“Do not make that mistake, Esther!  It is fatal.  Try to believe that in spite of—­of everything, I am speaking disinterestedly.  You are young and the young hate suffering.  You would marry him, out of pity.  But I tell you that no man’s happiness comes to him that way.  You will have sacrificed yourself to no purpose.  The risk is too awful.  Wait.  Time is kind.  You will know it, some day.  But even though you do not believe it now—­wait.  Wait forever, rather than marry a man to whom you cannot give your heart.”

“That is your advice?” She spoke heavily.  “You would like some day to see me marry a man I could—­love?”

“Yes, a thousand times yes!”

“I shall think over what you say.”  She was still gravely controlled but it was a control which would not last much longer.  She glanced around the empty room with a quick caught breath.  “Why are you left all alone?”

“Is a keeper necessary?” Then, ashamed of his irritation and willing to end a scene which threatened to make things harder for both of them, he added in his ordinary tone, “I really do not know who is responsible for such unparalleled neglect.  Jane played me to sleep, I fancy.  She said her mother was upstairs but would be down presently.  It must be late.  I had better go.”

“Wait a moment, I will see if there is any message from mother.”

As she left the room her light scarf slipped from her shoulders and fell softly across his arm.  Callandar crushed it passionately to his lips and then, folding it carefully, laid it beside the gloves upon the table.  Even the scarf was not for him.  Aunt Amy, passing through the hall on her way upstairs, saw the dumb caress and shivered anew at the mysterious power of “They” which could tear such a man as Callandar from the woman he loved.

Esther was gone only a moment and when she returned she brought with her a change of atmosphere.  Something had banished every trace of self-consciousness from her manner.  She looked anxious but it was an anxiety with which no embarrassment mingled.

“Doctor,” she said at once, “mother seems to be ill.  The door is locked and she did not answer my knocking.  Yet she is not asleep.  I could hear her talking.  I think you ought to come up.”

An indescribable look flitted across the doctor’s face.  He looked at the girl a moment in measuring silence and then pointed to a chair.

“Sit down,” he said briefly, “I thought that this would come.  I have been afraid of it for some time.  Is it possible that you have no suspicion at all in regard to these peculiar—­illnesses—­of your mother’s?”

The startled wonder in her eyes was answer enough even without the quick, “What do you mean?”