When a man of thirty-five has at last shaken himself free from the burden of an unhappy love affair, he is not particularly disposed to welcome an emotional reawakening. He knows the pains and penalties too well; the fire of Spring, he has learned, can burn as well as brighten. Callandar thought that he had done with love, and a growing suspicion that love had not done with him brought little less than panic. Upon the occasion of Willits' second visit he had begun to realise his danger and the professor never guessed how nearly he had persuaded him to leave Coombe. Some deep instinct was urging flight, but the impulse had come just a little bit too late. He could not go, because he wanted so very much to stay.

After Willits' departure he had deliberately tested himself. For five days he did not try to see Esther and upon the sixth he realised finally that seeing Esther was the only thing that mattered. Then had come the short interview under the elm tree—an interview which had shown him a new Esther, demure, adorable, with eyes which refused to look at him. He had come away from that meeting with a new pulse beating in his heart.

To doubt was no longer possible. He loved her.

But she? Lovers are proverbially modest, but their modesty is fear disguised. They hope so much that they fear to hope at all; it seemed impossible to Callandar that Esther should not love him and yet it seemed impossible that she should. Only one thing emerged clearly from the chaos—the immediate necessity of finding out.

"Why don't you ask her?" demanded Common Sense in that wearily patient way with which Common Sense meets the vagaries of lovers.

"But it is so soon," objected Caution, while Fear, aroused, whispered, "Be careful. Give her time." Even Mrs. Grundy made herself heard with her usual references to what people, represented by Mrs. Sykes, might say, adding scornfully, "Why, you haven't met the girl's mother yet. Don't make a fool of yourself, please."

But over all these voices rose another voice, insistent, demanding to be satisfied. It might be premature, it might be all that was rash and foolish but he simply had to find out at once whether or not Esther Coombe loved him.

His final decision came one morning when driving slowly home from an all night fight with death. He was tired but exultant, because he had won the fight, and life, which slips so easily away, seemed doubly precious. After all, he was no longer a boy. If life still held something beautiful for him, why should he wait? He had waited so many years already.

Guiding the car with one hand, he slipped the other into his pocket and opening a small locket which he found there, gazed long and earnestly at the picture it contained. The face it showed him was a young face, fair, rounded, childish. Dear Molly! his thought of her was infinitely tender. He loved her all the more for the knowledge that he had not loved her enough. Well, he could never atone now. She was gone—slipped away, he thought, with but little more knowledge of living than the tiny baby he had just helped to bring into the world. Brushing away the mist which for a moment blurred his sight, Callandar kissed the picture gently and shut the case.

The dawn was golden now. The motor began to gather speed. An early farmer getting into market with a load of hay, drew amiably to one side to let it pass. From a, wayside house came the cheerful noise of opening shutters; a milk cart rattled out of a nearby gate; the motor sped still faster—the new day was fairly begun.

Early as it was, Mrs. Sykes was busy washing the veranda. This was a ritual, rigorously observed twice every day; in the morning with a pail and broom, in the evening with the hose. Par be it from us to malign the excellent Mrs. Sykes or to suggest that her opportune presence on the front steps was due to anything save the virtue of cleanliness. Mrs. Sykes, as she often said, couldn't abide curiosity. Still, it would be very interesting to know whether Amelia Hill's latest was a boy or a girl. Mrs. Hill had already been blessed with nine olive branches, all girls, and had confided to Mrs. Sykes that if the tenth presented no variation, she didn't know what on earth Hill would do—he having acted so kind of wild-like last time. Mrs. Sykes, unable to resist the trend of her nature, had advised that no variation could be looked for. "It may be," she had said, "but after a run of nine, it isn't to be expected. There's no denying that girls run in some families. I know jest how you feel, Mrs. Hill, and, if I could, I'd encourage you, for I'm a great believer in speaking the truth in kindness. But it's best to be prepared, and a girl it will be, you may be sure."

"You are up early, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "Wait till I take the car around and I'll finish up those steps for you."

"Land no! I won't let you, Doctor. You're clean tired out. I've got a cup of hot coffee waiting. I don't suppose, with Amelia laid aside, any of them Hills would think to give you so much as a bite. All girls too."

"Not all girls now, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "A son and heir arrived this morning. Fine little fellow. They appear to be delighted."

The discomfited prophet leaned against the door-post for support.

"A boy? It can't be a boy! It doesn't stand to reason!"

"It never does, Mrs. Sykes."

"And I was so sure 'twould be another girl!" There was an infinitesimal pause during which Mrs. Sykes' whole outlook readjusted itself, and then with a heavy sigh she continued, "Poor Amelia Hill! She'll certainly have her troubles now. I shouldn't wonder a mite if it didn't live. Miracles like that seldom do. And if it does, it will be spoiled to death. No boy can come along after nine sisters and not be made a sissy of. Far better if it had been a girl in the first place. And yet I suppose Amelia's just as chirpy as possible? She never was one to look ahead to see what's coming."

"Lucky for her!" murmured Callandar, as he picked his way over the shining wetness of the veranda. "And now, Mrs. Sykes, I want you to do me a favour. Don't go predicting to my patient that her boy baby will die, or if he doesn't it would be better for him if he did. A woman who has mothered nine children is entitled to a little peace of mind with the tenth. Don't you think so?"

"Land sakes, yes. If you put it that way. But the shock will be all the worse when it comes. Still, if you want the poor thing left in a fool's paradise I don't object. Perhaps it would be a good thing to have the three littlest Hills over here to spend a week with Ann. I can stand them if you can."

"Good idea!" Callandar smiled at her, but attempted no thanks. He had learned early that she was as shy about doing a kindness as a child who hides its face, while offering you half of its lolly-pop. "I'll fetch them. But some one will have to pick them out. Likely as not I'd bring the middle three instead."

"They are dreadful similar," assented Mrs. Sykes, pouring coffee. "I don't know but what it was them Hill children that made me a suffragette!"

"What?"

Mrs. Sykes did not notice the unflattering (or flattering) surprise in the doctor's voice.

"Yes. I think it was the Hill children as much as anything. There they are, nine of them, like as peas in a pod, and all healthy. I shouldn't wonder if the whole nine grows up—and what then? Amelia Hill just can't hope to marry nine of them. Three out of the bunch would be about her limit. And what are the others going to get? I say, give them the vote. Land sakes! Why not? I ain't one to refuse to others what I don't want myself."