“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.