Mrs. Coombe was evidently not sufficiently interested to pursue the subject. "Whoever he is," she said fretfully, "I hope he is not going to allow Amy to fancy herself an invalid."

"He is going to cure the fancy."

"Oh!" dubiously. "Well, I hope he does! I find I must run over to Detroit for a few days."

"What?"

"It would be provoking to have her ill while I'm away. No one else can manage Jane properly while you're at school. Where is Jane?"

"I don't know. You are not speaking seriously, are you?"

"I certainly am. At a pinch I suppose I could take Jane with me. She needs new clothes. But I'd rather not bother with her. Her measure will do quite as well. I wish you would call her. I've got some b.u.t.terscotch somewhere. Here it is." The restless hands fumbled in the hand-bag. "No, it isn't here, how odd! I promised Jane--"

"Mother, when did you decide to go away?"

"Some time ago. It doesn't matter, does it? I had a letter from Jessica Bremner to-day. She asks me to come at once. It's in this bag somewhere.

I declare I never can find anything! Anyway, she wants me to come."

"When did you get the letter?"

"On the noon mail, of course."

Esther turned away. She knew very well that there had been no letter from Detroit on the noon mail. But there seemed no use in saying so.

These little "inaccuracies" were becoming common enough. At first Esther had exposed and laughed at them as merely humorous mistakes; but that att.i.tude had long been replaced by a cold disgust which did not scruple to call things by their right names. She knew very well that Mary Coombe had developed the habit of lying.

"You see," went on the prevaricator cheerfully, "it would be necessary to run down to Toronto soon anyway. I haven't a rag fit to wear and neither has Jane. But Detroit is better. Things are much cheaper across the line. And easy as anything to smuggle. All you need to do is to wear them once and swear they're old."

"An oath is nothing? But where is the money coming from?"

Mrs. Coombe shrugged her shoulders. "One can't get along without clothes! And even if I could, there is another reason for the trip. My medicine is almost finished. I can't risk being without that."

It was the opportunity for which Esther had waited. She spoke eagerly.

"Why not try getting it filled here? I'm sure they are as careful as possible at Taylor's."

The hand-bag shut with a particularly emphatic click. Mrs. Coombe rose.

"We have discussed that before," she said coldly. "It is a very particular prescription and hard to fill. As it means so much to me in my wretched health to have it exactly right, I am surprised at you, Esther!"

Esther put the surprise aside.

"You could get it by mail, couldn't you?"

"I shall not try to get it by mail."

"But Taylor's are absolutely reliable. Why not give them a chance? If it is not satisfactory I shall never say another word. It seems so senseless going to Detroit for a few drugs which may be had around the corner. Perhaps it is not as difficult to fill as you think. Let me show the prescription to Dr. Callandar--" She stopped suddenly for Mrs.

Coombe had grown white, a pasty white, and she broke in upon the girl's suggestion with a little inarticulate cry of rage, so uncalled for, so utterly unexpected, that Esther was frightened. For a moment the film seemed brushed from the hazel eyes--the blinds were raised and angry fear peeped out.

"You wouldn't dare!" The words were a mere breath. Then meeting the girl's look of blank amazement she caught herself from the brink of hysteria and added more calmly, "What an impossible suggestion! I need no second opinion upon the remedy which your father prescribed for me and I shall take none. As for the journey, I shall ask your advice when I wish it. At present I am capable of managing my own affairs. I shall come and go as I like."

The would-be firm voice wavered wrathed badly toward the end of this defiance, but the widely opened eyes were still shining and as she turned to enter the house, Esther caught a look in them, a gleam of something very like hate.

"So that is what comes of asking," said Esther sombrely.

She did not follow her step-mother into the house but remained for a while on the veranda, thinking. It was clearly useless to reopen the subject of the prescription. For some reason Mrs. Coombe regarded it as a fetish. She would not trust it to Taylor's. She would not allow a doctor to see it; there remained only the suggestion of Dr. Callandar that it be inspected without her consent. Esther knew where the prescription was kept, but--

Women are supposed, by men, to have a defective sense of loyalty and it is a belief fairly well established, also among men, that there is a fundamental difference in the att.i.tude of the s.e.xes to that high thing called honour. Esther was both loyal and honourable. To deceive her step-mother, however good the motive, could not but be horrible to her and just now, being angry with a very young and healthy anger, she was less willing than ever to lose her own self-respect in the service of Mary Coombe.

"I won't!" said Esther firmly, and went in to prepare Aunt Amy's supper.

"I don't feel like I ought to be eating upstairs this way," fussed the invalid as Esther came in with the tray. "I am so much better. That medicine the doctor gave me helped me right away. He must be a very smart man, Esther."

"It looks like it, Auntie."

"I don't doubt I'll be around to-morrow just like he said. So I don't want you staying home from school. That girl you get to take your place is kind of cross with the children, isn't she?"

"She is strict."

"Well, don't get her. I don't like to think about the children being scared out of their lives on my account. So I'll just get up as usual. I could get up now if necessary. And my mind feels better."

"Your _mind_?" Never before had Esther heard Aunt Amy refer to "her"

mind as being in any way troublesome.

"Yes. I suppose you never knew, but sometimes I have felt a little worried about my mind."

"Whatever for?" The surprise which still lingered on the girl's voice was balm to Aunt Amy's soul. She laughed nervously.

"Of course it was foolish," she said, "but really there have been times when I have felt--felt, I can hardly express it, but as if there were a little something _wrong_, you know. Did you ever guess that I felt like that, Esther?"

"No, Auntie."

Aunt Amy shivered. For a moment her faded eyes grew large and dark. "I'm glad you did not guess it. It is a dreadful feeling, like night and thunder and no place to go. A black feeling! I used to be afraid I might get caught in the blackness and never find a way out and then--"

"And then what, dear?"

"Why, then--I'd be mad, Esther!"

"Oh, darling, how awful!" Esther's warm young arms clasped the trembling old creature close. "You must never, never be afraid again! Why didn't you tell me and let me help?"

"I couldn't. You would not have believed me. And it would have frightened you. And you might have told Mary. If Mary knew of it she would be certain to be frightened and if she was frightened she would send me away. Then the darkness would get me."

"It never shall, Auntie. No one shall ever send you away! And you won't be afraid any more, will you?"

"No, not if you don't keep telling me that things I know aren't true. I know they are true, you see, but when you say they aren't it makes my head go round."

"We'll be more careful, dear! And here is your medicine before you have your supper."

Aunt Amy turned cheerfully to the supper tray.