“Look here!” Callandar paused in his stride and fixed her dark eyes by the sudden seriousness in his own.  “You’ve got the thing all wrong.  God doesn’t drown people for swimming on Sunday.  He isn’t that sort at all.  He—­He—­” the unaccustomed teacher of youth faltered hopelessly in his effort to instruct the budding mind, but Ann’s eyes were questioning and at their bidding the essential truth of his own childhood came back to him.  “God is Love,” he declared firmly.  “Great Scott! a person would think that we lived in the Dark Ages!  Don’t you let ’em frighten you, Ann.  What are you allowed to do on Sunday anyway?”

“Church,” succinctly.  “And Sunday-school and church and the ’Pilgrim’s Progress.’”

“Well, that’s something.  Jolly good book, the ’Pilgrim’s Progress’!”

“Yes,” dubiously.  “If it didn’t use such a nawful lot of big words.  And if he’d only get on a little faster.  He was terrible slow.”

“So he was.  Well, let us be merry while we can.  I’ll race you to the orchard gate.”

At the gate they paused to regain their lost breath and sense of decorum for, across the orchard, the veranda could be plainly seen with the trim figure of Professor Willits in close proximity to the taller and gaunter outline of Mrs. Sykes.  With one of her shy quick gestures, the child slipped her fingers from the doctor’s hold and sped away through the trees.  Her friendship with Callandar was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to Ann, but she was not of the kind which parades intimacy.

“Patient dead?” asked Willits dryly after they had shaken hands.

“Patient?” Then, catching sight of the flaming red in the cheeks of his landlady, “Dead?  Certainly not.  Even my patients know better than to die on a morning like this.  But whatever possessed you to disturb a righteous household?  Mrs. Sykes, he doesn’t deserve breakfast, but I do.  When do you think—­”

“In just about five minutes, Doctor.  Soon’s I get the coffee boiling and the cream skimmed.  I didn’t know,” with an anxiously reproving glance, “but what you might want to get washed up after you got in.”

“I—­no, I think I’m quite clean enough, Mrs. Sykes.  But it was very thoughtful of you to wait—­”

“Aunt, the coffee’s boiling over!” The warning was distinctly audible and, with a gesture of one who abandons an untenable position, Mrs. Sykes retreated upon the kitchen.

The visitor watched her flight with mild amaze.

“I suppose I should seem curious if I were to ask why the excellent Mrs. Sykes imperils her immortal soul in your behalf?  But why in the name of common sense is the peril necessary?  It isn’t a crime, is it, for a medical man to get up early and go for a swim?”

“You forget what day it is,” said Callandar solemnly.  “Or rather, you never knew.  I myself was not properly acquainted with Sunday until I came to this place.  Your presence here is in itself a scandal.  People do not visit upon the Seventh day in Coombe.”