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.
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