We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor, with an address and a purse of fifty dollars.

The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine, was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs.

The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a quilt, not the old-fashioned kind, of course, but something quite new—an autograph quilt, very chaste.

It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed constitution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever her failings, was ever discussed in meeting—when she was present.

"What I cannot excuse," said Mrs. Bartley Simson, "is the tone of levity in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify."

"Besides," said Miss Atkins, the secretary, "it was a—it sounded like—what I mean to say is that she could not possibly, no one could possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was."

A subdued chorus of "Certainly not" and "Absurd" showed the trend of public opinion upon this point.

"I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday," said the youngest Miss
Sinclair, who always stood for peace at any price.

"Don't be silly, Jessie!" The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. "That's a different thing altogether. For my own part," raising her voice, "I think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters, and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope," here she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle, "I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!"

The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious virtue, raised to the _n_th power, shot through the circle.

"You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?" asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)

"I do."

"But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!" objected the younger Miss
Sinclair, who was a kindly creature.

An electric silence fell upon the quilters. Every one looked toward the president.

"I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting," said the
President firmly.

"But—but I did not insinuate anything!" stammered poor Miss Jessie who, severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President's eye, had turned the colour of the crimson square before her.

"We all know," went on the President more mildly, "that Mr. Macnair calls fairly often at the Elms. We may even have heard rumours to the effect that he intends—I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand what I mean. But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions. There is absolutely nothing in it. His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence of—er—affliction in the house."

"Do you mean Aunt Amy?" A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty face looked up. "Why, can't you see that there is a much simpler explanation than that?"

It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this moment to arrive. But the Ladies' Aid were used to interrupted statements. It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite taken by surprise. A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had learned to expect that. It was the penalty for being late.

"Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!" said the hostess pleasantly.
"No, you are not very late. We are only just beginning."

Every one nodded and smiled. Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to provide space for the newcomer. A few left their work in order to shake hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including topics of conversation. In the space of a few seconds it was noticed that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen her look worse.

"Dear Mrs. Coombe, I think your belt-pin has become—allow me!" Miss Milligan, dressmaker in private life, with a discreet swiftness, twitched the blouse and skirt into place and deftly fastened it. At the same time she closed a gap in the fastening of the blouse itself.

Mary Coombe laughed. "Dear me! Am I undone? I must have forgotten to ask Amy to fix me. These blouses that fasten in the back are such a nuisance!"

The President smiled politely, but with evident effort. Mrs. Coombe was a prominent member. Still, on principle, she, a president, could not be expected to approve of people who forgot to have themselves done up. Supposing the minister had been present!

"What are we doing this afternoon?" asked the unconscious delinquent languidly. "Autograph quilts? I've got a lot of blocks for you—friends of mine in the city." She began to fumble in the pretty workbag she carried. "Gracious, I was sure I had them with me! Isn't that odd? I can't find them."

"Let me look," suggested Miss Jessie Sinclair kindly.

But the other snatched back the open bag with a gesture which was almost rude.

"Oh, no—they are not there! I can't imagine what I have done with them." She looked up in a bewildered way. Indeed the perturbation was so out of proportion to the size of the calamity that the ladies questioned each other with their eyes.

The President tapped with her thimble upon the quilting frame and every one became very busy. "I hope," she said, taking the conversation into her own hands for safe keeping, "that you found all well upon your return, Mrs. Coombe? I hardly ever seem to see Esther now. Did you know that we have been talking of changing our meeting to Saturday afternoon so that Esther and some more of our younger folk may join us? We thought that it would be so nice for them—and for us too," she finished graciously.

Mrs. Coombe looked surprised. "I can hardly see Esther at a Ladies' Aid
Meeting," she said. "Did she tell you she would come?"

"No. We have not yet told any one of the proposed change. But we all felt—"

"We all felt," interrupted Miss Sinclair, who was fairly sniffing the air with the spirit of glorious war, "that the less time our young girls have to go off philandering with young fools whom no one knows anything about, the better it will be for everybody concerned!"

Mary looked up with an air of pleased surprise.

"Has Esther been philandering?" she asked eagerly.

The President frowned. This was hardly according to Hoyle.

"I really think," began Miss Jessie Sinclair indignantly, "that Esther ought to be allowed to tell her mother—"

"Gracious! Esther never tells me anything. And I'm dying to know. Who is the 'young fool'?—do tell me, somebody."

Strangely enough, now that the way was open, no one seemed to have anything to say.

"You've simply got to tell me now," urged Mary delightedly. "Unless it's only a silly bit of gossip."

This fillip had the desired effect. Everybody began to talk at once and in five minutes Esther's step-mother knew all about the new doctor and the broken motor. When they paused for breath, she laughed softly.

"It's the most amusing thing I've heard in ages. Fancy—Esther! Oh, it's delicious." She looked around the circle of surprised and disappointed faces and laughed again. "Oh, don't pretend! You know very well that you're not a bit shocked, really. And surely you don't think that I ought to scold Esther? Why," with a little flare of her old-time loyalty, "Esther is worth a dozen ordinary girls. I'd trust Esther with Apollo on a desert island. But I'll admit I'm rather anxious to see the young man. He must be rather nice if Esther agreed to show him around. As for the accident," she shrugged her shoulders, "I know enough about motors to know that that might happen any time."

"You are right, of course," the President's tone was more cordial. "And anyway we have no right to discuss Esther's affairs. The reference to it grew out of the proposed change of meeting. And the change of meeting was thought of chiefly because when Mr. Macnair heard about the escapade he seemed much worried. Naturally, as he says, he carries all his young people on his heart, and Dr. Callandar being such a newcomer—"

"Oh, yes, naturally." Mary Coombe's little gurgle of amusement had a note of cruelty in it, for she alone of all these women had guessed why the Rev. Angus Macnair should have taken Esther's escapade so much to heart. She knew, too, that the minister had no chance, but the idea of a rival was novel—and entertaining. Could Esther really have taken a fancy to this young doctor? Mary knew the Coombe gossips too well to take their chatter seriously, but there might be something in it. At any rate, there was enough to use as a conversational weapon against Esther. She was becoming a little nervous of Esther lately. The girl was positively growing up. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, a new strength had come to her, a strength which her step-mother's weakness felt and resented. But now with this nice little story in reserve, things might be more even. Mary's eyes sparkled as she thought of some of the smart things she could say the next time Esther began to make a fuss about—about the matter of the ruby ring, for instance. Esther had been most disagreeable about that. Just as if any one could have foreseen that Amy would miss it so soon, or indeed at all, since it had been her fancy to keep it shut up in a stupid box.

As a matter of fact, the affair of the ring had assumed the proportions of a small catastrophe. Aunt Amy had been feeling so much better that it had occurred to her to see if the ring were feeling better too. Only one peep she would take, hopeful that at last its strange enchantment might be past. If she could look into its depths without the blackness coming close she would know, with utter certainty, that Dr. Callandar's cleverness had circumvented the power of her old enemies. "They" would trouble her no more.

But when, flushed with hope, she looked—the ring was gone!

Esther, reading in the sitting room, was startled beyond words by the scream which rang through the house. She seemed to know at once what had happened and her gaze flew to her step-mother, laden with bitter reproach, before she sped up the stairs to Aunt Amy's room. The door was open and the tragedy was plain to see. Aunt Amy stood by the bureau with the empty box in her hand and on her face an expression so dreadful, so hopeless that, with a sob, the girl tried to crush it out against her breast.

"What is it, dear? Don't look like that."

"The ring, Esther! 'They' have taken the ring!"

For an instant the girl hesitated, but common justice demanded that the sordid truth be told.

"No, dear. The ring is safe. It was taken from the box, but in quite an ordinary, simple way. Don't tremble so! It is not lost. It is just as if I had gone to the box and borrowed it—"

As she faltered, the poor woman raised her head in an agony of hope. "Have you got it, Esther? Oh, Esther, give it to me! I love you, Esther! You shall have it when I am dead. But I can't die without it. I promised somebody—I—I can't remember. Oh, Esther, don't keep it away from me—give it to me now!"

Bitter, angry tears filled the girl's eyes as she took the pleading, fluttering hands in hers.

"Don't, dear! Listen. It is quite safe. But I haven't got it. I promise you solemnly I will get it back. You'll believe me, won't you? You know I would not deceive you. And you won't be frightened? No one had anything to do with taking it but ourselves. I am going to tell you just how it happened—"

"Don't bother. I'll tell her myself."

In the doorway stood Mrs. Coombe, her eyes venomous with the anger of tortured nerves. Her high voice trembled on the verge of hysteria, yet she tried to speak with her usual mocking lightness.

"There is no need to make a mystery of the thing, I'm sure. I took the ring because I was hard up—needed money at once. You understand what that means, I suppose, Amy? You never wore the ring, nor would you allow me to wear it. It was simply wasted lying in that silly box. My own jewelry is of much less value. Besides, I use it. One would have thought that you would be glad to assist in some way with the—er—household expenses. In any case, no such fuss is necessary, and I should advise you," her voice grew suddenly cold and menacing, "not to scream like that again. A few more such shrieks and—people will begin to wonder." Without so much as a glance at Esther she passed on to her own room.

"Don't mind her!" The indignant girl tried to draw the trembling woman close. But Aunt Amy cowered away. Five minutes had undone the work of weeks. All the doctor's carefully laid foundations were crumbling. Esther, wrung with pity and remorse, stroked the grey hair in silence. She expected an outbreak of childish tears, but it did not come. Rather, the shivering grew less and presently Aunt Amy raised her head.

"It was she—Mary—who took it?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes. But remember I have promised to get it back."

Aunt Amy looked at her blankly. She did not seem to hear.

"I never guessed it was Mary. Never! But now I know. I'll never be fooled again."

"Know what?" asked Esther uneasily. There was a look in Aunt Amy's eyes which she disliked, a sly, cool look—more nearly mad than any look she had ever surprised there. "Tell me what it is that you know," she repeated coaxingly.

But Aunt Amy would not tell. It was just as well, she thought, that Esther should not know that at last, after many years, she had found out the agent employed by "they" for her undoing. Ah, if she had only found out sooner. The ruby ring might still be shining in its box. But of course "they" knew that she would never suspect Mary, her own niece. They were so clever! But now she could be as clever as they—oh, very, very clever!

"What did she mean about my screaming?" she asked, looking at Esther cunningly.

"Nothing, nothing at all! Don't think of it."

"But she did. I know what she meant. She meant that if I get—troublesome—she will shut me up!"

"Nonsense!" declared Esther, thrilled to the heart with pity. "You must never think such a thought, dear. You shall never live anywhere but here with us. Why, you are our good angel, Auntie. We could never get on without you—you know that."

Aunt Amy nodded, stroking the girl's soft hand with her work-worn one. "You are good and kind, Esther. I know you will take care of me, if you can. And I'm not afraid just now. It will be all right if I am clever. I must not be troublesome. If I am, she will put me away with the mad people. The people that make faces and scream. I never scream. Until to-day I haven't screamed for a long time. And I'll be more careful. Oh, I can be very careful, now that I know!"

Again the strange mad look. It flitted across her lifted eyes like a dark shadow behind a window shade. And again Esther tried gently to question her, but Aunt Amy was "clever." She didn't intend that Esther should find out.

The girl left her at last feeling both troubled and sad, but Mary Coombe laughed at her fears. She was in one of her most difficult moods.

"It was all a tempest in a tea cup, as usual," she declared pettishly. "I do wish, Esther, that you would not be so disagreeable. She will have forgotten all about the ring by to-morrow. All she needs is a little plain speaking, and firmness."

"Firmness! Cruelty, you mean. You terrified her."

"Well, it had a good effect. She quieted down at once."

"She is too quiet. It's that which troubles me. Surely you can see the damage that has been done? All her new cheerfulness is gone. She is back to where she was before the doctor helped her."

"I never believed that any real improvement was possible. Insane people never recover."

"She is not insane! How can you say so? But how shall we explain the change in her to Dr. Callandar? We can't tell him that—that you—"

"Oh, don't mind me!" flippantly.

"Anyway, the ring will soon be back, thank heaven! I have written to
Mrs. Bremner."

"You wrote to Jessica?"

"Certainly. I told you I should. It was the only thing to do."

Mary Coombe's rage flickered and sank before the quiet force in the girl's face and voice. With all the will in the world she was too weak to oppose this new strength in Esther. And before her mortified pride could frame a retort, the girl had left the room.

It was of this quiet exit of Esther's that Mary was thinking as she sewed on the autograph quilt. Better than anything else it typified the change in the girl. It meant decision, and decision meant action. Mary shrugged her shoulders and frowned over the quilt. Yes, undoubtedly, Esther was getting troublesome. It might be well if she were married.