“Mrs. Sykes,” the doctor’s voice was dangerously quiet, “am I to understand that you are tired of your boarder?”

Mrs. Sykes jumped.

“Land, Doctor, don’t get ruffled!  I’m real sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings.  I didn’t mean to say a word when I set out.  My tongue just runs away.  And naturally you have to stand up for Mrs. Coombe.  I see that.  That’ll be the last you’ll hear from me and ’tisn’t as if I’d ever turn around and say ‘I told you so’ afterwards.”

This was amende honorable and the doctor received it as such; but when he had gone into his office leaving his breakfast almost untouched, Mrs. Sykes shook her head gloomily.

“You needn’t tell me!” she murmured, oblivious of the fact that no one was telling her anything.  “You needn’t tell me!” Then, with rare self-reproach, “Perhaps I hadn’t ought to have said so much, but such blindness is enough to provoke a saint.  If he’d any eyes—­couldn’t he see Esther?” Mrs. Sykes sighed as she emptied the doctor’s untasted cup.

More frankly disconsolate, though not so outspoken, were Ann and Bubble.  Not only did they dislike the bride elect but they objected to marriage in general.  “A honeymoon will put the kibosh on this here practice, sure,” moaned Bubble.

“Look at me.  I’m not thinking of getting married, am I?  No, and I’m never going to get married either.”

“I am,” said Ann, “and I’m going to have ten sons and the first one is going to be called ‘Henry’ after the doctor.”

“Huh!” said Bubble, “bet you it isn’t.  Bet you go and call it after its father.  They all do.”

“No chance!  Bet you I won’t.  I wouldn’t call it ‘Zerubbabel’ for anything.”

For an instant they glared at each other, and then as the awful implication dawned upon Bubble his round face grew crimson and his voice thrilled with just resentment.

“Well, if you think you’re going to marry me, Miss Ann, you’re jolly well mistaken.”

“Will if I like,” said Ann, retiring into her sun-bonnet.

Upon the whole, however, their affection for the doctor kept them friendly.  Both children felt that something was wrong somewhere.  Their idol was not happy.  Bubble whispered to Ann of long hours when the doctor sat in his office with an open book before him, a book the pages of which were never turned.  Ann told of weary walks when she trotted along by his side, wholly forgotten.  Only between themselves did they ever speak of the change in him, and Henry Callandar was well repaid for the careless kindness of his brighter hours by a faithful guardianship, a quick-eyed consideration and a stout line of defence which protected his privacy and ignored his moods without his ever being aware of such a service.

Esther he seldom saw.  She was remarkably clever, he thought, with a tinge of bitterness, in arranging duties and pleasures which would take her out of his way.  It was better so, of course.  It was the worst of injustice to feel hurt with her for doing what of all things he would have had her do.  But one doesn’t reason about these things, one feels.