rit more hopeful. After a half-hour's self-examination
with her face in the pillow Esther began to wonder if she had not been
foolishly apprehensive and whether it were not possible that half her
fears were bogies. The weight began to lighten, she breathed more
freely. Looking over the rim of the sheltering pillow the morning seemed
no longer hateful.

Foremost of all comforting thoughts was the conviction that instinct
must still be trusted against evidence. Through all her speculations as
to the unexplained happenings of the previous day, she found that
instinct held firmly to its former belief regarding the doctor's
feelings toward herself. There are some things which one knows
absolutely and Esther knew that Henry Callandar had looked upon her as a
man looks upon the woman he loves. He had loved her that night when they
paddled through the moonlight; he had loved her when he watched for her
coming along the road, but most of all he had loved her when, under the
eye of Aunt Amy, they had said good-bye at the garden gate. This much
was sure, else all her instincts were foresworn.

After this came chaos. She could not in any way read the riddle of his
manner of last night. Had the sudden resumption of his old friendship
with her mother absorbed his mind to the exclusion of everything else?
Impossible, if he loved her. Had purely physical weariness or mental
worry blotted her out completely for the time being? Impossible, if he
loved her. Then what had happened?

Doubtless it would all be simple enough when she understood. She sighed
and raised her head from the pillow. At any rate it was morning. The day
must be faced and lived through. Any one of its hours might bring
happiness again.

The rainstorm which had swept up during the night had passed, leaving
the morning clean. She needed no recollection to tell her that it was
Sunday. The Sabbath hush was on everything; no milkman's cans jingled
down the street; no playing children called or shouted; there was a bell
ringing somewhere for early service. Esther sighed again. She was sorry
it was Sunday. Work-a-day times are easiest.

A rich odour of coffee, insinuating itself through the half open door,
testified mutely to the fact that Aunt Amy was getting breakfast. It was
later than usual. After breakfast it would be time to dress for church.
Every one in Coombe dressed for church. It was a sacred rite. One and
all, they had clothes which were strictly Sabbatarian,