old friends
can support a silence gracefully--but of course these two were very old
friends.) Esther wondered, idly, how it would be best to explain her
absence to her mother. Toothache, perhaps? Not that the excuse mattered.
Mary never listened to excuses. She would be cross and fretful anyway
and complain that Esther never treated her friends with proper courtesy.
The best thing she could do would be to go to bed. But she made no
movement to go; the moments ticked by on the hall clock unnoticed.

After a time, which might have been long or short, there was a stir in
the room and her mother's voice called "Esther! Esther!"

The girl stood up, smoothed her white dress, slipped out on to the
veranda and into the garden. From there she answered the call.
"Yes, Mother?"

"Where are you? You sound as if you had been asleep. Doctor Callandar is
going."

Esther came lightly up the steps.

"So soon?"

"It is early," agreed Mrs. Coombe playfully, "but I can't keep him."

Esther, herself in shadow, could see the doctor's face as he stood
quietly beside his hostess. It was full of an endless weariness. Her
pride melted. Impulsively she put out a warm hand--

"Good night, Miss Esther. How very sweet your garden is at night. But it
feels as if our fine weather were over. The wind begins to blow
like rain."

Esther's hand dropped to her side. Perhaps he had not seen it in the
dusk.

CHAPTER XXV

We all know that strange remoteness into which one wakes from out deep
sleep. Though the eye be open, the Ego is not there to use it. For an
immeasurable second, the awakener knows not who he is, nor why, nor
where. Only there is, faintly perceptible, a reminiscent consciousness
whether of joy or sorrow, a certain flavour of the soul, sweet or
bitter, into which the Ego, slipping back, announces, "I am happy" or "I
am miserable."

Esther had not hoped to sleep that night but she did sleep and heavily.
When she awoke it was to blankness, a cold throbbing blankness of
undefined ill being. Then her Ego, with a sigh, came back from far
places; the busy brain shot into focus; all the memories, fears,
humiliation of the night before stood forth clear and poignant. She
buried her face in the pillow.

Yet, after the first rush of consciousness, there came a difference.
There always is a difference between night and day thoughts. Fresh from
its wonder-journey, the soul is braver in the morning, the brain is
calmer, the spi