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.”