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."