"Berries all ready, Auntie," said Esther cheerfully. "What's the matter with me as a Saturday Help?"
But Aunt Amy did not smile as she usually did.
"She's gone to get dressed," she said abruptly, indicating with a backward gesture Mrs. Coombe's retiring figure.
"Well?"
"For him. She's gone to get dressed for him."
Esther was puzzled. "Why shouldn't she? Oh, I forget you didn't know! It's quite a romance. Mother used to know Dr. Callandar when she was a girl. 'We twa hae rin aboot the braes,' you know. Only it seems so funny. Fancy, Dr. Callandar and mother! But we shan't have to worry any more about her health. She can't possibly avoid him now."
Aunt Amy was not listening. The curiously watchful look was still in her eyes and suddenly, apropos of nothing, she began to wring her hands in the strange, dumb way which always preceded one of her characteristic mental agonies,—agonies which, far beyond her understanding as they were, never failed to awake profound compassion in Esther.
"What is it, dear?" she asked gently. "Are you not so well?"
"Don't you ever feel things, Esther? Don't you ever sense things—coming?"
"No, dear. And neither do you, when you are well. You are tired." She placed her hands firmly upon the locked hands of Aunt Amy and with tender force attempted to separate them. But Jane, who had been a silent but interested spectator, spoke eagerly.