Meanwhile, unconscious of her step-mother's troubled musings, Esther was loitering delightfully on her way from school. Aunt Amy, who never looked at a clock, but who always knew the time by what Jane called "magic," was beginning to wonder what had kept her. Strain her eyes as she would, there was no glint of a blue dress upon the long straight road, and Dr. Callandar, who in passing had stopped by the gate, declared that he had noticed a similar absence of that delectable colour between the cross roads and the school house.

"I thought that I might meet her," he confessed ingenuously, "but when she was not in sight, I concluded that I was too late. Some of those angel children have probably had to be kept in. Could you make use of me instead? I run errands very nicely."

"Oh, it isn't an errand." Aunt Amy smiled, for she liked Dr. Callandar and was always as simple as a child with him. His easy, courteous manner, which was the same to her as to every one else, helped her to be at once more like other people and more like herself. "It's a letter. I wanted Esther to read it to me. Of course I can read myself," as she saw his look of surprise, "but sometimes I do not read exactly what is written. My imagination bothers me. Do you ever have any trouble with your imagination, Doctor?"

"I have known it to play me tricks."

"But you can read a letter just as it's written, can't you?"

"Yes. I can do that."

"Then your imagination cannot be as large as mine. Mine is very large.
It interferes with everything, even letters. When I read a letter myself
I sometimes read things which aren't there. At least," with a faint show
of doubt, "people say they aren't there."

"In other words," said Callandar, "you read between the lines."

Aunt Amy's plain face brightened. It was so seldom that any one understood.

"Yes, that's it! You won't laugh at me when I tell you that everything, letters, handkerchiefs, dresses and everything belonging to people have a feeling in them—something that tells secrets? I can't quite explain."

"I have heard very sensitive people express some such idea. It sounds very fascinating. I should like very much to hear about it."

"Would you? You are sure you won't think me queer? My niece, Mary Coombe, does not like me to tell people about it. She has no imagination herself, none at all. She says it is all nonsense. But I think," shrewdly, "that she would like to know some of the things that I know. Won't you come in, Doctor? Come in and sit under the tree where it is cooler."

The doctor's hesitation was but momentary. He was keenly interested. And at the back of his mind was the thought that Esther must certainly be along presently. Fate had not favoured him of late. He had not seen her for five days. It is foolish to leave meetings to fate anyway. Then, if another reason were needed it was probable that if he stayed he would meet Esther's mother. He was beginning to feel quite curious about Mrs. Coombe.

"Thanks. I think I will come in. All the trees in Coombe are cool, but your elm is the coolest of them all. Let me arrange this cushion for you. Is that right?"

He settled Aunt Amy comfortably upon the least sloping portion of the old circular bench and, not wishing to trust it with his own weight, sat down upon the grass at her feet.

"Now," he said cheerfully, "let us have a regular psychic research meeting. Tell me all about it."

"What's that?" suspiciously.

"Psychic research? Oh, just finding out all about the queer things that happen to people."

"Do queer things happen to other people besides me?"

"Why, of course! Queer things happen to everybody."

Aunt Amy seemed glad to know this.

"They never talk about them," she said wistfully. "But, then, neither do
I. Except to you. What was it you wanted me to tell you?"

"Tell me what you mean when you say that you read in a letter what is not written there. You see I haven't much imagination myself and I don't understand it."

"Neither do I," naively. "But it seems to be like this—take this letter, for instance, when I found it in—well, it doesn't matter where I found it—but as soon as I picked it up, I knew that it was a love letter. I felt it. It is an old letter, I think. And some one has been angry with it. See, it is all crumpled. But it is a real love letter. All the love is there yet. When I took it in my hands it all came out to me, sweet and strong. Like—like the scent of something keen, fragrant, on a swift wind. I can't explain it!"

"You explain it very beautifully," gravely. "I can quite understand that love might be like that."

"Can you?" with a pleased smile. "And can you understand how I feel it? I can feel things in people, too. Love and hate and envy and all kinds of things. I never say so. I used to, but people did not like it. They always looked queer, or got angry. They seemed to think I had no right to see inside of them. So I soon pretended not to see anything. But a letter doesn't mind. This one," swinging the crumpled paper swiftly close to his face, "is glad I found it. Can't you feel it yourself?"

Callandar shook his head. "I am far too dull and commonplace for that!" He smiled. "But I have no doubt it is all there, just as you say. Why not? Our knowledge of such things is in its infancy."

Aunt Amy stroked the paper with gentle fingers. "Yes, yes, it is all there," she murmured. "But I may have read it wrongly for all that. The written words I mean. I can't help reading what I feel. Once I felt a letter that was full of hate, dreadful! And I read quite shocking things in it. But when Esther read it, it was just a polite note, beginning 'Dear' and ending 'Your affectionate friend."'

"It might have been very hateful for all that."

"But no one knew it. That is why I am so anxious always to know if I read things right. Will you read this letter to me?"

"With pleasure—if I may."

"Oh, it doesn't belong to any one. It isn't Esther's because it's too old and it begins 'Dearest wife' and it isn't Mary's because it isn't Doctor Coombe's writing; so you see I thought it might not hurt anybody if I pretended it was mine."

"No," gently, "I do not see why it would."

"I never had a love letter of my own. Or if I did I cannot find it. The only thing I ever had with love in it was the ruby ring, and that—"

She checked herself suddenly; her small face freezing into such a mask of tragedy that Callandar was alarmed. But to his quick "What is it?" she returned no answer and the expression passed as quickly as it had come.

When he held out his hand for the letter, she seemed to have forgotten it. Her gaze had again grown restless and vague. It would do no good to question further, the rare hour of confession was past.

"You both look very comfortable, I'm sure!" It was Esther's laughing voice. She had come so quietly that neither of them had heard her. Aunt Amy's vagueness vanished in a pleased smile and Callandar, as he sprang to open the gate, forgot all about the unread letter and everything else, save that she had come.

Why was it, he wondered, that he could never recall her, save in dulled tints. Lovely as she had lingered in his memory, her living beauty was so much lovelier. There, in the shade of the elm, her blue dress flecked with gold, the warm pallor of heat upon her face, her hair lying close and heavy, a little pulse beating where the low collar softly disclosed the slim roundness of her white throat, she was not only beautiful, she was Beauty. She was not only Beauty, she was Herself, the one woman in the world! He acknowledged it now, with all humility.

The girl greeted him quietly. She did not, as was her custom, look up at him with that sweet widening of the eyes which he had learned to hunger for. The truth was that she, too, was moving slowly toward her awakening. The days in which they had not met had been full of thoughts of him. Dreams had come to her, vague, delicious bits of fancy which had whispered in her ear and passed, leaving a new softness in her eyes, a new flush upon her cheek. There was about her a dewy freshness which seemed to brighten up the world. Vaguely her girl friends wondered what had "come over" Esther Coombe, and at home Aunt Amy's pathetic eyes followed her, dim with a half-memory of long past joy. But it was Mrs. Sykes' Ann who best expressed the change in her beauty when, one day, she said to Bubble: "Esther Coombe looks like she was all lighted up inside and when she walks you'd think the wind was blowing her."

So it happened that while yesterday she might still have smiled into the doctor's eyes as she greeted him, to-day she shook hands without looking at his face at all.

Callandar found himself remarking that it was a fine day. Esther said that it was beautiful—but dusty. A little rain would do good. She fanned herself with her broad hat, and stopped fanning to examine closely a tiny stain on the hem of her frock.

"Dear me," she said, "I'm afraid it's axle grease! Mournful Mark gave me a lift this morning."

"Oh, I hope not!" anxiously from Aunt Amy, and referring, presumably, to the grease.

The doctor looked at the little stray curl on the nape of the graceful neck and wished—all the foolish things that lovers have wished since the world began. But he had a great longing to see her eyes. If he were to say sharply, "Look at me!" would she look up? Absurd idea! And anyway he couldn't say it, or anything else, for the first time in his life Henry Callandar was tongue-tied.

Did she, too, feel strange? Was that why she kept her eyes so persistently lowered? No, it could hardly be that. She laughed and talked quite naturally—seemed entire mistress of herself.

"I know I am late, Auntie. It's Friday, you know, and I walked slowly. I forgot that I had promised to help Jane wash the new pup. But there is time yet. Supposing we have tea, English fashion, out here. I'll tell mother—"

"She is at the Ladies Aid, Esther."

"Oh, yes. I forgot. Well, then you must entertain Dr. Callandar while I see about tea."

"No tea for me, thanks," said the doctor hastily. He didn't know why he said it except that he wanted to say something, something which might make her look at him.

But she did not look. His refusal lost him a cup of tea and gained him nothing whatever.

"No tea?" Her tone was mildly wondering, but she was looking at Aunt Amy while she spoke. "I'm sorry you are in a hurry. Bubble said you were busy."

"Not busy exactly. But it's office hours, you know. My partner grows quite waxy if I'm late, and I'm late now."

"Another day, then?" Esther's tone was charmingly gracious, but she seemed to be addressing the gate post, as far as he could judge from the direction of her gaze.

Callandar picked up his hat, gloomily. There was nothing to do now but take his leave. And if he had had any sense he might have been going to stay for tea. Office hours be hanged!

"Thank you, another day I shall be delighted." He took the hand she offered and bowed over it. Delightful custom this of shaking hands! Esther's hand was cool as a wind-blown leaf. Would she actually say good-bye without looking at him? He held the hand firmly but she did not seem to be conscious that he held it. She was smiling at some children who were going by on the sidewalk.

"Good-bye," said Callandar in a subdued voice.

"Good-bye," said Esther sweetly.

He dropped her hand, they bowed formally, and the foolish, poignant little tragedy of parting was over. Not once had they looked into each other's eyes.

When he had gone Esther sank down upon the elm tree seat.

"Oh, Auntie!" she said with a little sob in her voice. "I want—some tea!"

Aunt Amy glanced irresolutely from the open letter in her hand to the girl's face, and decided to postpone the matter of the letter. "I'll get it, Esther. You sit here and rest."

When she returned the girl seemed herself again. She took the tea-tray and kissed the bearer with a fervour born of remorse. "I am a Pig," she declared, "and you are a darling! Never mind, we'll even up some day."

"When you have had your tea, Esther, I've got a letter I want you to read."

"A letter? Who from? I mean, from whom? Gracious! I'll have to be more careful of the King's English, now that I'm a school teacher."

"I don't know. It is signed just 'H' and it's written to 'Dearest wife.'
You don't know who that could be, do you?"

"Mother, perhaps?"

"No. It's not in your father's writing and his name did not begin with
'H.'"

"Where did you find it, dear?"

"Up in an old trunk of your grandma's—I mean of Mary's mother's. One of the trunks that were sent here after she died. Mary asked me to put moth balls in it. This letter was all crushed up in a corner. I took it out to smooth it, because I knew it was a love letter. You don't think any one would mind?"

"N—o." Esther, who knew Aunt Amy's feeling about love letters, could not find it in her heart to disagree. "I think we may fairly call it treasure-trove. It's only a note anyway." Her eyes ran swiftly over the two short paragraphs upon the open sheet.

"Dearest wife:—

"At last I can call you 'wife' without fear. Our waiting is over. Brave girl! If it has been as long to you as to me, you have been brave indeed. But it is our day now. Even your mother cannot object any longer. I am coming for you to-morrow. Only one more day!

"Dear, I think that in my wild impatience I did you wrong. But love does not blame love. No wife shall ever be so loved as you. May God forget me if I forget what you have done for me…."

"What a strange letter!" Esther looked up wonderingly.

"Is that all, Esther?" Aunt Amy's face was vaguely disappointed. "The one I read was much longer than that."

"That is all that is written here, Auntie. But it is a beautiful letter. They had been separated, you see, and she had been brave and waited. One can imagine—"

The click of the garden gate interrupted her.

"Here's your mother," said Aunt Amy, in a flurried tone. "Don't let her—"

"Is that the mail, Esther?" Mrs. Coombe's high voice held a fretful intonation. Aunt Amy seized the letter and hid it in her dress. "She shan't see it," she whispered childishly.

"Is that the mail?" repeated Mrs. Coombe, coming up the walk.

"No, there is no mail," said Esther, "No one has been to the post office. Perhaps Jane had better run down now."

"But you had a letter," suspiciously. "I'm sure I saw it. Where is it?"

"Don't be absurd, mother. I have no letter. Nor would I think it necessary to show it to you if I had. I am not a child."

"You are a child. And let me tell you, a clandestine correspondence is something which I shall not tolerate. Let me see the letter."

Esther was feeling too happy to be cross. Besides it was rather funny to be accused of clandestine correspondence.

"I think I'll go and help Jane with the pup," she said cheerfully. "Too bad you didn't come in sooner, mother. Dr. Callandar was here."

"Then you do refuse to show me the letter?"

"If I had one I should certainly refuse to show it. Why do you let yourself get so excited, mother? You never used to act like this. It must be nerves. Every one notices how changed you are." She paused, arrested by the frightened look which replaced the futile anger on her step-mother's face.

"I'm not different. Who says I am different? It is you who are trying
to make a fuss. I'm sure I do not care about your letter. Why should I?
Your father always seemed to think you needed no advice from any one.
Only don't imagine that I am blind. I saw you with a letter."

Having triumphantly secured the last word, she turned to busy herself with the tea-tray, and Esther, knowing the uselessness of argument, went on toward the house. Aunt Amy attempted to follow but was stopped by Mary.

"Amy, what did that doctor want here?"

"He came to see me."

Mary laughed. "Likely!" she said. "This tea is quite cold. Was it he who left the letter for Esther?"

"Esther didn't have a letter. I had one."

Again the incredulous laugh, and the dull red mounted into Aunt Amy's faded cheeks. She clutched the treasured letter tightly under her dress. This mocking woman should never see it! But as she turned again to leave her, another consideration appealed to her unstable mind. Mary suspected Esther—and nothing would annoy her more than to find herself mistaken. On impulse Aunt Amy flung the letter upon the tea-tray.

"There it is. Read it, if you like. It has nothing to do with Esther. Or any one else. I found it in one of your mother's old trunks."

Left alone, Mary Coombe drank her tea, which after all was not very cold. She was not really interested in the letter, now that she had got it. Had not a vagrant breeze tossed it, obtrusively, upon her lap, she would probably not have looked at it.

Listlessly she picked it up, opened it, glanced at the firm, clear writing….

A sharp, tingling shock ran through her. It was as if some one had knocked, loudly, at dead of night at a closed door! That writing—how absurdly fanciful she was getting!

"Dearest wife," she read, "at last I can call you 'wife' without fear"—the vagrant breeze, which had tossed the letter into her lap, tossed it off again. Her glance followed it, fascinated!

Of course she had dreamed the writing? She had been terribly troubled by dreams of late. But what had Amy said about finding the paper in her mother's trunk? The whole thing was a fantastic nightmare. She had but to lean forward, pick up the letter, read it properly and laugh at her foolishness.

But it was a long time before she found the strength to pick it up. When she did, she read it quietly to the end with its scrawled "H." Then she read it over again, word by word. Her expression was one of terror and amaze.

When she had finished she looked up, over the pleasant garden, with blank eyes. Her face was ashen.

"He came," she said aloud. "He came! But—what did she tell him when he came?"

The garden had no answer to the question. Somewhere could be heard a girl's laugh and the sharp bark of a protesting puppy. Mary Coombe drew her hand across her eyes as if to clear them of film and, trying to rise, slipped down beside the elm-tree seat, a soft blot of whiteness on the green.

They found her there when they had finished washing the puppy, but though she came quickly to herself under their eager ministrations, she would not tell them what had caused her sudden illness. To all their questionings she answered pettishly, "Nothing! Nothing but the heat."