“Yes, but haven’t you heard?  There is a new doctor.  He seems quite different—­I mean they say he is awfully nice.  Mrs. Sykes’ Ann was telling me all about him.  He is going to board with Mrs. Sykes.  The child just worships him already.  Perhaps mother might see him.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Aunt Amy placidly.  “This pepper-grass will be very nice for tea.  Did you tell Jane she might have two apples, Esther?”

“No.  I told her she might have one.  But I don’t suppose two will hurt her.”  Esther was used to Aunt Amy’s inconsequences which made impossible the discussion of any subjects save the most trivial.  But she sighed a little as she realised anew that there was no help here.

“Jane is feeling badly about Timothy,” she explained.  “Don’t you think we might have tea in here, Auntie?  It is so cool.”

Aunt Amy, who had been anxiously rubbing an imaginary spot on the table, looked up with a startled air.  “Oh, Esther!” she said, in the voice of a frightened child.  Then with a child’s obvious effort to control rising tears, “Of course, if you say so, Esther.  But—­but do you feel like risking the round table?  Couldn’t we have it on the little table in the corner?”

The girl settled the last of her flowers and pushed back her hair with a worried gesture.  A pang of mingled irritation and anxiety lent an edge of sharpness to her soft voice.

“Auntie dear!  I thought you had quite forgotten that fancy.  You know it is only a fancy.  Round tables are just like other tables.  And you promised me—­”

“Yes, I know, but—­”

“Well, then, be sensible, dear.  We shall have tea in here.”  Then seeing the real distress on the timid old face, the girl’s mood softened.  “No, we shan’t,” she declared gaily.  “We’ll have it as usual in the dining room.  You will fix the pepper-grass and I shall set the table.”

But the end of Aunt Amy’s vagaries was not yet.  She hesitated, flushed and more timidly, yet as one who is compelled, begged for the task of setting the table herself.  “For you know, Esther, the sprigged tea-set is so hurt if any one but me arranges it.  Yes, of course, it is only a fancy, I know that.  But the sprigged tea-set does feel so badly if I neglect it.  All the pink in it fades quite out.  You must have noticed it, Esther?”

The girl sighed and gave in.  Usually Aunt Amy’s vagaries troubled her little.  Disconcerting at first, they had quickly become a commonplace, for the coming of Aunt Amy to the doctor’s household had been too great a blessing to invite criticism.  Esther had soon learned to express no surprise when told that the sprigged china had a heart of extreme sensitiveness, and that the third step on the front stair disliked to be trodden upon, and that it was dangerous to sit with one’s back to a window facing the east.  All these and numberless other strange facts were part of Aunt Amy’s twilight world.  To her they were immensely important,