The paddle dipped more slowly.  Esther sighed, and sat up straighter.  Considering all the trouble they had taken, neither of them seemed overjoyed to be so near the desired haven.

“We are nearly there,” said Callandar obviously.

Esther looked backward over their shining wake.  Something precious seemed to be slipping away on those fairy ripples.  Yet all she could find to say was—­

“We have come very fast.  You must be tired.”

Strange little commonplaces, how they take their due of all the wonderful hours of life!  Esther wriggled out of the shawl, smoothed her hair, arranged her ruffled collar.  Callandar shipped his paddle and resumed his coat.

“Where to, now?” he asked practically.

“There is only one landing, we shall be right on it in a moment.  Then—­there are several of the cottagers whom I know.  But I think Mrs. Burton will be the best.  She has often asked me to visit her and is such a dear that the present unexpected arrival will not make me less welcome.”

“That’s good!  As for me, I’ll make for the station and send the telegrams.  They won’t be seriously anxious yet, do you think?  Then—­there is a train I think you said?”

“You have missed that.  But there is a very early morning train, a milk train—­O gracious!” Esther broke off with a start of genuine consternation.  “To-morrow is Sunday!”

“Naturally!” in surprise.

“How horribly unfortunate!  The milk train doesn’t run on Sunday!”

“Does the milk object to Sunday travelling?”

“Don’t joke!” forlornly.  “It’s dreadful that it should be Sunday.  People will talk!”

“Oh, will they?” The doctor was immensely surprised.  “Why?”

“Because it’s Sunday.”

“What has Sunday got to do with it?  They can’t talk.  Here you are safe and sound with your friend Mrs. Burton by 9 o’clock, an intensely respectable hour even in Coombe.  What can they say?”

“But it’s Sunday!  You will return home, by rail, on Sunday.  Every one will know.  Your breaking of the Sabbath will be put down to careless pleasuring.  It will hurt your practice terribly!”

Callandar laughed heartily.  But before he could reply the quick bursting out of a blaze upon the shore startled them both.  “What is it?” he asked apprehensively.

“Only a bonfire!  Some one is giving a bonfire party.  It is quite the fashionable thing.  There will be songs and speeches with lemonade and cake.  Oh, hurry!  We shall be in time for the programme.”

The mysterious woman, born of the moon, was gone.  In her place was a rumple-haired, bright-eyed child.  Callandar took up the paddle with a whimsical smile.

“Sit still or you’ll overturn the canoe!” he said warningly.  And across the narrowing stretch of water floated the opening sentiments of the patriotic cottagers.

“O Cana_dah_, our heritage, our love—­”