“Neither do I, dear.  But I think it is just a passing fancy.  She was very much hurt about the ring being sold.  When she gets it back she will forget about it.”

“She looks at mother as if she hates her.”

“Oh, no!” in a startled tone.  “How can you say such a thing, Jane?”

“But she does.  I’ve seen her.  I don’t blame her.  I think it was horrid—­”

“That’s enough.  You know nothing about it.  Little girls who do not understand have no right to criticise.”

“Fred says it was the most underhan—­”

“Jane, one word more and you shall have no berries to-night.  Duck, don’t you realise that you are speaking in a very unkind way of your own mother.”

The child’s eyes filled with ready tears, but her little mouth was stubborn.  “Auntie’s more my mother, Esther, and so are you.  And it was mean to take the ring and I don’t care whether I have any berries or not.”

Supper was a very quiet meal that night.  Mrs. Coombe, interrupted in the process of dressing, came down in an old kimono, but ate almost nothing, Jane was sullen, Aunt Amy silent and Esther happily oblivious to everything save her own happy thoughts.

As soon as she could, she slipped away to her own room, and, choosing everything with care, began to dress herself as a maiden dresses for the eye of her lover.  She was to be all in white, her dainty dress, her petticoats, stockings and shoes.  White made her look younger than ever, absurdly young.  He had never seen her all in white and she knew quite well how soft it made the shadows of her hair, how startlingly blue her eyes, how warm and living the ivory of her lovely neck.

“Oh, I am glad I am pretty!” she whispered to her mirror.  “Glad, glad!” Then with a laugh at her own childishness she “touched wood” to propitiate the jealous fates and ran down stairs to hide herself in the duskiest corner of the veranda.

It was delightful there.  The cooling air was sweet with the mingled perfumes of the garden border below, an early star had fallen, sparkling, upon the blue-grey train of departing day, a whispering breeze crept, soft-footed, through the shrubbery.  Esther lay back in the long chair and closed her eyes.  For thirty perfect moments she waited until the click of the garden gate announced his coming.  Then she sprang up, smiling, blushing,—­peering through the screen of vines—­

A man was coming up the path.  At first sight he seemed a stranger, some one who walked heavily, slowly—­the doctor’s step was quick and springing.  Yet it was he!  She drew back, shyly, yet looked again.  Some one, in a pretty green silk gown, had slipped out from under the big elm and was meeting him with outstretched hands.

“Mother,” thought Esther, “how strange!”

They had paused and were talking together.  Mary’s high, sweet laugh floated over the flowers, then her voice, a mere murmur.  His voice, lower still.  Then silence.  They had turned back, together, down the lilac walk.