known indeed by
the name of Sunday Best.

Esther's Sunday best was a blue, voile, a lovely blue, the colour of her
eyes when in soft shadow. It was made with a long straight skirt
slightly high at the waist, round neck and elbow sleeves and with it
went soft, wrinkly gloves and a wide hat trimmed with cornflowers. She
knew that she looked well in it--and the doctor would be in church.

On this thought which flew into her mind like a swift swallow through an
open window, her lethargy fled and in its place came nervous haste; a
feverish impatience which brought her with a bound out of bed, flushed
and eager. Philosophy is all very well but it never yet stilled the
heart-beat of the young.

Aunt Amy looked up in mild surprise as she hurried into the kitchen in
time to butter toast and poach the eggs.

"Why, Esther!" she said in her bewildered way. "I thought--I didn't
think that you would get up this morning."

"Why? I am perfectly well, Auntie. Where is mother?"

"Oh, she's up! Picking flowers."

Esther looked slightly surprised. It was not Mrs. Coombe's habit to rise
early or to pick flowers, but before she had time to comment, Mary
herself entered the kitchen with an armful of roses.

"Hurry with your breakfast, Jane," she said, "I want you to take these
over to the doctor's office. I wonder you have not sent some to the poor
man before this, Esther. Mrs. Sykes' roses never amount to anything.
Shall I pour the coffee? I suppose you felt that you did not know him
well enough. But flowers sent in a neighbourly way would have been quite
all right. If you weren't always so stiff, people would like you better.
I felt quite ashamed of your behaviour last night. Of course it wasn't
necessary for you to stay in the room _all_ the evening, but it was
simply rude to run away as you did. You needn't make Jane an excuse.
Jane could put herself to bed, for once."

"I did--" began Jane, but catching sight of her sister's face, went no
further. And Mrs. Coombe, who was always talkative when airing a
grievance, paid no attention.

"If you are feeling huffy about the motor breaking down, you'll just
have to get over it," she went on. "It couldn't possibly have been Dr.
Callandar's fault anyway."

"I am quite sure that it wasn't."

"Then don't sulk. He is rather fine looking, don't you think? Though as
a boy he was almost ugly. It doesn't seem to matter in men--ugliness, I
mean. And of course in those days he could not af