And here the Doctor interposed.  “It is not that, Ester,” with the troubled look deepening on his face.  “I assure you we would be glad of your help, but,” and he broke off abruptly, and commenced a sudden pacing up and down the room.  Then stopped before her with these mysterious words:  “I don’t know how to tell you, Ester.”

Ester’s look now was one of annoyance, and she spoke quickly.

“Why, Doctor, you need tell me nothing.  I am not a child to have the truth sugar-coated.  If my help is not needed, that is sufficient.”

“Your help is exactly what we need, Ester, but your health is not sufficient for the work.”

And now Ester laughed.  “Why, Doctor, what an absurd idea In a week I shall be as well as ever.  If that is all you may surely count me as one of your teachers.”

The Doctor smiled faintly, and then asked:  “Do you never feel any desire to know what may be the cause of this strange lassitude which is creeping over you, and the sudden flutterings of heart, accompanied by pain and faintness, which take you unawares?”

Ester’s face paled a little, but she asked, quietly enough:  “How do you know all this?”

“I am a physician, Ester.  Do you think it is kindness to keep a friend in ignorance of what very nearly concerns him, simply to spare his feelings for a little?”

“Why, Dr. Van Anden, you do not think—­you do not mean that—­tell me exactly what you mean.”

But the Doctor’s answer was grave, anxious, absolute silence.

Perhaps the silence answered her—­perhaps her own heart told the secret to her, for a sudden gray palor overspread her face.  For an instant the room darkened and whirled around her, then she staggered as if she would have fallen, then she reached forward and caught hold of the little red rocker, and sank into it, and leaning both elbows on the writing-table before her, buried her face in her hands.  Afterward Ester called to mind the strange whirl of thoughts which thrilled her brain at that time.  Life in all the various phases that she had thought it would wear for her, all the endless plans that she had made, all the things that she had meant to do and be, came and stared her in the face.  Nowhere in all her plannings crossed by that strange creature Death; someway she had never planned for that.  Could it be possible that he was to come for her so soon, before any of these things were done?  Was it possible that she must leave Sadie, bright, brilliant, unsafe Sadie, and go away where she could work for her no more?  Then, like a picture spread before her, there came back that day in the cars, on her way to New York, the Christian stranger, who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven—­the earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange sentence on her lips:  “Maybe my coffin will do it better than I can.”  Well, maybe her coffin could do it for Sadie.  Oh the blessed thought!  Plans?  YES, but perhaps God had plans too.  What mattered hers compared to HIS?  If he would that she should do her earthly work by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the “rest that remaineth,” “what was that to her?” Presently she spoke without raising her head.