Mrs. Coombe looked doubtful, hesitated once more, but finally turned away without speaking.  As she went, she cast a careless glance at Aunt Amy, who stood just within the kitchen doorway, a curiously watchful look in her usually expressionless eyes.

“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.

“Don’t, Esther!  Do let her tell us what is coming.  You know she always tells right when she wrings her hands.  Go on, Auntie—­”

“Jane, be quiet!  I’ll tell you why afterwards.  Auntie dear, sit down.”

’Aunt Amy’s hands relaxed and the strange look faded.  “It’s nothing,” she said.  “It’s gone!  I must be more careful.  Do not mention it to your mother, children.  She might think me queer again, and I am not at all queer any more.  You have noticed that I’m not, haven’t you, Esther?  I’ll do anything you say, my dear.”

“Then lie out in the hammock while I get supper.  The berries are all ready.  Then we’ll all get dressed.  Jane may wear one of her new frocks and you shall wear your grey voile.  It will be quite a party.”

“Will there be ice cream?  Because if there isn’t I don’t want to get dressed,” sighed Jane.  “My new things don’t fit.  They look like bags.”

“It will soon be holidays and then I’ll fix them for you.”

Jane laid a childish cheek to her sister’s hand.

“Nice Esther,” she cooed.  “I’m sorry I called you a pig.”  Then, in a change of tone as they left Aunt Amy resting in the hammock, “Esther, why is Auntie so afraid of mother lately?  She says such queer things I don’t know what she means.”