a beautifully strong plant—such a waste! I simply can't make myself care for pink roses. They are so common. Was I very long? You must both be starved. I know I am. Won't you come upstairs, Esther, and put off your hat?"

Esther intimated that she would. Just now, she had no desire for the further company of Mr. Macnair. She was conscious even of a faint stirring of dislike. Therefore the eagerness with which she followed Miss Annabel filled that good lady with hospitable reproach.

"I didn't intend to be so long," she apologised, "but you know what choir-leaders are? And Angus won't speak to him. I can't make Angus out lately. Tell me," abruptly, as they stood in the cool front room with its closed green shutters, "did you notice anything peculiar about Angus?"

"No," in surprise, "is he peculiar?"

"Quite. He's getting fussy. He never used to be fussy. The trouble was to induce him to be fussy enough. Except over church matters. But this morning he was just like an ordinary man. About his collar" (Miss Annabel had a fascinating habit of disjointing her sentences anywhere) "nothing suited him. And you know, Esther, what care I always take with his collars. He said they were too shiny. Of course they're shiny. Why not? He said he noticed that men weren't wearing shine on their collars now. Fancy that!"

"Not really?" Esther's fresh laugh rang out.

"Well, words to that effect. He asked me if I wanted to make him a laughing stock before the congregation. Did you ever? And he banged the door!"

"Does he not bang doors usually?"

"Never. And he banged it hard. It shook the house."

"But people have to bang doors, hard, sometimes, even ministers. I wouldn't worry if I were you. It probably did him the world of good. As for the collars—he may have been noticing Dr. Callandar's. Mrs. Sykes says the doctor sends all his laundry to the city."

"You don't say? And is it different from ours?"

"I—yes, I think it does look different."

"How did you happen to notice it? Oh, Esther, you aren't really carrying on with that strange young man, are you?"

The girl's cheek flamed. The question, she knew, was void of offence. "Carrying on" meant nothing, but the homely phrase seemed suddenly very displeasing—horribly vulgar! Her very ears burned. What if, some time, he should hear a like phrase used to describe their wonderful friendship? The thought was acute discomfort. Oh, how mean and small and misunderstanding people were!

She took off her hat and smoothed her hair without answering. But Miss Annabel was so used to having her anxious queries unanswered that she did not notice the lack.

"I know you haven't, of course," she went on. "But Coombe is such a place for gossip. Ever since you and he had that smash-up with the automobile, people have kind of got it into their heads that you're keeping company. But I said to Mrs. Miller, 'I know Esther Coombe better than you do and it isn't at all likely that a girl who can pick and choose will go off with a stranger—even if he is a doctor. And,' I said, 'how do we know he is a doctor anyway?' Goodness knows he came into the place like a tramp. You've heard, haven't you, Esther, how he came into the Imperial with nothing but a knapsack and riding in Mournful Mark's democrat?"

This time she did pause for an answer and Esther said "Yes," shortly.

"Then that settles it. I knew you had some sense. Just like I said to Mrs. Miller. Next time I see her I'll tell her what you say. 'Tisn't as if we knew anything about the man. No wonder you feel vexed about it."

"I hope you will not mention the subject at all."

"Of course not. Except to tell them how silly they are. You're sure you didn't notice anything queer about Angus when you were walking home from church?"

"Nothing at all." Yet, as she said it, it occurred to her that she had noticed something unusual in the minister's manner—an agitation, a lack of poise! "Perhaps he is disturbed about church matters," she suggested, thinking of the interrupted conversation about the important matter which was not business. "Why don't you ask him?"

Miss Annabel shook her head. "Oh, I never ask him anything! But," cheerfully, "I almost always manage to find out. I'm rather good at finding out things. But this isn't a church matter. I know all the symptoms of that. This is different. It's—it's more human!"

"Liver?" suggested Esther.

"No. I know the symptoms of liver too, Esther! What if it should be Love!"

The idea was so daring that Miss Macnair justly spoke it in italics. But the attitude of her listener was disappointing. Esther looked as if it might be quite a natural thing for the minister of Knox Church to fall in love.

"Love!" she said the word caressingly. "Perhaps it is. They say love is a disturbing thing. But—does it usually make a man bang doors?"

"It often turns a sensible man into a fool." Miss Annabel's tone held bitterness. "But what I can't discover is this! If Angus is in love, whom is he in love with?" The question was delivered with such force that Esther jumped.

"I'm sure I don't know!"

"Nor do I. And that is what I must find out. I have my suspicions. My dear, don't let me startle you, but have you ever thought that it might possibly be—your mother?"

"Gracious! So it might! I never thought of it."

"I have not been blind," went on Miss Annabel complacently. "I have noticed how often he calls at the Elms and how long he stays. Also how very considerate he is of Mrs. Coombe, how patient with Jane, how indulgent with you—"

"Indulgent with me!" indignantly. "Why should he be 'indulgent' with me?"

"Why, indeed," asked Miss Macnair pointedly, "unless on account of your mother?"

Esther subdued a desire to laugh. Many little things, half-observed, seemed to fit in with Miss Annabel's theory. Yet, somehow, instinct told her that the theory was wrong.

"I don't believe it," she declared finally. "At first I thought it possible but now I seem to know that we're on the wrong track. Mr. Macnair is not in love with mother, and as for mother—Oh, the thing is absurd! Aren't you awfully hungry, Miss Annabel?"



CHAPTER XVII

It was a curious luncheon party. The host was abstracted, nervous, far from being his usual bland self. The guest was subdued, silent, uneasy for no reason at all. The hostess, usually an ever-springing well of comment and question, had decided upon quiet dignity as the most fitting expression of sensibilities ignored by the banging of doors.

"I think, Angus," she ventured once, "that you ought to remonstrate with Mr. McCandless in regard to 'If a man die.' An Easter Anthem is an Easter Anthem, but after five renderings it is hardly fair to expect the congregation to behave as if they had never heard it before."

"Quite so," said the minister absently.

"Then may I tell him myself that it is your special request—"

"Certainly not. I wish you would not interfere, Annabel. The choir does very well. I think I have told you before that your continual desire for something novel in music has not my sympathy. I am not sure that I approve of this growing craze for anthems. They seem to me, sometimes, wholly unconnected with worship. We do not ask for new hymns every Sunday, nor do we ever become weary of the psalms. Indeed, familiarity seems often the measure of our affection."

"Net with anthems," firmly. "Anthems are different. Aren't anthems different, Esther?"

"I have known familiarity to breed something besides affection in the case of anthems," agreed Esther.

In the ordinary course of things this remark would have aroused her host into delivering a neat and timely discourse upon the proper relation of music to the service of the Protestant Church and the tendency of the present age to unduly exalt the former at the expense of the latter. But to-day he merely upset the salt and looked things at the innocent salt-cellar which his conscience, or his cloth, did not allow him to utter.

Miss Annabel raised her eyebrows at Esther in a significant way, telegraphing, "What did I tell you?" And Esther signaled back, "You were right. He is certainly not himself."

Several other topics were introduced with no better result and every one felt relieved when lunch was over.

"I think," said the Reverend Angus, as they arose, "that it is probably pleasanter in the garden."

Esther glanced at Miss Annabel. She wanted very much to go home. Yet in Coombe it was distinctly bad mannered to leave hurriedly, after a meal. She thought of pleading a headache, but the excuse seemed too transparent and she could think of nothing better. Miss Annabel was unresponsive. Her host was already moving toward the door. Now he held it open for her. There was nothing to do but go. If she were clever she could keep the conversation in Miss Annabel's hands.

But Miss Annabel's brother had other ideas. "I think," he suggested with the soft authority which in that house was law, "that as you are taking Mrs. Miller's class, Annabel, it might be well for you to look over the Sabbath School lesson. Our guest will excuse you, I know."

"Why, I've hardly seen her at all, Angus."

"There will be time later. I am sure Miss Esther understands."

Esther understood very well and her heart sank. She was probably in for another scolding. However, as politeness required, she murmured that on no account would she wish to interfere with the proper religious instruction of Mrs. Miller's class. Miss Annabel looked rebellious, but as usual found discretion the better part and contented herself with another facial telegram to Esther: "Find out what is the matter with him." And Esther smiled and nodded: "I'll try."

"Perhaps you would like to see the rose bush to which my sister referred," began the minister nervously as they stepped out upon the lawn. "It is a very fine rose, but pink, I regret to say, pink. It is unfortunate that Annabel should dislike pink so much. I think myself that a pink rose is very pretty. Something a little different from the red and white varieties."

Esther murmured, "Naturally," and opened her strange eyes widely so that he could see the mischief which was like a blue flash in the depths of them. He coloured faintly.

"I fear I am talking nonsense! The fact is that I am thinking of something else. Something so important that it occupies my mind completely. That is why, Esther, I wished to speak with you alone."

The girl was thoroughly interested now. She was flattered also. Miss Annabel had been right. Something was troubling the minister. And she, Esther, was to be his confidant. To her untroubled, girlish conceit (girls are very wise!) it seemed natural enough. She had no doubt of her ability to help him. Therefore her face and her answering "Yes?" were warmly encouraging.

It is a general belief that a woman always knows, instinctively, when a man is going to propose to her. She cannot be taken unawares; her flutter, her surprise, her hesitancy are assumed as being artistically suitable, but her unpreparedness is never bona fide. If this be the true psychology of the matter then Esther's case was the exception which proves the rule. No warning came to her, no intuition. She was still looking at the minister with that warm expression of impersonal interest, when, without further preliminaries, he began his halting avowal of love.

Had the poor pink rose-bush suddenly flamed into crimson she could scarcely have been more surprised. She caught her breath with the shock of it! But shocks are quickly over. One adjusts one's self with incredible swiftness. A moment—and it seemed to Esther that she ought to have been expecting this. That she ought to have known it all along. Thousands of trifles mocked at her for her blindness, thousands of unheeded voices shrieked the truth into her opened ears. She felt miserably guilty. Not yet had she arrived at the stage when she could justify her blindness and deafness to herself. Later, she would understand how custom, the life-long habit of regarding the minister as a man apart, had helped to dull her perception. Later, common sense would prove her innocent of any wilful blunder. But just now, in her first bewilderment, it seemed that nothing could ever excuse that lack of understanding which had made this declaration possible!

"I love you, Esther! I have loved you for two years." (It was like the Reverend Angus to refer to the exact period.) "You must have seen it. This can be no surprise to you. You may blame me in your heart for not speaking sooner. But you were young. There seemed time enough. Then, lately, when I saw that you were no longer a child, I decided to speak as soon as your mother should have returned. But to-day I felt that I could not wait longer. I must know at once—now! I must hear you say that you love me. That you will be my wife. You will—Esther?"

His impassioned tones lingered on the name with ecstasy.

The startled girl forced herself to look at him, a look swift as a swallow's dart, but in it she saw everything—the light on his face—the love in his eyes! And something else she saw, something of which she did not know the name but from which, not loving him, she shrank with an instinctive shiver of revolt. He seemed a different man. The minister, the teacher, was gone, and in his place stood the lover, the claimer. Yes—that was it. He claimed her, his glance, his voice—somewhere in the girl's heart a red spark of anger began to glow.

She tried to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture. "No, do not answer yet. Although you must have known what I have felt for you, you are startled by my suddenness, I can see that. I have told you that it was not my intention to speak so soon. Circumstances have hurried me. I felt that I must have this settled. That—that episode of last week alone would have determined me. Things like that must not recur. I must have the right to advise, to—to protect you. You are so young. You do not know the world, its wickedness, its incredible vileness." His face was white with intense inward passion. "With me you will be safe. My God! to think of you at the mercy of that man—of any man! It stirs a madness of hate in me. Hate is a sin, I know, but God will understand—it is born of love, of my love for you."

Again the girl tried to force some words from her trembling lips. And again he stopped her.

"Do not speak yet. I apologise for my violence. Forgive it. We need not refer to this aspect of the matter again. Let us dwell only upon the sweeter idea of our love—for you do love me? You will love me—Esther?"

But the time for speech had gone. To her own intense surprise and to the minister's consternation, Esther burst into tears.

She was frightened, angry, stung with pity and a kind of horror. She felt herself honoured and insulted at the same time; and with this strange medley of emotions was a consciousness of youth and inexperience very different from the calm, untried confidence of a few minutes before.

"Forgive me, forgive me!" pleaded the conscience stricken suitor. "I have been too sudden! I should have prepared you. I should have allowed you to see more plainly." With a lover's first, fond air of possession he attempted to take her hand.

"Don't!" The word was sharp as a pistol shot. Esther's tears were suddenly stayed. Furtively she slipped the hand he had touched behind her. With the other she felt for her handkerchief and frankly wiped her eyes.

"You startled me," she explained presently. "And I am so sorry, so very sorry! I never dreamed that you thought of me at all—in that way, any more than I have thought of you. You honour me very much. But it is impossible. Quite, quite impossible."

"You mean my position here, as minister? Believe me, I have thought of all that. There may be difficulties but we will conquer them together. Nothing is impossible if you love me, dear."

"Oh!" She turned wide blue eyes upon him. "That is just it. I do not love you."

The blow fell swift, unerring, dealt by the mercilessly honest hand of youth. Esther's eyes were quite dry now. Her nervousness was passing. Regret and pity were merged in one overpowering, instinctive desire: the desire to show him beyond all manner of doubt that she repudiated that possessive touch upon her hand. "I could not ever possibly marry you," she said, as calmly as if she had been accustomed to dismissing suitors all her life.

They were still standing by the rose-bush whose desperate fate it was to produce pink roses. With incredulous dismay, the minister saw her turn from him and take a step toward the house.

She had refused him! She was leaving him! At any moment Annabel might finish her Sunday School lesson and come out upon the lawn—all his self-possession vanished like a puff of smoke.

"Esther!" he cried, "Esther! wait. Give me a moment."

She paused, but did not turn.

"I think there is nothing more to say—I am very sorry."

Sorry! She was sorry. This young girl upon whom he had set his desire, of whom he had felt so sure, to whom his love should have come as a crown, was sorry. King Cophetua, flouted by the beggar maid, could not have been more astonished, more deeply humiliated!

But the greater wound was not to his pride. At any cost to his dignity and self-respect he could not let her go like this. His ministerial manner fell away, his readiness deserted him. In a moment he became all lover, pleading, entreating, with the one great abandon of his life, with the stammering eloquence of unspeakable desire!

Slowly the girl turned to him. He saw her pure profile, then the full charm of her changing face. The blue eyes, widely open, were darker, lovelier than ever—Surely there was softening in their depths....

"Es—ther, Es—ther!" Miss Annabel's voice broke upon the tense moment with cheerful insistence, and Miss Annabel herself appeared at the turn of the walk, waving a slip of paper. She saw them at once.

"You're wanted at home, Esther. Your mother's come back. To-day! Think of that! On the noon train. In face of the whole town. And all she said when Elder MacTavish met her coming up from the station was that she had forgotten it was Sunday. Fancy!"



CHAPTER XVIII

Perhaps never, in all her life of inopportune arrivals, had Miss Annabel been so truly welcome—or so bitterly resented! Esther turned to her with a heart-sob of relief, the minister walked away without a word.

"Dear me! What's the matter?" said the good lady. "You seem all excited. Perhaps I shouldn't have shouted out the news so abruptly. But it never occurred to me that you might be startled. 'Tisn't as if your mother had been away a year. Jane's waiting for you down by the gate. Such a peculiar child! Nothing I could say will induce her to come in. Don't you find Jane is a peculiar child, Esther?"

"Only a little shy," said Esther, quickening her steps.

"Shy! Mercy, I shouldn't call her shy. That child has the self-possession of a Chinee! I hope you won't mind me saying it, but a little shyness is exactly what Jane needs."

Esther, whose shaken nerves threatened hysterical laughter, made no reply to this, but hurried toward the small figure by the garden gate.

"Oh, Jane!" she called, somewhat shakily.

At her voice, the Shy One stopped kicking holes in the turf with the toes of her new boots and executing a bearlike rush, threw herself into her sister's arms.

"I'm home, Esther! So's mother! And she says I don't have to go to Sunday School. That's why I didn't want to come in. Let's hurry before the minister comes."

"Listen to that!" said Miss Annabel in indignation. "Any one would think my brother was an ogre. Angus! Why, he's gone! I thought he was following us."

"I think Mr. Macnair went into the house."

"Did he? What did I tell you? Perhaps my news surprised him as well as you. I thought he looked as pale as a plate. What do you think?"

"I think it is none of our business."

Miss Annabel gave her a shrewd look. "Perhaps not your business. You don't have to live with him. But I do. Well, good-bye, my dear. Tell your mother," significantly, "that I'll be over to see her soon."

Both girls were relieved that the minister did not leave his study to say good-bye. They breathed more freely and their steps slackened as soon as the corner which hid the manse had been safely passed.

"I've got new boots," began Jane. "See them? And Fred's new dog has got puppies! He calls her Pickles. She got the puppies this morning. Oh! they're darlings! But Fred is horrid. He says he is going to give me one for my own, to make up for Timothy. Just as if anything ever could! I never knew any one so heartless as Fred—except Job."

"Job who?" It was a relief to Esther to let the childish chatter run on.

"Why, Job. Job was just like Fred. When all his wives died and his little children and his cows, he felt bad, but when God gave him more wives and more children and lots of cows he was pleased as Punch. I always thought that so strange of God," in a reflective tone, "but I expect he knew what kind of man Job was and that he didn't have any real feelings. Do you think I ought to take the puppy, Esther? I shouldn't like to be like Job."

"I think there is no danger, dear. But how is mother? Better?"

"Was she sick?" in surprise.

"Her headaches, you know."

"Oh, yes. I don't know whether they are better or not," carelessly. "I didn't see much of mother while we were away. I played all day with Mrs. Bremner's little girl. Except when we went shopping. I think she must be better, for she did such lots of shopping."

Esther smiled. "Not very much, I think, Janie. Shopping takes money."

"But she did! I have lots and lots of new clothes. Only," discontentedly, "most of them don't fit. Mother could never be bothered trying them on. She's got some lovely things, too. Dresses and hats and piles of new shoes and heaps of silk stockings—"

"Jane, why do you say 'lots' and 'piles' and 'heaps' when you know you are exaggerating?"

But there was a note of anxiety in the reproof nevertheless.

"I'm not exaggerating, Esther! She did. Even Miss Bremner asked her what she was going to do with them all."

The elder girl's fingers tightened upon the small hand she held. Her red lips set themselves in a firm line. In face of a danger which she could see and measure Esther had courage enough. And she had faced this particular danger before.

"Mother will tell me all about it, no doubt," she said calmly. "Did she get me something pretty, too?"

"Yes. It's a surprise."

"And when she got all the pretty things I suppose she told the clerks to charge them?"

"Oh, no. She paid for them out of her purse."

Esther was conscious of a swift reaction. The things were paid for. Of course Jane had exaggerated. Children have no sense of value. Some dainty things, Mrs. Coombe was sure to buy; but, as Esther well knew, her slender stock of money would hardly have run to "piles" and "heaps." And of course she had been unjust in fearing that Mary had gone into debt. They had one experience of that kind, an experience which had ended in a solemn promise that it would never happen again. Mary understood the position as well as she did.

As the girl's thought trailed naturally into the problem paths of every day, her weeks of freedom, her new interests, the strange experience in the manse garden seemed already remote. With the little frown of accustomed perplexity slipping in between her straight, black brows, her deeper agitation quieted. The unusual has no antidote so effective as the commonplace.

They found Mrs. Coombe waiting for them on the veranda. Lying back in the shade, in her white dress she looked very much at her ease. Yet a quick observer might have noticed a certain anxiety in the glance she tried to render merely welcoming. She was thinner than she had been; tired lines dragged at the corners of the pouting mouth and dark circles showed plainly through their dusting of pearl powder. Changes which creep in unnoticed when one sees a person every day are startlingly apparent when absence has forced a clearer focus. Esther had known that her step-mother had changed, was changing, but as she bent over her now, the extent of the change shocked her. With a tightening at her heart she wondered what her father would say if he could see the difference wrought by one short year. Pearl powder, lavishly used, is not becoming, especially when it sifts into multitudes of fine lines; nor can powder or anything else brighten a dull, yellowing skin which in health would still be delicately clear and firm.

But the dulled eyes and the faded face were only the symptoms of the real change in Mary Coombe. The thing itself lay deeper. Striving to express a subtlety which would not lend itself to words, Esther had more than once told herself that her mother was "not the same woman." Yet it was only to-day, as she stooped to kiss her, that the startling, literal truth of the phrase struck home. The outside changes were nothing—it was the woman herself who had changed.

"Well, Esther!" The sweet high voice with its impatient note was the same as ever. "Here we are home again. Fancy me forgetting it was Sunday! Wasn't it funny? We met old MacTavish coming up from the station (not a single cab down to meet the train, of course!) and he looked so shocked. Really, this place grows more insufferable every day. It seems to agree with you, though, you're looking awfully well. Amy looks well, too. The new doctor must be something of a wonder."

"He is considered very clever. Aunt Amy is certainly better. Now that you are home you must let him see what he can do for you."

Mrs. Coombe's pouting lips lengthened into a hard line.

"I won't see a doctor. And that's flat."

"Are you feeling better, then?"

As was always the case, her mother's perversity dissipated Esther's sympathy and left her tone cold. It was all the colder probably because just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs. Coombe was wearing was not simple at all. The delicate embroidery on it was all hand work. And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle. It was probably a new "best" gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on? The skirt was not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent. Esther noticed these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned women in town she had become one of the most slovenly. All her natty, pretty, American "style" which the plainer Canadians had sometimes envied was gone. But this—this was worse than usual! The girl's quick eyes travelled downward, noting the increased signs of deterioration with something like distress.

"Why, mother," she exclaimed involuntarily, "there is a hole in your stocking!"

"Is there?" Mary Coombe thrust out a small and elegant foot clad in thinnest silk and shod with pretty slippers not very clean and turning over at the heel.

"Dear me!" she said. "So there is. I need new slippers too. I quite forgot to get any."

"Oh, mother!" Jane's cry was instant. "You got heaps. Tan ones and brown ones and white ones and black ones with silver buckles—"

"Jane!" interrupted Esther, laughing. "Give your imagination a rest."

"But you did, didn't you, mother?"

"Did I? Why, yes—I did buy a few shoes. I had forgotten. The Customs man didn't find them either. Run and fetch me a clean white pair, Jane, and bring down the surprise we got for Esther—see how disapproving she looks. I declare, Esther, it would be just like you to make things disagreeable the moment I get home. I didn't charge a cent, if that's what you're afraid of."

"I knew you wouldn't do that," gravely. "And of course I'm glad you got the things. But I can't see how you managed."

"Oh, sales," vaguely. "Things are so cheap in Detroit and Jessica Bremner is a born shopper. She gets wonderful bargains. Anyway, I got them, and I'm not a cent in debt."

"What's debt?" asked Jane.

"Buying what you can't pay for, Janie."

"Oh, mother paid for everything. I saw her. It's Mrs. Bremner that's in debt, isn't she, mother?"

"Don't be silly, Jane, of course not. Jessica is far better off than we are."

"But she only gave you half the money for the ring. I heard her say—"

"Jane, get those slippers at once."

"I'm going. But Mrs. Bremner said—"

Mrs. Coombe's hand came down with stinging force upon the child's ear.

"Will you obey me—or will you not?"

Jane retired wailing and her mother sank back into her veranda chair, red spots burning through the powder on her cheeks.

Esther sat very still for a moment, and then, without looking at the other, she asked in a low voice:

"What did she mean?"

"How should I know?" fretfully.

"What ring did Mrs. Bremner give you money for? Did—you have to sell one of your rings?"

"Yes, I did."

"Which one?"

"Oh, don't bother me, Esther."

"But I want to know which one."

"It was the big red one!" called Jane from the hallway, where she had waited, safely out of reach.

Mary Coombe sprang up, fury blazing in her eyes, but Jane had fled, and Esther, cool and capable, was blocking the doorway.

"Sit down, mother. I've got to know about this. What ring does she mean?"

For an instant the older woman hesitated, then with a little shrug she turned back to the chair. The fury had died away as quickly as it had arisen.

"I knew you would be disagreeable," she said. "And you were bound to hear about the ring some time. Jane is the most ungrateful child, and a little tell-tale; the makings of a regular little cat! I'm sure I spent her full share on her, and I've brought you something nice, too. Not that I expect to be thanked for it. Of course I had to have some money. I hadn't a rag to wear, not a rag. And I got everything ready made. It's cheaper. Anyway, I can't stand dressmakers any more. They paw one so. I can't bear to be touched, my wretched nerves! And I remembered the fuss you made about the bills last time. You know you did make a fuss, Esther, as if all your dear father left belonged to you and not to me—"

"But what did you do?"

"I'm telling you, amn't I? I sold the ring, of course."

"Which ring?"

"The ruby ring. It's the only one that is worth anything!"

"You sold Aunt Amy's ring?"

"If you wish to put it that way, yes. I consider it is as much my ring as hers. She is my aunt and it is understood that all her things will come to me. She has lived here ever since I was married and I think it's a funny thing if she can't help me out occasionally. I simply had to have money and the ruby was the only thing worth selling. Good Heavens! Don't look so crazy. One would think I had stolen it!"

"You have."

Again Mrs. Coombe arose; this time without flurry. The little excitement had done her good. The dull eyes were actually sparkling, the sallow cheeks were flushed. She looked just as she used to look in one of her little rages before the great change came.

"That's enough, Esther. I'll take no more from you. I did what seemed to me right. If Amy were in her right mind I should not have had to take the ring, she would have offered it. Under the circumstances I did the only sensible thing. Amy will never discover the loss. I am getting a very good price for it from Jessica Bremner. It is a valuable jewel. She snatched at the chance of getting it."

Behind its whiteness Esther's face seemed to glow with pale flame. "Is it possible that you have forgotten the history of that ring?" she asked. "That it was poor Auntie's engagement ring and that, although she can't remember anything about it, she knows it means something more than life to her. And that she always says that she cannot die without the ruby on her finger?"

Mrs. Coombe looked uncomfortable, but kept her poise.

"It's all rubbish. She'll forget all about it. Dying people don't think of ruby rings. And anyway, she will probably outlive all of us. If not—we can easily divert her attention."

The girl looked at her step-mother in horror, half believing that this must be some cruel joke. The callousness of the words seemed unbelievable. But the reality of them could no longer be doubted and the pale glow died out of her face, leaving it white and hard.

"I do not understand you," she said slowly. "Somehow you do not seem quite—human. But be sure of this, Aunt Amy shall have back her lover's ring. Jane says it has not all been paid for. How much did you receive?"

"I shall not tell you. And I warn you, Esther, not to waste your money. If you buy it back, I shall sell it again."

They were standing now facing each other. Esther took a step forward and looked down steadily into her step-mother's face. Her own curious eyes were wide open, they looked like blue stars, bright, cold and powerful as flame.

"No! You shall not."

For a space Mary Coombe met that sword-like look, then her weaker will gave way. Her eyes shifted and fell. Her hands began to pluck nervously at the embroidery of her dress. She laughed, a little, affected laugh with no mirth in it, turned and entered the house.



CHAPTER XIX

We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor, with an address and a purse of fifty dollars.

The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine, was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs.

The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a quilt, not the old-fashioned kind, of course, but something quite new—an autograph quilt, very chaste.

It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed constitution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever her failings, was ever discussed in meeting—when she was present.

"What I cannot excuse," said Mrs. Bartley Simson, "is the tone of levity in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify."

"Besides," said Miss Atkins, the secretary, "it was a—it sounded like—what I mean to say is that she could not possibly, no one could possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was."

A subdued chorus of "Certainly not" and "Absurd" showed the trend of public opinion upon this point.

"I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday," said the youngest Miss Sinclair, who always stood for peace at any price.

"Don't be silly, Jessie!" The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. "That's a different thing altogether. For my own part," raising her voice, "I think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters, and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope," here she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle, "I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!"

The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious virtue, raised to the nth power, shot through the circle.

"You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?" asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)

"I do."

"But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!" objected the younger Miss Sinclair, who was a kindly creature.

An electric silence fell upon the quilters. Every one looked toward the president.

"I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting," said the President firmly.

"But—but I did not insinuate anything!" stammered poor Miss Jessie who, severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President's eye, had turned the colour of the crimson square before her.

"We all know," went on the President more mildly, "that Mr. Macnair calls fairly often at the Elms. We may even have heard rumours to the effect that he intends—I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand what I mean. But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions. There is absolutely nothing in it. His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence of—er—affliction in the house."

"Do you mean Aunt Amy?" A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty face looked up. "Why, can't you see that there is a much simpler explanation than that?"

It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this moment to arrive. But the Ladies' Aid were used to interrupted statements. It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite taken by surprise. A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had learned to expect that. It was the penalty for being late.

"Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!" said the hostess pleasantly. "No, you are not very late. We are only just beginning."

Every one nodded and smiled. Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to provide space for the newcomer. A few left their work in order to shake hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including topics of conversation. In the space of a few seconds it was noticed that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen her look worse.