Willits, who liked children but did not understand them, essayed a mild joke.

“Did you put some starch in your hair too?”

Ann flushed scarlet with anger and mortification and made no answer.

“It looked much nicer at breakfast,” blundered on the professor genially.  “If I were you I should unstarch it—­” he paused abashed by the glare in Ann’s black eyes and turned helplessly to Callandar, who had just come in, resplendent in faultless church attire.

“Don’t listen to him, Ann!” said the doctor.  “Button moulders are so ignorant.  They know absolutely nothing about hair or the necessity for special tidiness on Sundays.  All the same, I’m afraid we shall have a headache if we don’t let a reef out somewhere.  Sit still a moment, Ann.  I was always intended for a barber.”

To the fresh astonishment of Willits his friend’s skilful hands busied themselves with the tightly drawn hair which, only too eager for freedom, soon fell into some of its usual curves.  With a quick, shy gesture the child drew the adored hand to her lips and kissed it.  Callandar turned a deep red.  The professor chuckled, and Ann, furious at betraying herself before him, fled precipitately, the crackling starch of her stiff skirts rattling as she ran.

For a moment Willits enjoyed his friend’s embarrassment and then, as the probable meaning of the frock coat began to dawn upon him, his expression changed to one of apprehension.

“You weren’t in earnest about that church nonsense, were you?”

“Certainly.  If you need a clean collar take one of mine, and hurry up.  The first bell has stopped ringing.”

“But I’m not going!”

“Not if I ask you nicely?”

“But why?  What are you going for?”

“Come and see.”

The shrewd eyes of the professor grew coldly thoughtful.

“That is exactly what I shall do,” he decided.

From the home of Mrs. Sykes upon Duke Street to the First Presbyterian Church upon Oliver’s Hill is a brisk walk of fifteen minutes.  As Coombe lies in a valley, Oliver’s Hill is not a hill, really, but a gentle eminence.  It is a charming, tree-lined street bordered by the homes and gardens of the well-to-do.  It is, in fact, the street of Coombe, and to live upon Oliver’s Hill is a social passport seldom mentioned but never ignored.

As if social prominence were not enough, it had another claim upon the affections and memories of many, for up this hill every Sunday in a long and goodly stream poured the first Presbyterians who were not only the elect but also the elite of Coombe.  To see Knox Church “come out” was one of the sights of the town and, decorously hidden behind a muslin curtain, a stranger might feast his eyes upon greatness unrebuked.  It was said at one time that every silk hat in Coombe attended Knox Church, but this was vainglory, for it was afterwards proved that several repaired to St. Michael’s and at least one to the Baptist tabernacle.  With this explanation you will at once understand why the sidewalk was a few feet broader upon the church side of Oliver’s Hill, and if this circumstance savours to you of ecclesiastical privilege we can only conclude that you are not Presbyterian, and request you not to be so narrow-minded.