een swimming pool,
tossed the wet hair out of his eyes and whistled ingratiatingly to a
watching robin. A delightful sense of guilt enveloped him, for it was
Sunday morning and, since his experience at Pine Lake a week ago, he had
learned a little of what Sunday means in Coombe. Esther had been quite
right in fearing that his return by train upon that sacred day might
deal a severe blow to his prestige--at least until Mrs. Sykes had had
time to explain to every one how unavoidable it had been--and he knew
that if he were to be caught in his present delightful occupation his
Presbyterian reputation might be considered lost forever.

The robin twittered at him prettily but refused to be beguiled. Sunday
bathing was not among its weaknesses. Presently it flew away.

"Gone to tell the minister, I'll be bound!" murmured Callandar. "'Twill
be a scandal in the kirk. I'll lose all my five patients. Horrid
little bird!"

Smiling, he drew himself from the embrace of the faintly shining water
and retiring to the willow screen began to dress with that virtuous
leisureliness which characterises those who rise before their fellows.
He had the world to himself; a world of cool, sweet scents, pure light
and Sabbath quiet--that wonderful quiet which seems a living thing with
a personality of its own, so different is it from the ordinary quiet of
work-a-day mornings.

The primrose sky gave promise of a beautiful day. The blue grey vault
overhead was already filling with shimmering golden light, the drooping
willows and the dew-wet grass were stirring in the breeze of dawn, the
voice of the water sang in the stillness.

Callandar slipped his blue tie snugly under the collar of his white
flannel shirt and sighed with the ecstasy of health renewed. A
half-forgotten couplet hummed through his brain.

"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky--"

"And it's a hymn, too, or I'm a Dutchman," he declared, much edified.
"That proves that swimming on Sunday is quite compatible with proper
orthodoxy of mind. Shouldn't wonder if the Johnnie who wrote that wrote
it on Sunday morning after a dip. I'll tell Mrs. Sykes he did
anyway--where in thunder did I put my boots?"

The missing articles had apparently fulfilled the purpose of their being
by walking away, or else the robin had collected them as evidence!
Callandar chuckled at a whimsical vision of them in a church court,
damningly marked "Exhibit 1.