But there was no doubt either that, in spite of the nation’s acclaim, she was still Boston’s own; and Harry Grant of the Star-Telegram, who met their party at the station, and subsequently wrote up their arrival in a two-column, half-page spread, hit the gong squarely when he headed it ‘Hub’s Favourite Daughter Home’. Secretly, Mrs Bannister had been worrying about what he might say: she had noticed him looking somewhat askance at the Tapalong Guard of Honour on the platform, and to her mind he must surely be thinking that the whole thing had become far too streamlined, forfeiting altogether the gentler atmosphere of Esther’s first appearances. She had feared some acid kind of comment … But he must have decided to let it go, for he made no mention of this aspect.

Only in his longer piece, when he covered the welcome home rally, was there a slight hint, towards the end, that he remembered a more subdued Esther, a less slick entourage, a simpler pity.

The leader page account of this meeting – the greater part of which was later distributed by Jack Lett, in photostat form, to 150,000 schools throughout the United States – marked the crowning moment of Esther’s triumph. It was a good piece, halfway between reporting and comment; even Ryan, the news editor, who had hesitated about giving Grant a free hand, was pleased with it. It told of the ovation which the packed audience accorded to Esther: of the emotional climax as she rose to ‘speak’ and answer questions; and of the mood of lyrical adoration in which the audience bid her goodnight. Of this last, Grant spoke with special tenderness:

There they sat, together on the platform, (he wrote, in a passage which had Ryan frowning throughout): Mrs Bannister in white, Esther in pale blue. The girl was obviously tired, after her long ordeal – she was white faced, and listless. By her side, Mrs Bannister was a compassionate and wonderfully loving figure.

Presently it was time to say goodbye – and for Esther, after the ‘speaking’, the questions, the effort of communication, it seemed a moment of grateful release. Our eyes returned again and again to this young girl who was and is the centre of an extraordinary miracle. To us, she seemed all things: young, lovely, accomplished – and fatally stricken. There can have been very few eyes among us quite free of tears as we watched her still figure.

We in the audience wished her goodnight. Here and there a voice, sometimes a man’s, sometimes a woman’s, called out: ‘We love you, Esther.’ Mrs Bannister was constantly speaking to her, telling her all that was said. We hoped that she was passing on to Esther everything – our love, our admiration, our hope that perhaps someday, somehow, somewhere, in spite of all the odds against her, she might come back to the world again.

Then she left the platform, gently guided by the wonderful woman who is her eyes, ears, and tongue. The audience surged towards her with their hearts full, striving to give her a last moment of warmth and love. The children in their strange uniforms, which we must now accept as part of the Esther Costello legend, formed round her at the door. Then she was gone.