To Esther, Mary’s refusal came as a reprieve.  But to Callandar it was but a lengthening out of torture.  Man’s love must always, in its essence, be different from woman’s; though many women seem incapable of recognising this fact.  To Esther, now that she had put aside her first half-understood glimpse of passion, it was sweet to be near him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand and, above all, to spend her strength in his service.  But to him the strain was almost intolerable.  The sight of her, the touch of her, the whole soul-shattering nearness of her beauty meant constant conflict; all the fiercer since it must be unsuspected.

Willits, the only man who had been told the truth, watched the fight with admiration, sharply touched with anxiety.  Expert in the moulding of buttons, he knew very well that Callandar was drawing rather recklessly upon his newly acquired strength.  If the tension did not slacken soon there might be another physical breakdown, and then—­Willits shrugged his shoulders.  It would be entirely too bad if this very fine button were to be spoiled after all.  His heart was sore for his friend.

“You see,” Callandar had written in one of his rare letters, “it was a right instinct which warned me that no man escapes the consequences of his own acts.  There did come a short, golden time when I put the voice of instinct behind me and dared to think that I, at least, had shaken myself free.  Closing the door of yesterday, I boldly knocked open the door of to-morrow—­and lo, to-morrow and yesterday were one!

“I know, now, that even had poor Mary been dead, as I believed, the payment would have been exacted in some other way.  When my brain is clear enough to think, I have flashes of thankfulness that payment is permitted to take the form of expiation.  I can save Mary, and I will.  In some strange and rather dreadful way her need is my salvation.

“I have said nothing of Esther.  How can I?  The other day I heard Miss Sinclair say that Esther Coombe was losing all her good looks.  ’Thin as a rail, and peeked as a pin’ were the words she used.  To me she has never been so lovely.  She is thinner; there are hollows in her cheeks; her lips are no longer a thread of scarlet.  The transparent lids of her deep, wonderful eyes droop often and her hair seems to have lost its life and hangs soft and very close to her face.  I love her.  I love her as a man loves a woman, as a knight loves his lady, as a Catholic loves the Madonna!  This terrible strain must soon be over for her.  I am doing all in my power to hurry on the marriage.  She is young.  She is bound to forget.  When she leaves here she goes out of my life—­and may God speed her!

“She is to go to Toronto.  Lorna Sinnet has good friends there and they will take her into their circle.  She will begin to taste a fuller life, and as her interests expand the old wound will heal.  She will find happiness yet.  When Mary recovers, she and I will return to Montreal.  I am quite fit now.  I feel that I can never work hard enough.  Mary will like the excitement of city life, and I rely upon you and Lorna to make our coming as easy as possible.  How is Lorna?  A talk with her will be a tonic.