orning and went off as fast as he knew how, to spread
the news. Ann, you have lived in this remarkable town all your life. Can
you tell me just why it is wicked to go swimming on Sunday?"

Ann looked blank. "No. But it is. You're likely to get drowned any
minute! Not but what I'd risk it if it wasn't for Aunt. I'm far more
scared of Aunt than I am of God," she added reflectively.

"Why, Ann! What do you mean?"

"Well, you never can tell about God, but Aunt's a dead sure thing! If
she says you'll get a smack for going in the river you'll get it--but
God only drowns a few here and there, for examples like."

"Look here!" Callandar paused in his stride and fixed her dark eyes by
the sudden seriousness in his own. "You've got the thing all wrong. God
doesn't drown people for swimming on Sunday. He isn't that sort at all.
He--He--" the unaccustomed teacher of youth faltered hopelessly in his
effort to instruct the budding mind, but Ann's eyes were questioning and
at their bidding the essential truth of his own childhood came back to
him. "God is Love," he declared firmly. "Great Scott! a person would
think that we lived in the Dark Ages! Don't you let 'em frighten you,
Ann. What are you allowed to do on Sunday anyway?"

"Church," succinctly. "And Sunday-school and church and the 'Pilgrim's
Progress.'"

"Well, that's something. Jolly good book, the 'Pilgrim's Progress'!"

"Yes," dubiously. "If it didn't use such a nawful lot of big words. And
if he'd only get on a little faster. He was terrible slow."

"So he was. Well, let us be merry while we can. I'll race you to the
orchard gate."

At the gate they paused to regain their lost breath and sense of decorum
for, across the orchard, the veranda could be plainly seen with the trim
figure of Professor Willits in close proximity to the taller and gaunter
outline of Mrs. Sykes. With one of her shy quick gestures, the child
slipped her fingers from the doctor's hold and sped away through the
trees. Her friendship with Callandar was the most wonderful thing that
had ever happened to Ann, but she was not of the kind which
parades intimacy.

"Patient dead?" asked Willits dryly after they had shaken hands.

"Patient?" Then, catching sight of the flaming red in the cheeks of his
landlady, "Dead? Certainly not. Even my patients know better than to die
on a morning like this. But whatever possessed you to disturb a
righteous household? Mrs. Sykes, he doesn't deserve breakfast,