d not heard what she said, save that she
had mentioned Esther's name. Rather he was thinking with a gratitude
which shook his very soul that fate had at least spared the innocent.
Esther was safe. She did not love him. He felt sure of that now. Strange
irony, that his deepest thankfulness should be that Esther did not
love him.

A small hand fell like a feather upon his arm.

"Harry!"

"Yes, Molly!"

He looked down into her quivering face and saw in it, dimly, the face of
the girl in his locket, not a mere outward semblance this time but the
soul of Molly Weston, reaching out to him across the years. Her light
touch on his arm was the very shackle of fate. Her glance claimed him.
Nothing that she had done could modify that claim--the terrible claim of
weakness upon the strength which has misled it.

Vaguely he felt that this was the test, the ultimate test. If he failed
now he was lost indeed. Something within him reached out blindly for the
strength he had dreamed was his, found it, clutched it desperately--knew
that it held firm.

He took the slight figure in his arms, felt that it still trembled and
said the most comforting thing he could think of. "Don't worry, Molly.
No one will ever know."

CHAPTER XXIV

Ester was sitting upon the back porch, hulling strawberries and watching
with absent amusement the tireless efforts of Jane to induce a very fat
and entirely brainless pup to shake hands. It had been a busy day, for
owing to the absence of the free and independent "Saturday Help" Esther
had insisted upon helping Aunt Amy in the kitchen. Now the Saturday pies
and cakes were accomplished and only the strawberries lay between Esther
and freedom.

She had intended, a little later, to walk out along the river road in
search of marguerites, but when Mary, more than usually restless after
her fainting spell of yesterday, had offered to go instead, she had not
demurred. It would be quite as pleasant to take a book and sit out under
the big elm. Esther was at that stage when everything seems to be for
the best in this "best of all possible worlds." She was living through
those suspended moments when life stands tiptoe, breathless with
expectancy, yet calm with an assurance of joy to come.

With the knowledge that Henry Callandar was not quite as other men, had
come an intense, delicious shyness; the aloofness of the maiden who
feels love near yet cannot, through her very nature, take one step
to meet