Yet, after the first rush of consciousness, there came a difference.  There always is a difference between night and day thoughts.  Fresh from its wonder-journey, the soul is braver in the morning, the brain is calmer, the spirit more hopeful.  After a half-hour’s self-examination with her face in the pillow Esther began to wonder if she had not been foolishly apprehensive and whether it were not possible that half her fears were bogies.  The weight began to lighten, she breathed more freely.  Looking over the rim of the sheltering pillow the morning seemed no longer hateful.

Foremost of all comforting thoughts was the conviction that instinct must still be trusted against evidence.  Through all her speculations as to the unexplained happenings of the previous day, she found that instinct held firmly to its former belief regarding the doctor’s feelings toward herself.  There are some things which one knows absolutely and Esther knew that Henry Callandar had looked upon her as a man looks upon the woman he loves.  He had loved her that night when they paddled through the moonlight; he had loved her when he watched for her coming along the road, but most of all he had loved her when, under the eye of Aunt Amy, they had said good-bye at the garden gate.  This much was sure, else all her instincts were foresworn.

After this came chaos.  She could not in any way read the riddle of his manner of last night.  Had the sudden resumption of his old friendship with her mother absorbed his mind to the exclusion of everything else?  Impossible, if he loved her.  Had purely physical weariness or mental worry blotted her out completely for the time being?  Impossible, if he loved her.  Then what had happened?

Doubtless it would all be simple enough when she understood.  She sighed and raised her head from the pillow.  At any rate it was morning.  The day must be faced and lived through.  Any one of its hours might bring happiness again.

The rainstorm which had swept up during the night had passed, leaving the morning clean.  She needed no recollection to tell her that it was Sunday.  The Sabbath hush was on everything; no milkman’s cans jingled down the street; no playing children called or shouted; there was a bell ringing somewhere for early service.  Esther sighed again.  She was sorry it was Sunday.  Work-a-day times are easiest.

A rich odour of coffee, insinuating itself through the half open door, testified mutely to the fact that Aunt Amy was getting breakfast.  It was later than usual.  After breakfast it would be time to dress for church.  Every one in Coombe dressed for church.  It was a sacred rite.  One and all, they had clothes which were strictly Sabbatarian, known indeed by the name of Sunday Best.

Esther’s Sunday best was a blue, voile, a lovely blue, the colour of her eyes when in soft shadow.  It was made with a long straight skirt slightly high at the waist, round neck and elbow sleeves and with it went soft, wrinkly gloves and a wide hat trimmed with cornflowers.  She knew that she looked well in it—­and the doctor would be in church.