{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_52019/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_52019","id":"gutenberg_52019","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52019","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Novels","Families -- Fiction","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","Pennsylvania Dutch Country (Pa.) -- Fiction","Religion -- Fiction","Women -- Education -- Fiction"],"text":"ELLEN LEVIS\n  _A NOVEL_\n  BY\n  ELSIE SINGMASTER\n  _Author of \"Katy Gaumer,\" \"Basil Everman,\" etc._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  BOSTON AND NEW YORK\n  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY\n  _The Riverside Press Cambridge_\n  1921\n\n\n\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS\n  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\n\n\n\n  The Riverside Press\n  CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS\n  U . S . A\n\n\n\n\n          CONTENTS\n\n\n       I. A FRIEND IN NEED                             3\n\n      II. ELLEN REFUSES TO HEAR A CALL                15\n\n     III. TWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME STORY              22\n\n      IV. A SLUMBERING TERROR                         32\n\n       V. LEVIS SPEAKS HIS MIND                       39\n\n      VI. STUDYING IN VACATION                        48\n\n     VII. AN EVENING PILGRIMAGE                       54\n\n    VIII. MATTHEW MAKES HIS CHOICE                    61\n\n      IX. A GROWING MIND                              73\n\n       X. UNEXPECTED GUESTS                           83\n\n      XI. CHANGE                                      92\n\n     XII. A QUICKENING TERROR                         99\n\n    XIII. MATTHEW COMES HOME                         102\n\n     XIV. AMOS VENTURES INTO THE WORLD               108\n\n      XV. ELLEN IS OFFERED A WAY OUT                 120\n\n     XVI. ELLEN SOLVES HER PROBLEM                   126\n\n    XVII. GOLDSTEIN'S JEWELRY STORE                  133\n\n   XVIII. A CLOCK RUNS DOWN                          141\n\n     XIX. FETZER ENGAGES A NEW MAID                  150\n\n      XX. MASTER AND MISTRESS                        156\n\n     XXI. A LOST SHEEP                               163\n\n    XXII. A CRISIS AT HAND                           168\n\n   XXIII. A STRANGE JOURNEY                          178\n\n    XXIV. AN UNHAPPY SCHOLAR                         184\n\n     XXV. A PROJECTED ATONEMENT                      187\n\n    XXVI. A VISIT TO EPHRATA                         196\n\n   XXVII. ELLEN'S DREAMS COME TRUE                   204\n\n  XXVIII. FETZER'S EYE IS OPENED                     214\n\n    XXIX. GRANDFATHER AND AMOS MAKE DISCOVERIES      217\n\n     XXX. FETZER DELIVERS A SERMON                   226\n\n    XXXI. ELLEN REMEMBERS BROTHER REITH              233\n\n   XXXII. GRANDFATHER PLANS A CRIME                  237\n\n  XXXIII. ELLEN UNDERTAKES TO CONQUER HERSELF        242\n\n   XXXIV. A DARK TOWER                               246\n\n    XXXV. AN UNDELIVERED MESSAGE                     257\n\n   XXXVI. MATTHEW AND ELLEN                          261\n\n  XXXVII. A BITTER WAKENING                          272\n\n XXXVIII. A QUIET HOUR                               280\n\n   XXXIX. FETZER CLOSES A DOOR                       283\n\n\n\n\nELLEN LEVIS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nA FRIEND IN NEED\n\n\nOn a dismal day in March, four years before Ellen Levis was born or\ndreamed of, the slight acquaintance of Stephen Lanfair and Edward\nLevis was quickened by an unpleasant incident into friendship. Both\nattended the University Medical School in Philadelphia and both were\nambitious, but there the resemblance between them ended. Stephen, an\nunderclassman, the only son of a physician, had been started early and\nwell in his career, and was the youngest student; Levis, a Senior, had\nfended for himself and was almost the oldest. Stephen had an allowance\nwhich was not large, but which sufficed for all necessities and some\nluxuries; Levis had only that which he earned by tutoring, and by\nacting as substitute instructor, laboratory assistant, and editor of\nthe _Students' Quarterly_. Their acquaintance began when Stephen,\nwishing to win a place on the editorial board of the _Quarterly_, and\nconferring with Levis, had been invited by him to become a contributor\nto the next issue.\n\nOn the morning of that dismal March day Stephen sat, far from\nPhiladelphia, in the room which had been his father's office in\nChestnut Ridge, a coal-mining town above Wilkes-Barre, waiting until it\nwas time for the train which should take him back to the Medical School\nwhich he had left to attend his father in his last illness.\n\nHe looked drearily and absent-mindedly out into the thick mist which\nhid all but the immediate neighborhood, a dirty, unpaved street, a\nstretch of sidewalk made of powdery black culm, and the front of a\nlarge dim building, the \"company store.\" He saw not only what the mist\nrevealed, but what it hid, a continuation of the dreary street, running\nbetween a black hill and a blacker culm bank, and terminating in a\ntowering breaker, shapeless and hideous in design. There was no color\nin the landscape; all was a dense black or a soft, woolly gray. The\ncompany store had once been painted red, but the red had long ago been\noverlaid by black.\n\nWith him sat the superintendent of the mine, Harry Kinter, a plump,\nfriendly young man with a pendent under lip and easy manners. He\nslouched, cigarette in hand, in what had been Dr. Lanfair's office\nchair, looking with dull, kindly eyes at his companion. He was sorry\nfor the distressed youth and was doing his best to comfort him in a\npractical way.\n\n\"Now I can get the old fellow from Hazelton to come up for a couple\nof years, Stephen. He'll be good for that long, I'm sure, and perhaps\nlonger. But we must have your word to settle here when you're through\nschool; otherwise we'll try to get a permanent man. The advantage to\nyou would be a salary from the beginning, which is what most young\nfellows don't get. Wouldn't you like the place for the sake of your\nfather? Perhaps the company would be willing to pay you something to\nhelp you along if they could have your promise.\"\n\nStephen glanced toward the superintendent and then away, unable to\ncommand his voice. He was tall and thin and the looseness of his\nclothing and the length of his hair which he refused to have trimmed\nby the Chestnut Ridge barber, as well as his expression of fatigue,\nmade him look forlorn. The offer of a position indicated a willingness\nof the mining company to take doubtful risks, since other lives could\nhardly be of much importance to one who valued his own so little.\n\nHis pale cheeks and swollen eyelids indicated not only the weariness of\nnights spent in watching, but a copious shedding of tears and also an\nacute present anxiety. Alas! it might be that he would have no other\nplace to go, that this dreary settlement would be his sole refuge, a\ngravelike refuge, but a refuge none the less. If, as he anticipated,\ndisgrace awaited him at the University, he might be only too happy to\nreturn to this inaccessible spot whither it was not likely that a rumor\nof his misdeed would ever penetrate, or where, if it did penetrate, it\nwould be vaguely understood and condoned. Physicians willing to bury\nthemselves in Chestnut Ridge were not so easily found that the mining\ncompany could afford to be fastidious.\n\nIt was not that Chestnut Ridge offered no opportunities to a physician.\nOne could not look casually out of the window at this hour without\nseeing opportunities, even on a morning when most of the world was\nhidden from view. Four out of the ten women who stood gossiping\nin strange tongues before the company store--Austrian, Hungarian,\nBohemian, Lithuanian--would need in a short time the attention of a\nphysician. The children tugging at their skirts were under-nourished.\nIt was still too early for the men of the night shift to have had their\nrest and be on the street, but when they appeared their faces would\nshow the effect of the long hours spent away from the sunlight and of\nthe liquor with which they enlivened their periods of idleness. There\nwas no doubt that Chestnut Ridge needed a physician.\n\nBut such work would be done by Stephen only under compulsion. Here his\nfather had wasted his life; he had been at the call of every foreigner,\nhad spent day after day at the squalid bedsides of suffering women,\nwaiting upon uncleanness, and had died at the age of fifty of blood\npoison, contracted in an emergency operation performed hastily and\nwithout gloves, to save two lives far less valuable than his own. He\nhad apparently not regretted his course; he had accepted his fate\nquietly and without complaint and had been anxious only that Stephen\nshould understand exactly about his small inheritance. Afterwards he\nlay low in his bed, his hands clasped across his breast, repeating the\npoetry he loved, a little, lean, bearded man, with eager eyes and a\nheartening smile, wholly unconscious of the loftiness of his own soul.\n\nPresently he became confused and tried to remember a formula which he\nfrequently recited at the bedsides of dying patients, sometimes in\nEnglish for Protestants, but more often in Latin for Catholics who\ncould not be reached in time by the busy head of a wide parish. It was\na formula which for him explained the world, made sacrifice easy, and a\nsolution of all life's difficulties certain.\n\n\"I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth,\" he\nsaid faintly and could go no further.\n\nHe had looked at his son earnestly and Stephen had prompted him, not\nwithout embarrassment. Stephen had been trained in the principles of\nthe Christian faith and he had believed them, but they were now with\nhim wholly a matter of rote; religion was not, he believed, a necessity\nof his life.\n\nStephen meant to be not a general practitioner like his father, but\na specialist in the diseases of the eye like Professor Mayne of the\nMedical School, and his ambition aimed not only at such skill as\nProfessor Mayne possessed and such fame as he had won, but also at a\nsimilar accumulation of wealth. He did not expect to attain his end\nwithout hard labor. He was a diligent student, and he was willing to\ndevote himself night and day to his task.\n\nHis hopes of success were not unfounded, and his unusual ability was\nappreciated not only by himself, but by his teachers. He had won\nthe First Year prize, and Professor Mayne had intimated to him that\nof all the candidates for the position of interne at the Ophthalmic\nHospital he was most likely to be appointed. Such a position as that at\nChestnut Ridge should be given to a man like his acquaintance, Levis,\nwho had worked his way through school and who had endured so much\nhardship that a regular salary would be desirable, even with all the\naccompanying disadvantages. He might even describe the place to Levis\nand suggest that he apply for it, or he might mention his name to the\nsuperintendent as a possible employee. He pitied men like Levis with\nall his heart.\n\nBut he might need the Chestnut Ridge practice for himself--let him not\nforget that! He rose and walked up and down the room, still without\nanswering Kinter, who seemed half asleep.\n\nIf only he had not imperiled his future by a piece of madness! Having\nsignified his willingness to contribute to the _Quarterly_, and\nbeing immensely pleased and flattered by this opportunity to shine,\nhe was visited by the sterility of mind common to youth which has\na creative task set for it. When he was summoned to his father's\nbedside, his article was not yet begun; indeed, he had not yet selected\na subject--and he had expected to make with this contribution an\nimpression upon the whole of the Medical School and the Faculty as well!\n\nDuring an unoccupied hour when the fatal termination of his father's\nillness was still in doubt, he had found in an old yellowed medical\njournal in the drawer of the office desk, an article proposing an\ningenious and at the same time unfounded and actually ludicrous theory\nof the origin of cancer. The magazine was published in England--he did\nnot know how it had come into his father's possession.\n\nThe theory seemed to him novel and ingenious, though possibly mistaken;\nhe did not realize that it was ludicrous. In one of those moments of\nmadness which are part of youth, he condensed the article, copied\nit, and sent it to Levis. The act was like the occasional thefts of\nchildren who take pennies in order to buy candy and who repent bitterly\nand are forever after honest. He was ambitious as children are hungry;\nthe desire for fame was his strongest impulse and he could not let pass\neven so small an opportunity to shine.\n\nAs he sat by his father's bedside, where stupor had at last succeeded\nparoxysm and the end had become the matter of a day, he realized\nsuddenly what he had done. It may have been that the principles in\nwhich he had been trained reasserted their power over him; it may have\nbeen that his father's face, which looked in its sunken condition like\nthe face of a tortured saint, recalled him to himself; at any rate, he\nsaw as by a lightning flash the foolishness of his act.\n\nHaving realized his mistake, he tried to remedy it. Calling from his\nwindow to a passing miner, he sent a telegram to Levis, \"Do not publish\nmy article.\" In a few hours he received word that the magazine had\ngone to press. Levis had added a sentence at which he groaned aloud,\n\"Article all right.\"\n\nIf the college officials detected his plagiarism, it would mean the\nend of all his hopes. Professor Mayne would no longer distinguish him\nby his commendation and friendly attentions; he would have no chance\nof becoming an interne at the Ophthalmic Hospital and thus of pursuing\nimmediately his longed-for work; he would have to accept the position\nat Chestnut Ridge and bid good-bye to his proud hopes.\n\nIt might be that he would have to suffer actual punishment. The prize,\nwhich was to add a hundred dollars to his income, might be taken from\nhim and public mention might be made of his disgrace. It would not be\ngreatly to be wondered at if the Faculty chose to assume that all his\ncarefully wrought papers, all his well-prepared examinations, were\naccompanied by a similar dishonesty.\n\nIn the midst of his distress, he realized that the superintendent had\nwaited a long time for an answer.\n\n\"I'll have to think it over, Harry. It's time for me to start now.\"\n\nKinter rose lazily and lifted Stephen's satchel.\n\n\"You let me hear from you in the course of the next few weeks; and in\nthe meantime we'll engage the old man for a year at least. You won't\nfind it so dreadfully dull here, believe me. It's possible to get down\nto Wilkes-Barre on the evening train and back in the caboose of the\nfreight; gives you a nice long evening. I know some girls and I'll\nintroduce you to them. They have dances once in a while. You'll get\naccustomed to it. I have. I guess diseases are pretty much the same as\nmines, alike everywhere.\"\n\nIn the train Stephen sat close to the window, a forbidding shoulder\nturned toward a possibly loquacious seat-mate. His very heart was sick,\nbut he fancied that it was his body, made so by the motion of the car.\nUsually he enjoyed the ride, first through the region of breakers and\nculm banks which took on a weird picturesqueness on a bright day,\nthen along the upper reaches of the Susquehanna and the narrow defile\nthrough which the Lehigh passes at Mauch Chunk, and into the farm\nlands farther down. He liked also to note the changing speech, the\nforeign tongues in his own neighborhood, the broad Pennsylvania German\nat Allentown, the less accented speech near Philadelphia. But to-day\nnothing engaged his attention but his own misery.\n\nOn the news-stand in the station in Philadelphia he saw the _Students'\nQuarterly_. He was tempted at first to pass quickly by and thus put\noff for a while the final realization of his shame, but he bought a\ncopy and walked through the station to a bench so placed that he could\nturn his back to all the world. When he sat down he found that he was\nholding his breath, though suspense was not exactly his condition of\nmind, since suspense implied some hope, and he believed that there was\nnone for Stephen Lanfair.\n\nThen his lips parted and his eyes dilated and a deadly paleness spread\nover a countenance already white. The day of miracles was not past; God\ndid not mean him to be destroyed.\n\nHe found the article, \"A New Theory,\" and his name \"Stephen Lanfair.\"\nHe found under his name a note: \"This article is not original, but is\nan abstract of a mistaken and amusing but ingenious treatise by John\nDalling, a famous London physician. It was first published in England\nin 1837.\" The note, a reader would have said, was placed there by the\ncontributor himself.\n\nSaint Elizabeth, finding in the fifteenth century the loaves in her\napron turned to roses in answer to her prayer, may have been surprised.\nStephen Lanfair, finding a similar benison in the nineteenth, was\nstupefied.\n\nWhen the machinery of his brain began to operate, he tried to\nfathom the mystery. He had not written the note himself, that was\ncertain--some good angel in the guise of a critic had saved him, and\nthe only person through whose hands the manuscript had passed was\nEdward Levis.\n\nHaving crossed the city he knew not how, he found Levis in his poor\nroom. He was as thin as Lanfair and looked, with his black beard,\ntwenty years older. He took off a pair of large spectacles and bade\nhis guest sit down. Stephen remembered having heard that he had been a\nfoundling, brought up at Girard College.\n\nHe did not answer Levis's greeting, he simply held out the magazine.\n\n\"Did you put that note in, Levis?\"\n\nLevis flushed. His nature was one of intense reserve and he anticipated\nand deplored the unpleasantness of a confession. He believed that\nhe understood the boyish rashness which was to blame for Lanfair's\nmistake, and he had added the note for his sake as well as for the sake\nof the magazine.\n\n\"I saw you had forgotten it,\" said he lightly.\n\n\"Did you know the real author?\"\n\n\"Yes. I saw this article alluded to humorously long ago in Thurber's\ntextbook and I looked it up. The old magazine is on file here.\"\n\n\"It is commonly known, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I should say so, as a sort of absurdity. You see, of course, that\nit is an absurdity.\"\n\nTo this Stephen made no answer. He would have proved himself a fool,\nthen, as well as a knave!\n\n\"Do you think many persons beside yourself would have recognized it?\"\n\n\"I think it likely, and of course one would have been enough. It was\nall right for you to send it in, though; it has roused a great deal of\ninterest; it shows we have a sense of humor. I was very sorry to hear\nthat you lost your father, Lanfair.\"\n\nStephen would have liked to lay his head on Levis's shoulder; instead\nhe laid it on Levis's desk.\n\n\"I didn't mean to add a note,\" said he in a thick voice. \"I meant to\npass it off as my own. I have been a dishonest fool.\"\n\nLevis stirred uneasily.\n\n\"We all have to learn lessons.\"\n\nStephen was crying like a child.\n\n\"Don't, my dear fellow,\" said Levis.\n\nStephen lifted his head.\n\n\"I promise you that never in my life will I do anything of this kind\nagain. It's nearly killed me. If my father had known--I don't know what\nhe would have felt or done or said. He would have been heart-broken.\nWhen I'm tempted to do anything wrong, anything of any kind, I'll think\nof you. I promise you faithfully!\"\n\nLevis smiled.\n\n\"Promise yourself, Lanfair!\"\n\nStephen remembered at the end of the week to write his decision to\nKinter. He would not need, thank God, to go to Chestnut Ridge and\nfix his eyes for the rest of his life upon the dirty street and the\ndismal breaker and the ignorant, unclean women who were so often and so\ndirely in need of waiting upon! He thought of his father with an almost\nintolerable tenderness of heart. His father had suffered everything,\ncold and weariness and loneliness and hunger of mind, separation from\nall that was interesting and profitable, and finally martyrdom itself\nin a ghastly form. His father was a saint; he would always remember\nhim and love him, but he would not need to follow exactly in his\nfootsteps. He would have a career of which his father would have been\nunspeakably proud; he would establish principles by which the whole\nrace of eye specialists would be governed; he would have an immensely\nwide influence, and it would all be his father's doing.\n\nHe told Levis about the position, feeling a little ashamed, and was\nrelieved when Levis explained that he had agreed to take a country\npractice in Lancaster County.\n\nHe was given the next day new reason to expect success. Professor Mayne\nsummoned him to his desk at the end of his last class and congratulated\nhim upon his answers in a recent examination. Mayne was as large in\nbody as he was in estate and his manner expressed his opulence. He had\na full round voice, he used long words deliberately and with perfect\ncorrectness, and spoke with an old-fashioned rhythm, which accented\nnow important, now unimportant words, as though he obeyed some queer\nquantitative law. He seemed to be health of body and mind incarnate,\nbut an inherited susceptibility to mental disorder had forbidden his\ncontinuing his race. Life, he believed, was on the whole hideous if one\nstopped to consider it; but clever men did not contemplate it, they\nsimply secured for themselves all the pleasures of the eye and the mind\nand the body that it was possible to get without transgressing the laws\nof health and common sense.\n\nSitting at his desk, dressed in broadcloth, he looked pleasantly at his\npupil. Stephen's appearance had improved; his hair had been trimmed\nafter a homely bang-like fashion then prevailing, sleep had refreshed\nhim, and only the black band on his sleeve distinguished him as one\nafflicted. His eyelids were no longer swollen and his eyes had resumed\na natural brilliancy which drew attention away from his somewhat\nattenuated features.\n\n\"I was interested in your contribution to the _Quarterly_, Lanfair.\nWhere did you discover that antediluvian absurdity?\"\n\n\"In an old magazine of my father's.\" Stephen could not suppress the\ntears which burned his eyes. His relief from anxiety softened his\nheart and the least expression of sympathy made him almost hysterical.\n\"He had evidently kept it because it was a curiosity. He was a great\nreader. I didn't know that attention had been called to it in Thurber's\ntextbook until Levis told me.\"\n\n\"We cannot be reminded of a good joke too often. I had forgotten it\nentirely. Continue your general reading; it will eventually prove\nprofitable to you, no matter what department of medicine you select.\"\n\nThen, remembering that Lanfair's father had just died, Professor Mayne\ninvited him to dinner. His niece was to go with him to the theater and\nthey would dine at six o'clock at the New Windham Hotel. His carriage\nwas outside the building. Lanfair might just as well accompany him now.\nStephen followed down the hall, his heart thumping.\n\nHis heart beat still more rapidly when he was seated opposite to Mayne\nand next to his niece in the hotel dining-room. The girl, Hilda Fell,\nwas a little creature in exquisite clothes who looked up from under a\npair of brows which almost met and which gave to her face a willful\nand imperious expression. She was very young and light as thistledown\nand was already spoiled by wealth and idleness. The men whom she had\nknown hitherto were familiar with her type, but Stephen was not; he\nthought of her as a charming princess, and when her bright eyes met\nhis, he looked back into them smiling, and not recognizing the intense\nand somewhat unwholesome curiosity about life which animated them. He\nhad frequently heard of her as an orphan with a large estate of which a\ngreat stone house on the river front in Harrisburg near the governor's\nmansion was only a small part. She was an object of interest to the\nstudents who knew her by sight and who discussed endlessly her wealth\nand her fashionable clothes and admired her free manners. There was a\ncurrent rumor that she smoked cigarettes, a habit then almost unknown\namong women.\n\nProfessor Mayne teased her and she answered saucily. He deplored his\nown ill fortune, and still more that of this little creature in whom\nthe taint of insanity was darker than in himself. He believed that\nhis sister, Hilda's mother, would have developed, if she had lived, a\nserious melancholia ending possibly in suicide for which the family\nhistory furnished abundant precedent. He was convinced of the present\nsoundness of Hilda's mind, but with him and Hilda the family must end.\n\nHe looked at her and young Lanfair earnestly. Lanfair was ambitious;\nhe would improve and develop, and to him certain matters could be\nexplained. Before they parted he had invited Stephen to his house.\n\nStephen went from the hotel table to Levis's room. He asked merely to\nsit there with his book before the fire, which was the only means of\nheating here where living was cheap. He was like a child who finds\nassuagement for hurt in the silent company of an older person.\n\nLevis smiled and went on with his work. It was not often that students\nsought him out merely for the pleasure of his company and he was\ntouched by this youthful devotion.\n\nNor was it often, at least during his occupancy, that a girl's figure\nand a pair of dark eyes were visualized against the background of the\nold mantelpiece. Levis himself did not give one hour's thought in a\nyear to women; he believed that he was growing too old for love-making\nand that hardship had made him immune to love. Certainly there was no\nprofit in thinking of a state of matrimony into which one was too poor\nto enter!\n\nStephen contrasted his fearful anticipations with what had actually\noccurred. He had expected to be by this time disgraced and despairing.\nInstead he was at peace. He had been more honored than he had dreamed\nof being, and now a new and wilder possibility dazzled him.\n\nHis thoughts recurred to his father, and he dwelt with gratitude upon\nthe self-sacrificing care which had always been his. If his father had\nbeen willing to provide less generously for his education, to stint\nhis pocket-money, or to leave a smaller inheritance, he might have had\na larger library with which to make Chestnut Ridge tolerable and an\noccasional journey for diversion or improvement. He might even--Stephen\nflushed a little as this notion came into his mind--he might even have\ncontracted a second marriage, his first having ended tragically with\nStephen's birth.\n\nStephen avoided thinking of the piety which was after all his father's\ndistinguishing characteristic, even though he was aware that his father\nwould rather have bequeathed to him faith than money, and that his\neffort to recite the Creed was not a last reassurance to himself as it\nhad seemed, but a final reminder of the faith without which he believed\nhis son would perish. Stephen saw him clearly as he lay in his bed and\nheard his voice reciting the treasured verses which he had memorized in\ndreary journeys over the bleak hills. The lines which he repeated most\noften acknowledged with what was to his son a ghastly frankness his\ndire plight:\n\n    \"In the hour of death, after this life's whim,\n    When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,\n    And pain has exhausted every limb--\n    The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.\"\n\nHe resisted not only this memory, but others, a tiny, dismal\nschoolhouse, half filled by a little flock of mourning women and\nchildren bereft of husbands and fathers by a cruel death; he saw\nweeping eyes and sad faces in which apathy had followed tears. He hated\nall sorrow and trouble and he connected religion with them. Religion\nwas for the old, the dying, the afflicted, the needy, and he was none\nof these.\n\nHe looked from time to time gratefully at Levis bending over his books.\nWhatever good fortune should be his, Levis should share. Levis had\nsaved his honor, had saved him from pitfalls for the rest of his life.\nHe would never, never forget him.\n\nFor the most part, however, he thought of himself, of his excellent\nmarks, of his grasp of the subjects which he studied, of admirable\nProfessor Mayne, and especially of Professor Mayne's niece. He had, he\nwas sure, the ordering of his life in his hands; he could make it what\nhe chose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nELLEN REFUSES TO HEAR A CALL\n\n\nOutside the Saal or meeting-room of the old Kloster all was hot\nand bright in the sunshine. The thick grass in the enclosure which\nsurrounded the group of strangely fashioned buildings was ready for\ncutting, the foliage was at its greenest. Ellen Levis could see between\nthe two wings of a bowed shutter the sloping plot and half of a willow\ntree whose plumy branches hung motionless in the still air. She could\nsee also sheep feeding in the fields across Cocalico Creek and in\nimagination she played with them and with herself a childish game,\nmaking a silly wager that a certain black lamb would come again into\nsight before Grandfather Milhausen had finished his lengthy exposition\nof trine immersion. It was Saturday morning when most children were,\nlike the lambs, at play, all but the children of the Seventh-Day\nBaptists.\n\nPresently, when her eyes grew tired of the glare of sunshine, she\nturned them upon the scene nearer at hand.\n\nIn the meeting-house all was cool and dim. A soft golden light fell\nupon the worn benches, the long tables running the length of the room,\nthe pulpit covered with a white homespun cloth, the ancient stove.\nAll was old and strange and brown with the stain of time. Hung upon\nthe wall, close to the heavy beams of the ceiling, were crumbling\npaper charts with intricate and graceful lettering which had been made\nin 1740--it was natural that now, after almost two centuries, the\ninscriptions should be faded and dull.\n\nThe congregation sitting motionless in the shadowy place had an\nunearthly aspect. There were three young mothers, with heads bent in\nsomnolent maternity above the infants in their arms; there were a few\nolder women whose heads were likewise bent; there were half a dozen\nmen; and last of all, a few children, dressed like their fathers and\nmothers in clothes which betokened indifference to changing styles.\n\nOnly Ellen Levis and her brother were clad in any modern fashion.\nTheir mother, long dead, had been a Seventh-Day Baptist and their\nfather, who was not a church member, not even a worldly Lutheran, sent\nthem to the meeting at the Kloster because of a promise made to her.\n\nThe two children, Matthew, a sturdy, blond boy of sixteen, and Ellen,\nwho was almost two years younger, sat a little apart from the others,\nMatthew with his arms folded like the brethren, and Ellen close beside\nhim. Sometimes she laid her head for a moment on his shoulder. She\nwas a child of intense affections to whom the sight and touch of the\nbeloved object gave unspeakable satisfaction. Matthew was to go to\nschool in the fall to study medicine and at the thought of separation\nfrom him tears came into her brown eyes.\n\nThe meeting seemed interminable. It was not always possible for the\nlittle flock to gather together on the Seventh Day, and once assembled\nthey communed long together. This evening after the solemn ceremony of\nFoot-washing, the Lord's Supper would be celebrated, as was proper, as\nan evening feast.\n\nThe attendance was comparatively large, all that remained of the\nEphrata flock having gathered, as well as a few members from Franklin\nand Bedford Counties; and Grandfather Milhausen, feeling the occasion\nto be important, was delivering himself of the fruits of a lifetime of\nmeditation. He proved the necessity of baptism; he proved that baptism\nby sprinkling had no warrant in Scripture; he dwelt in conclusion with\npassionate outpouring of words upon the efficacy and comfort of trine\nimmersion.\n\nHis voice, now loud, now soft, kept throughout a monotone. His hearers\ngrew drowsy, slept, woke again, changed their positions, and slept once\nmore. The little black lamb came again and again into the field of\nEllen's vision, fifty accurately counted automobile horns sounded from\na curve near by, and each member of the congregation was in turn gazed\nat and meditated upon.\n\n\"I like Sister K\u00f6nig because she is so very fat and when she is not in\nmeeting she smiles pleasantly.... I pity Brother Reith because they had\nto take his wife to the asylum, but I do not like him.... I pity Sister\nHerman because she had to be baptized in the cold creek last winter.\nI should choose the summer. I should\"--there was a slight admonitory\nmotion of the shoulder against which she leaned. But she was disturbed\nonly for a second; then she settled her plump body still more closely\nagainst her brother's arm. He was tired, she was sure, and she was\nvery, very tired. Grandfather's eyes, lifted a moment ago toward the\nceiling, were bent now upon his congregation. He must see that they\nwere tired, that they longed to go, but he took no heed of their misery.\n\nOnce more Ellen returned to her musing. She journeyed through the\nstrange old building, passing from the meeting-room into a kitchen\nwhere, long ago, meals were prepared for visiting brethren, and\nclimbing up into large empty lofts which had been their dormitories.\n\nThen she sped in imagination out the door of the meeting-room and\nacross the angle between the Saal and Saron. In Saron had lived a\nconventual sisterhood, young women who had left their fathers' houses,\nand older women who had left their own homes and their husbands and\nchildren, to pray, to spin and weave, to letter the old charts, and\nto sing morning, noon and midnight, strange, attenuated music from a\nlatticed gallery.\n\nThe old building was an enchanting place--if only one were sometimes\nallowed there alone, so that one might dream without the guiding\nadmonitions of Grandfather, to whom these women were all saints. Here\nwere old spinning-wheels and a curious tower clock which struck the\nhours, and pieces of pottery and old books and still other elaborate\ncharts. Climbing a narrow, winding stairway, one came to tiny cells\nwhere the sisters had slept on narrow benches fastened to the wall,\nwith blocks of wood for pillows. Ellen pictured them lying stiffly;\nsometimes she imagined them falling with a crash from their narrow\ncouches; sometimes she fancied herself pursued by them, and taking\nrefuge with Matthew or her father. They wore, she seemed to remember,\nthick white dresses, tied about with ropes. The poor things lay now,\ndead and done for, in the little cemetery between the meeting-house and\nthe road.\n\nAfter a long time she resumed her meditations upon the subject of\nimmersion.\n\n\"I would not like to be baptized when the water was high, either. I\nwould do like Millie K\u00f6nig\"--her eyes turned toward one of the youngest\nof the sisters, a girl about Matthew's age, with a meaningless,\nsaintlike beauty. \"I would take a nice day like Millie.\" She looked\nagain at the downcast eyes and the crossed hands. \"I hate Millie,\" said\nshe calmly. Then her weariness became acute. It was dreadful to have to\nsit here while the world went on, dreadful, dreadful. She began to pity\nherself and saw her whole life wasted.\n\nSuddenly she was acutely disturbed. It was not alone the admonitory\nmotion of Matthew's shoulder; it was the preacher's eyes, bent directly\nupon Matthew and upon her. She sat upright. Something was going to\nhappen after all--she anticipated that it was something more trying\nthan the monotony.\n\n\"There are those in our midst who should be of us,\" said Grandfather,\nwith jealous passion. \"The children of a good mother who was a\nSeventh-Day Baptist should follow in her footsteps, should go down into\nthe cleansing flood and there wash themselves clean of sin, should make\na fresh start in the world, should put upon themselves the badge of\nseparation. They have heard the call many times; they must be no longer\ndisobedient to the heavenly vision. Brother Matthew, Sister Ellen, is\nit well that you should postpone what is right for you to do, that you\nshould longer reject the peace of God?\"\n\nEllen's head turned sharply, her eyes seeking her brother's. A shaft of\nsunshine fell upon his thick, light hair and across his smooth cheek.\nFor a long time he did not answer and an awful fear began to take shape\nin her heart. Was he not going to answer, to get somehow between her\nand the dreadful eyes, the deathlike beard of Grandfather? Still he sat\nmotionless.\n\nGrandfather lifted his arms in supplication.\n\n\"Father in Heaven, Thou that takest care of the least of Thy children,\nThou who rejoicest over each lamb brought into the fold, help us in\nthis hour!\"\n\nEllen leaned forward and grasped the edge of the seat with both hands.\nWas not Matthew angry, would he not be angry, would he not take her\nand himself away from this glittering, searching eye? She thought with\nsick longing of her father, so comfortable at home, or riding to see a\npatient. No one would dare, she was certain, to talk to him about his\nsoul, or to suggest that he should take off his clothes and put on a\nlong black robe and kneel in Cocalico Creek and let Grandfather dip\nhim back and forth! Neither would Matthew submit to such indignity.\nOutraged and insulted, she tried to find his hand to assure him of her\nsympathy.\n\nBut her hand was not taken. Matthew sat motionless staring at the\nfloor. Her eyes sought the watching faces. Mothers had lifted their\nheads, the few fathers in Israel bent forward. Sister Herman was\ncrying. Sister Millie's eyes were different from the rest; their\nexpression was sharper and more eager; they were hungry eyes, bent upon\nMatthew's thick, light curls. Without understanding, Ellen hated her\neven more vehemently. Her hand, creeping into Matthew's, would not be\nwithstood.\n\n\"Oh, Matthew, let us go home!\"\n\nHolding her hand, Matthew rose. It seemed that only the blood of his\nmother filled his veins. The love of the soil was in him and of the\nheavy, unthinking, comfortable life which his mother's people had lived\nfor generation upon generation, life founded upon a conviction that in\nthe next world all would be well. He could not remember his mother, but\nhe had thought much about her.\n\nHe took now the most important step of his life. Inclination, inherited\ntendencies, and a piety, deep and authentic, though narrow, indicated\nhis path.\n\n\"I have thought about these matters for a long time,\" he said slowly.\n\"I believe that we should be baptized by trine immersion, that there is\nno salvation outside it. I believe that we should observe the ordinance\nof Foot-washing because our Lord commanded it. I believe in the holy\nkiss and in the communion. I believe we should be a separated people\nand that we should keep the peace, not going to law, and not making or\nengaging in war, and observing temperance and charity. I am ready to be\nimmersed when it seems best. I am--\"\n\nBut he could say no more. Even so well thought out a declaration proved\ndifficult to deliver. Sister Herman began to sing, a high, shrill song,\nnot the strange part singing of a century and a half ago, which had\nbecome merely a tradition, but a modern revival hymn,\n\n    \"The Lord's my strength,\n    In Him I'll trust,\n    A Shelter in the time of storm.\"\n\nSister K\u00f6nig joined and the tenor of Brother Amos fell in. Brother\nAmos, a nephew of Grandfather Milhausen, was only twenty-one, but he\nwas a school-teacher and had already been appointed a preacher.\n\nThe music caught Ellen by the throat; it seemed to drown her in thick,\noverpowering emotion. An inner voice admonished her to yield; that it\nwas easier to yield, better to yield, to give up one's own desires,\none's own will, to walk in an appointed path. Matthew grasped her hand\nclosely and then laid his other hand upon it. He was undemonstrative\nand his unwonted gesture softened her heart still more. For him she had\nfetched and carried all their short lives; he believed that she would\nobey now as she had always obeyed, and he would bring her into the\nkingdom.\n\nGrandfather had not finished his appeal. He looked down at Ellen and\nit seemed that his bright eyes burned her through. She thought of a\ndreadful picture of God and the judgment, she thought of every wrong\nshe had done; of disobedience, of impertinence to the housekeeper, of\nexcursions into forbidden books, of wandering thoughts in meeting. She\nheard him plead, she felt Matthew's hand clasp hers still more closely.\nLike Matthew she was compelled suddenly to decide, but unlike Matthew\nshe had not thought on these things, and except in amused speculation\nthe possibility of being immersed or of baring her feet before the\nwomen had not occurred to her.\n\nThen Ellen made the choice by which she was to abide. The blood which\nflowed in her veins was different from that in her brother's; the\npaternal inheritance was paramount, the choice was, after all, made\nfor her. Though Matthew's caress thrilled her with delight, she rose\nunsteadily. She saw in all eyes a pleased conviction that she was about\nto imitate him; she noticed for the first time that Amos's eyes could\ngleam like her grandfather's, and she trembled. Standing for a moment\nshe was a pleasant picture, a round and still childish figure whose\nfuture appearance was not to be certainly prophesied, but possessing\ntwo features whose beauty would be for years to come certain, thick,\ncurly, brown hair, now braided primly, and dark eyes shaded by lashes\nso black that they seemed immeasurably deep and tender.\n\nSuddenly she felt wings given her. Out of the brown shadows, across the\nshaft of light which illuminated the bent, blond head of her brother\nwith a symbolism marked by the congregation, she fled. The sunlight,\nthe green grass, the trees, now waving in a gentle breeze, and most\nwonderful of all, the unlimited blue sky, seemed to hold out welcoming\narms. She began to cry and to run as she cried. She feared that she\nmight be pursued. Though she was not afraid to drive Matthew's young\nhorse, she did not think of taking him, but sped on foot up Mount Zion\ntoward the bounds of the enclosure, across the site of a more ancient\nchurch to the hill-top. There she usually looked down through a thick\nbit of virgin woods toward the smoothly flowing Cocalico, and beyond to\npleasant Ephrata. But now she opened the rude fastening of an old gate,\nand ran across a field past a tall monument, toward a pair of arms of\nwhose welcome she was certain. There was peace, and not in the dim\ncavern from which she fled!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME STORY\n\n\nAfter Ellen had beaten her way with gasps for breath up the slope\nbeyond the meeting-house, she slackened her pace. She began to doubt\npursuit, and besides she could now trust to her power of swift\nlocomotion. For a while she kept inside the fences on the grass borders\nfrom which a dash into the wheat would have been easy, but after she\nhad gone half a mile she wormed her plump body between two spreading\nrails and took to the road.\n\nThe sense of escape from prison was not new; many times when church\nwas over she had looked up and round at the arching sky and the waving\ntrees and had danced her way out to Matthew's buggy, and sometimes,\nfrom behind the safe shelter of its curtain, she had made atrocious\nfaces at the back of Millie K\u00f6nig's sleek head.\n\nPresently, her joy at having escaped was tempered. She did not like\nto have the brethren consider her wicked. But penitence weakened and\nfinally faded entirely away, its departure hastened by reflections of a\nnature common to mankind. Millie had copied her sentences in school--it\ndid not make much difference what Millie thought of her. Brother Herman\nwas notorious for his keenness in trade and he had cheated her father\nwhen he sold him a horse. As for Grandfather--she was sorry to hurt his\nfeelings, but Grandfather was old. It is very easy to be good, Ellen\nbelieved, when you are old.\n\nSuddenly the full import of the morning's events was clear to her. She\nwas free, but Matthew was in prison! As she walked on she began to\ncry again. Perhaps he would let his beard grow until he looked like\nGrandfather and Amos and like the pictures of Father Friedsam and\nBrother Jabez and all the worthies of the past. He would not belong to\nher; he would belong to all those grim and pious people. Most dreadful\nof all, he would belong to Millie. At this, she stopped short in the\nroad, remembering Millie's possessing eyes.\n\nAgain she began to run, dashing through the little hollow made by the\ncreek, where the odors of fresh earth and the intense sweetness of\nelder blossoms would at any other moment have made her loiter. The\ncreek bounded her father's farm and, taking a short cut, she left the\nroad and crossed a meadow and then ran along the edge of a field of\ncorn until she came to a gate which let her into the yard.\n\nThe Levis house was one of the large, many-windowed brick houses\ncommon to the neighborhood. It was built solidly and its correctness\nof proportion gave it a comfortable beauty. The porch was not a part\nof the original structure, but had been added, as running water and\nother conveniences had been added within. Behind the house stood a\nlarge barn. The place had not the trim look of adjacent farms; there\nwas a good deal of brush along the fences, the fences themselves needed\nrebuilding and the woodwork of the house needed paint. After looking\ncarefully at the premises an observant person would have made up his\nmind that the owner was neither by taste nor by inclination a farmer.\n\nThe property had one glorious beauty, the thick and lofty grove of\noak trees which stood behind and above the house and barn. They were\na landmark for miles. In them hundreds of birds nested and squirrels\nplayed and scores of little creatures had their homes. In spring\nanemones and hepaticas were to be found beneath them and nowhere else\nin the immediate neighborhood; in summer they spread a thick canopy\nof shade, and in autumn they burned with a glowing red. In them in\nall seasons the wind spoke continuously, now in a whisper, now in\nthunderous diapason.\n\nDr. Levis sat on the porch of his house, his pipe in his hand, his\ntall, thin figure comfortably disposed in an old rocking-chair. He had\nlong since got rid of his black beard, and he looked, if not younger in\nbody, at least younger in spirit, than in the days of his friendship\nwith Stephen Lanfair. This morning he had seen a few office patients\nand had paid the two visits which were all that were needed by his\nhealthy client\u00e8le, and he was now waiting comfortably until the rural\nmail carrier should leave his newspaper.\n\nHe received little mail besides his papers and magazines and an\noccasional printed notice from the University. A connection with one's\nAlma Mater soon lapses when one has formed no close friendships, and he\nhad formed but one. He looked very sober when he thought of Stephen,\nnot chiefly because Stephen had forgotten him--he was a boy with a\nboy's short-lived enthusiasms--but because Stephen had succeeded so\nwell and he had succeeded so little. The possession of a fair practice,\na productive farm and two fine children might be thought to represent\na sufficient attainment, but there was in his heart a bitter sense of\ndissatisfaction and disappointment. He had been tricked, bewitched;\nforgetting his superiority and immunity to love he had married soon\nafter leaving the University, and had thus fettered himself for life.\n\nHe heard the first thump of Ellen's small but heavy shoes on the porch\nsteps and moving with the physician's swift response to sounds heard\nduring sleep, he sat upright, his pipe slipping from his hand. Then,\nseeing that it was only Ellen come from church, he sank back and closed\nhis eyes.\n\n\"Are you back? Come pick up Father's pipe and tell him about the\nsermon.\"\n\nRendered speechless by the consciousness of her misery and of her\ntear-streaked face, Ellen moved no farther, and hearing no advancing\nstep and feeling no warm creature against his knee, Levis opened his\neyes.\n\n\"Why, Ellen, dear, what's the matter? Why are you home so early?\nWhere's Matthew? Come here quickly!\"\n\nBlinded afresh by tears, Ellen started toward her accustomed sanctuary.\n\n\"What a heavy Ellen it is! Is there anything the matter with Matthew?\"\n\nEllen shook her head. There was nothing the matter with Matthew in the\nsense in which her father spoke, yet there was everything the matter\nwith him.\n\nSuddenly tears seemed an inadequate expression of her trouble. Her\nfather's face, seen above hers, was pitying, yet a little amused. The\nwoes of childhood were so small--he wondered whether it was a sick\nkitten or a lame horse that had stirred Ellen's tender heart.\n\n\"Now, Ellen, tell me what is the matter.\"\n\nEllen sat up and dried her eyes on her father's large, smooth\nhandkerchief. She remembered--oh, blessed relief!--that of course her\nfather could stop Matthew. Matthew was to go away to learn to be a\nphysician; he could not be a Seventh-Day Baptist!\n\n\"I ran away from meeting,\" she confessed, feeling the first doubt of\nher course.\n\nLevis's face was grave, but his eyes twinkled.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It was so long and I got so tired looking at half a tree and a little\ngrass, and at the brothers and sisters and Grandfather's white beard.\"\n\n\"Why, Ellen!\" Levis frowned, not in anger, but so that he might\nconcentrate both physical and mental vision upon his daughter.\n\nNow Ellen revealed the heart of the trouble.\n\n\"Grandfather preached at Matthew and me!\"\n\n\"Oh, he did!\"\n\n\"Yes, and Matthew made a speech about believing in everything. He's\ngoing to be immersed, Father, and he will be at the Foot-washing. They\nwanted me to, but I ran away. I couldn't stand it.\"\n\n\"Why couldn't you stand it?\"\n\nEllen laid her hands across her plump body.\n\n\"It makes me feel all tight here. And I couldn't bear to take off my\nshoes and stockings.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Levis. \"I should think you couldn't! Can you remember\njust what was said to you and Matthew?\"\n\n\"Grandfather said we ought to come to the meeting and get into the\ncleansing flood. It was very dark and uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"And what did Matthew say?\"\n\n\"He said he'd been thinking about these things for a long, long time\nand he thought it was all right. Then they sang about a shelter and\nthey prayed over us. Grandfather said we were the children of a good\nsister.\"\n\nLevis put Ellen off his knee and began to walk up and down the porch.\nHe knew his own origin as little as he knew the origin of his unusual\nname, which the neighborhood turned into Lewis, but he believed himself\nto be entirely Anglo-Saxon and he hoped that his children were\nAnglo-Saxon rather than Teutonic. Left alone, Ellen ran after him and\ntook his hand and walked with him, a quaint imitator of his step and\ncarriage.\n\n\"Can't you stop him, Father?\"\n\n\"We shall see.\"\n\n\"If you told me to stop it--that is, if I were doing it--you know I'd\nstop, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen tightened her hand on the three fingers which it held.\n\n\"I'll never do what you don't want me to do.\"\n\nLevis made no answer, but exchanged the three fingers for a whole hand.\nAfter a while he stopped walking long enough to light his pipe. At that\nmoment a buggy turned into the lane, not the well-painted, swiftly\nmoving rig of Matthew, but an older vehicle in which the housekeeper\nhad driven to town to do her Saturday shopping. Levis provided ample\ntransportation for all his family.\n\n\"She's coming, Father,\" said Ellen in a whisper.\n\nLevis stepped off the porch, calling, \"Home so soon, Manda?\" and\nreceived a solemn nod from a large, white, and somewhat reproachful\nface. He went round the house and down to the spring house and up a\nslope into the woodland which was his pride. There he sat down on a\nfallen tree and bade Ellen sit on a stump opposite him. She smiled and\nblinked her reddened eyes. It was her favorite spot and she liked to\nhave her father here with her.\n\nSuddenly Levis leaned forward. Ellen's news shocked him into the\nrecollection of important plans, sometimes dreamed of and smoked over,\nsometimes forgotten for long periods, sometimes recalled with a pang\nof self-reproach, and again forgotten. It was his fault that Matthew\nhad impulsively committed himself to this foolishness--the separation\nfrom Grandfather Milhausen, which would be complete in the fall when\nMatthew went to school, should have been brought about long ago. Ellen\nshowed more common sense, but he had neglected her also, and for all\nher protests she might hold some of these foolish ideas. He had meant\nlong since to take her education in hand. Amos Milhausen's instruction\nwas good as far as it went, but it was now inadequate. He began to her\nastonishment to ask queer questions.\n\n\"How many bones are there in the human body?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I think Matthew knows.\"\n\n\"What is the shape of the earth?\"\n\n\"Round like a ball and flattened at the poles.\"\n\n\"What are the poles?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Why are the days shorter in winter?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Matthew knows.\"\n\n\"Are you going to let Matthew do all your knowing?\"\n\nTears came again into Ellen's eyes. Matthew had abandoned her.\n\n\"I'm at the head of my class,\" she boasted in feeble self-defense.\n\"I can write good compositions and do any kind of examples and I'm\nexcellent in geography.\"\n\n\"I should think it would be a very simple matter to stand at the head\nof your class!\"\n\n\"It is,\" confessed Ellen. \"I don't work hard at all.\"\n\nBut now Ellen worked very hard. In the next half-hour her father drew\nfrom her small head all the knowledge which it contained and tried to\nfind a great deal more than had been put there. A few times, for sheer\nnervousness and shame, she cried. The amount of her knowledge seemed\ninfinitesimal, the abyss of her ignorance unfathomable. It was all the\nmore humiliating because when the catechization was over, her father\nstarted to the house without reproving her for her dullness. It was\nhard on one who had prided herself on her brains!\n\nMatthew returned, driving slowly, a grave expression on his handsome\nface. Having unhitched his horse he came round to the porch where the\nflutter of a short skirt vanishing indoors did not escape him. He was\ndeeply angry with the anger of a superior toward an inferior or an\nelder toward a child. He could not understand Ellen. For the first time\nin her life she had not been willing to go his way, and she had marred\nwhat would otherwise have been a perfect experience.\n\nHitherto he had not thought much about his father or his father's\nconvictions, his father's neglect of church having been a condition\nwith which he had always been familiar, but now it seemed unnecessary\nand wrong. Realizing in his new devotion that it was his duty to\nadmonish his careless parent, he prayed for opportunity and strength.\n\nThe three Levises ate their dinner silently, the housekeeper sitting\nwith them. She had, seen close at hand, an air of patient endurance\nunder affliction. She had expected, according to custom, that the man\nof whose house and children she had taken such good care for so many\nyears would marry her, though she had already been married twice and\nwas somewhat older than he. She had even, being hopeful of Dr. Levis,\ndiscouraged the advances of a neighboring farmer. The short lives of\nher two husbands and the oaklike hardness of Levis made her lot a very\ndisappointing one. Having just heard of the marriage of a friend, she\nwas more than usually depressed, a condition which did not escape\nher master, to whom her mournful disposition and her extraordinary\ncombinations of English and German were sources of deep and silent\namusement. He could not always remember her expressions, but Ellen\ncould repeat them at length. \"Unsere number iss 1 long and 2 short and\nsis very hart zu's distinguishe,\" she would say into the telephone and\nbe perfectly understood by the person at the other end. Or, \"I sink it\nwill give rain,\" or, \"Ach, Ellen, what do you make, then!\"\n\nAt another time, with amused recollection of Mrs. Gummidge, Levis would\nhave rallied her back into cheerfulness, and, unconsciously, into some\nhope, but to-day his thoughts were upon his own affairs. He did not\nhear when she invited him to a second helping of potatoes, a piece of\nabsent-mindedness which seemed insulting and which would furnish her\nmaterial upon which to brood through the long afternoon.\n\nWhen dinner was over, Matthew followed his father to the porch. Levis\nlooked at him curiously. He had something to say to Matthew, but it\nseemed also that Matthew had something to say to him! Matthew took his\nseat in a rocking-chair, and another prayer for strength concluded,\nspoke.\n\n\"Father, Ellen behaved very badly in church.\"\n\n\"Ellen told me about it,\" said Levis.\n\n\"She ought to be punished.\"\n\n\"That is, she told me her side of it. Perhaps you'd better tell me\nyours.\"\n\n\"Well, Grandfather made a fine address about immersion. Then he said\nthat since we children had such a good Christian mother, we, too,\nshould be immersed and come into church. I said that I would. Then he\nspoke kindly to Ellen and she got up and ran out in a senseless way.\"\n\n\"Ellen was frightened.\"\n\n\"She's old enough not to be frightened. She has an immortal soul. She\nshould have obeyed me. And you have an immortal soul, Father,\" said\nhandsome Matthew. \"Would you not become converted and be immersed? It\nis a very blessed condition.\"\n\nIn delivering this quotation from Grandfather, Matthew's voice had a\nslightly hollow ring, as though even he were aware that the situation\nhad unusual aspects.\n\nLevis rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe.\n\n\"Suppose you come into the office, Matthew,\" said he crisply. \"It will\nbe easier to talk there.\"\n\nWithin doors Levis walked up and down. He did not seem to belong here\nin this country office, with its simple fittings, its serviceable but\nunmodern appliances, its outlook on farmland; he belonged in a city\nwhere he could attend fifty instead of five patients in a day.\n\n\"Matthew,\" said he frowning, \"until this morning, it never occurred to\nme that it would be necessary to speak to you as I am going to speak.\nBut I've been overreached and deceived. I don't blame you; you too\nhave been a victim. If you're old enough to take the stand which you\ntook this morning, to describe the convictions of your heart before\nstrangers, you're old enough to hear what I have to say.\n\n\"You have always had smooth sailing; you can't understand what it means\nto be without living kin, to be bound out, to suffer intentional or\nunintentional slights, to have always to overcome difficulties, to deny\nyourself a little more when you've already next to nothing, to be cold\nand hungry and miserable. I wouldn't wish you to know; I want never to\nthink of the miseries of my youth. I've done my best to shield you from\nall hardships; but it won't hurt you to know that such hardships exist.\n\n\"Through it all, I was determined to be a physician, and that is what\nI succeeded in becoming--older than most men when I graduated, but\neternally grateful.\n\n\"I came into this neighborhood to begin a practice, or rather to take\na practice temporarily. I didn't expect to stay beyond a year, but I\nmarried here and your mother would not leave.\"\n\nFor a moment Levis paused and looked out at the fields and the woodland\nand the empty sky. Old conflicts in which he had lost, old miseries,\nold thwartings came back to him, and especially, painted against the\nwoodland, a face, exquisite in line, delicate in coloring. The face\nbefore him resembled it in outline and in expression.\n\n\"After she died, I couldn't go away because of you and Ellen. I\ncouldn't take you, neither could I leave you; so I stayed here. I've\nbrought you up according to my best judgment, and I've made you good\nchildren.\n\n\"Before your mother died, I gave her a promise. She was concerned that\nyou should be 'saved'\"--Levis's voice laid a lightly scornful emphasis\non the \"saved.\" \"She held the strict notions of the Seventh-Day\nBaptists, and I promised I'd do nothing to alienate you from her father\nand would let you go to church. It was foolish, but your grandfather\npromised to exact no religious vows from you. I felt that his promise\nwas unnecessary. I didn't dream that children brought up in a household\nwhere English was spoken, with books at hand, would return to the\nfifteenth century!\"\n\n\"The Gospel is the same now,\" said Matthew neatly.\n\n\"I agree with you. Everything is the same as it has been, always.\"\nLevis spoke with sarcasm. Then he went on--\"You can have no deep\nconviction of sin. You have committed no great sin.\"\n\n\"You don't know my heart, Father!\"\n\n\"I know you and your heart. I've had you under my eyes ever since you\nwere born, and I know you're neither gross nor wicked. You can't be\nrepentant except in a sentimental, superficial way; neither can you\nknow that the doctrines of the Seventh-Day Baptists are right and\nothers wrong. You know no others.\"\n\n\"I--\" began Matthew.\n\n\"You're under my control, you're supported by me. You'll go to college\nin September as we planned and then to the Medical School, and when\nyou're through you shall decide about the Seventh-Day Baptists. If\nyour religion is what you think it is, delay will make no difference;\nit will rather strengthen you. This will be a test which you should\nwelcome.\"\n\n\"I do welcome it, Father.\"\n\nA slight contraction of the muscles changed the expression of Levis's\nface. Meekness--that was one of the weapons of Abraham Milhausen's\ndaughter!\n\nHe felt an almost irresistible desire to pour out upon his boy all the\nheretical beliefs, all the unorthodox speculations which had for years\nfilled his hours of meditation, to fortify him with skepticism against\nthe foolish hopes built up by the Christian religion. He believed he\nhad, like the Stoics, the possession of his own soul. Once he had\nexpounded his convictions to the boy's mother and she had withdrawn\nherself physically and mentally until she died. But the world would\ntake care of Matthew!\n\n\"You don't suppose that all wisdom is incarnate in Grandfather, do you,\nMatthew?\"\n\n\"He's only a human being,\" answered Matthew, with the same trying\nneatness of response. \"But even children can understand all that is\nnecessary to be saved.\"\n\nLevis rose.\n\n\"Well, my boy, when things begin to seem puzzling to you, your father\nmay be able to help.\"\n\nMatthew rose also. He was tired and he had many things to think\nof. He looked at his father with strong disapproval; he thought of\nGrandfather's saintliness and the pretty face of Millie K\u00f6nig. His\nfather lit a cigarette; it was as alienating an act as could have been\ncommitted.\n\n\"I think Ellen should be punished for disturbing the meeting,\" said he.\n\"It shamed me for her.\"\n\n\"I'll attend to Ellen,\" promised Levis with a satisfying grimness.\n\nBut, having reached the doorway, Matthew suffered misgivings.\n\n\"You don't mean that I'm not to go to church at all?\"\n\n\"Not to the Seventh-Day Baptist church.\"\n\n\"Not this evening!\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" was the decisive answer.\n\nHaving opened his lips and closed them, Matthew withdrew, backwards,\nand went upstairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nA SLUMBERING TERROR\n\n\nIt was not because of ingratitude or altogether because of\nforgetfulness that Stephen Lanfair had neglected his friend. Their\nassociation had continued as long as circumstances made the seeing of\none another possible. When the longed-for interneship was won, Levis\nhad been for two years out of the Medical School and Stephen was\npreoccupied with the straight, dark gaze and free and saucy manners\nof Hilda Fell. After Hilda had seen him, she had, for reasons as yet\nunexplained by psychologists, forsworn all other company. He was\nawkward, he knew none of the lively give-and-take of her set, he was\ngrave in manner and thought; but she would have no other. Her passion\nfor him assumed an ominous intensity; she was happy only when she had\nbefore her a definite prospect of meeting him, she was unhappy when the\ncharacter of the meeting was such that she must share his attention\nwith others.\n\nMayne related frankly the history of his family, but Stephen found\nin that no impediment to marriage. The insanity appeared--at least\nhe received that mistaken impression--invariably in early youth.\nApparently Hilda's mind was sound. Her education had not been of a\nvery solid quality; in fact, she could do little more than write a\npresentable note and she did that as seldom as possible, and of general\ninformation she had none. But Stephen believed that association with\nhim would largely supplement her knowledge. He believed that Mayne\nhad not given her the proper sort of education and that she would\nlearn from him with delight. He could not know or dream that the\nslightest opposition, even the thwarting of her whims, would reveal her\nfundamental instability. Until now life had brought everything to her;\nit had demanded no adaptations on her part.\n\nHe explained to her new and interesting cases which came under his eye,\nentirely unaware that all her enthusiasm for his profession had its\norigin in his arm across her shoulders. It was when he was discussing\nhis work that Stephen was at his best.\n\nHis marriage, consummated at the end of his course, seemed to him\nan incredible piece of good fortune. A poor man from a little coal\nregion town, he had none of the wealth or influence which he had\nalways supposed must, even in America, be the contribution of the\nbridegroom to an alliance with a name so important. He visited before\nhis graduation the gray house in Harrisburg and saw in the city the\nsolid business block, and outside the city some of the farms which\npoured their revenues into Hilda's lap. He believed himself to be\nlifted by fortune high above the average of mankind; not only above\nthe great level mass at the bottom of the social pyramid and the dull,\nsuperimposed layer which he had learned to call _bourgeois_, but also\nabove the stratum of educated men and women who lacked comfortable\nwealth, and above the stratum of rich men and women who had no\nintellectual pleasures. He had, he believed for a month after he was\nmarried, everything.\n\nHe began then dimly to discern the chasm which divided him from Hilda.\nHis keen mind, delivered from its first blindness, could no longer\nfail to see that her ignorance was not the result of a poor education,\nbut of natural inability to learn. She failed to grasp the simplest\nof scientific principles; she could not understand the structure of\nthe eye or remember its chief parts; she made Stephen ridiculous by\nmisquoting him.\n\nHe dwelt a little longer in the paradise which he had created for\nhimself. It was absurd to require in an exquisite creature like Hilda\nthe interests natural to an older woman or to a student. Compared\nwith the young women whom he had known in the University, she was\nimmeasurably attractive and she could not be expected to possess every\nperfection.\n\nIt was not long, however, before he understood clearly that her\ndullness to the passion of his life, his profession, was due not only\nto ignorance but to indifference. Their first quarrel was precipitated\nby his announcement of his plans for the future.\n\n\"New York is the place for us to live. Each country has one center;\nEngland has London, France has Paris, and the United States has New\nYork.\" Stephen often spoke in this sententious fashion in his youth.\n\"There the world currents--\"\n\n\"But we are not going to live in New York,\" said Hilda quickly.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I don't want to. I'll go there for a few weeks as often as you\nlike in the winter, but I'm going to live in my own house. In New York\nyou're nobody unless you're worth millions and millions; in Harrisburg\nyou can be somebody for a good deal less than that.\"\n\n\"In Harrisburg!\" Stephen was not aware of his absurdity until Hilda\npointed it out to him.\n\n\"I should think that any one who had lived in Chestnut Ridge with a\nbreaker before the door would find Harrisburg heaven!\"\n\nStephen flushed. He had poured out to her in a moment of unique\nconfidence a description of Chestnut Ridge. With it he had told her not\nonly about his father's life, but about his death, and it was unfeeling\nto recall the conversation in this scornful fashion.\n\n\"I have my living to earn!\"\n\n\"Your living!\" repeated Hilda. She uttered a delicate and good-natured\npleasantry. \"I thought you married me for that!\"\n\nStephen made no answer. After a while, when he could go without\nseeming to be angry, he left her on the porch of the hotel where they\nwere spending their honeymoon and went to walk alone. He was shocked,\namazed, even appalled.\n\nOnce more and only once he broached the subject.\n\n\"I am exceedingly anxious to do well in my profession, Hilda,\" he said\nearnestly. \"New York is the only place where a man can really have a\nbrilliant success.\"\n\nHilda shook her head.\n\n\"I've made my plans.\"\n\nIn the end, after six months abroad, Stephen hung out his sign upon\nthe Manning Street wing of Hilda's house and there practiced his\nprofession for seven or eight months in the year. The other months\nhe spent in her train, journeying from one fashionable American and\nEuropean resort to the other. During these excursions he was idle\nexcept for stolen visits to clinics and lectures, and he was constantly\nunhappy. He still had faith in his own powers and he realized that his\nbest years were passing and that other men and even younger men were\nwinning honors which should have been his. He knew that Hilda believed\nthat she had made generous concessions in allowing him to practice at\nall. He knew that her friends--though her associates could scarcely be\ncalled friends, so light were the ties that bound them--thought him\nexceedingly lucky, but he believed that his colleagues held him to be a\nfashionable quack. He held himself to be the most unhappy of men.\n\nFurther opposition to his wife's decisions was impossible. He learned\nbefore the second month of his married life had come to a close that a\nwoman given to hysteria could not be argued with, could not be made to\nsee reason. His ambition was, he knew now, stronger than his affection\nand he would never be able to gratify it. He came to envy quiet, poor\nmen like Edward Levis, especially those who remained unmarried, who\ncould live their lives in freedom.\n\nHe had one or two grossly unpleasant quarrels with Hilda. Once, after\nshe had laughed at his awkwardness in the presence of an acquaintance,\nhe took her to task for a habit which he found more and more odious.\n\n\"The boys at the University used to say that you smoked cigarettes, but\nI never believed them.\"\n\nThey were alone in his bedroom--whose bare floors and almost blank\nwalls acted as sounding-boards for Hilda's shrill denunciation of his\nprudishness. Terrified, he closed the door quickly.\n\nWithin a year her malady took a not uncommon form. He had been,\nhe realized when the ugly scene was over, very stupid not to have\nrecognized earlier the obsessive jealousy and rage which she must\nhave felt for some time, but he had not dreamed that the young nurse\nin his office, who was pretty, but ignorant of everything outside\nher profession, could have attracted more than a casual glance. When\nHilda began to accuse him, he listened dumfounded, on his cheek a gray\npaleness which added ten years to his age.\n\nAs he listened to her coarse tirade, the shrill accents seemed to ring\nlike an unpleasant soprano aria against a clearly accented rhythmic\nbass, the voice of Professor Mayne. He had received the impression\nfrom Mayne that the family malady never appeared after early youth,\nbut had he understood him aright? Horrified he looked into an abyss to\nwhose precipitous wall he had come blindly, but with the blindness of a\nmadman or a fool.\n\n\"But, Hilda,\" he said slowly, \"I am married to _you_.\"\n\nHilda uttered a laugh which expressed hideously a variety of\nemotions--mollification, for his dismay was disarming; amusement, for\nhis innocence was laughable, and even a little shame. Stephen's mind\nwas clean; he looked at her as his good father might have looked.\n\nFor a short time she seemed a little disturbed; she regarded him with\nuneasy inquiry as though she suspected his horror and his inability to\nforget her outbreak. But he found presently that she watched the coming\nand going of his patients and that she interrogated his employees with\nsuch clever slyness that they did not know they were being questioned.\nHer jealousy noted only the women with whom he was connected\nprofessionally, especially those who were alone with him in his office,\nand between them, young, middle-aged, or old, she did not distinguish.\nHis dismay at her ignorance had not escaped her; it was the center of\nher consciousness, the _id\u00e9e fixe_ of her madness. She misinterpreted\nthe present and falsified the past, ascribing to Stephen infidelities\nin the days of their courtship. Her obsession was hideous, but by no\nmeans unprecedented; frequently the newspapers rejoiced in the airing\nof similar or more sordid cases. Recently an innocent patient waiting\nin a doctor's office had been shot dead by a suspicious wife.\n\nMayne, hearing his story from a terrified Stephen, grew white, then\nshook his head. He laid the case before his intimate friend Dr. Good,\nwho was an alienist and brought him once or twice to Harrisburg to\nspend the night. It might be necessary eventually to have Hilda go--Dr.\nGood always put his prescriptions as delicately as possible--to a\nsanatorium, but there was no immediate danger. Mayne breathed more\nfreely, and only Stephen knew by what eternal vigilance over himself\nand her the peace was kept, or apprehended the unpleasant and even\nperilous results which might follow upon its breaking.\n\nHis life was not entirely without pleasures, unhappy as it appeared\nto him. After the first rush of Hilda's fashionable acquaintances,\nwho came filled with curiosity and went away baffled and irritated by\nhis gravity and silence, there applied a more desirable client\u00e8le. He\ntreated the poor in the city hospital, serving them with a pleasure\nwhich he did not analyze, but which had its source partly in the\nsatisfaction of returning some of the service which hundreds of\nworking men and women poured out upon Hilda and her kind, and partly in\na deep and unrecognized discontent with his own life. He thought often\nof his father with a childish turning to the one human being who had\nloved him deeply and unselfishly. He believed that he still regarded\nhis father's devotion to others with impatience, his life, based upon\na simple and childlike sense of duty, as wasted. He did not know that\nunhappiness had begun to alter the opinions which were the product of\nyouth and good health and material prosperity.\n\nHe performed cures which astonished himself. A Mrs. Fetzer, a plain\nlittle Pennsylvania German woman, suffered at the hands of a drunken\nhusband a gunshot wound in her face, and he was called to the hospital\nwhen it seemed that the sight of both eyes was lost. A nurse, Miss\nKnowlton, who had frequently attended his patients, faced him one day\nwith defiance and told him that she was going blind and that according\nto half a dozen doctors there was no help for her. A Miss MacVane came\nto his office and laid her case before him--she was a private secretary\nwith no other means of support than her own earnings, and her eyes were\nfailing.\n\nHe saved one of Mrs. Fetzer's eyes and found for her a place in his\nhouse, of which she gradually took entire charge in a manner which\nsuggested now a guardian angel, now a watchful dragon. He cured Miss\nKnowlton and she replaced a younger nurse in his office. Miss MacVane\nbecame his secretary; she could not be entirely cured, but with expert\ntreatment and unremitting watchfulness she might retain a measure of\nvision for a long time.\n\nHe thought, grimly contemplating his assistants, that Hilda could\nfind no fault with these ladies. Fetzer, as Hilda called her after\nan English fashion, was irremediably disfigured; the insertion of an\nartificial eye was out of the question and she wore a black patch.\nMiss Knowlton was tall, her features were large, her red hair was no\nTitian glory, but was thin and pale, and she had pale blue eyes and\nskin without color. Miss MacVane was short and heavy and her dim vision\nincreased her natural awkwardness. All three women were of the type\nby which the world's tasks are accomplished, who take little or no\nrecreation, who do without all luxuries, who desire apparently but one\nreward, the consciousness of duty done.\n\nStephen's sense of safety, however, was founded upon a mistaken\nanalysis of Hilda's jealousy. He did not realize that she attributed to\nhim no lust of the eyes, that she believed that it was intellect only\nwhich attracted him. She hated Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane and every\none with whom he talked about his profession. She hated even Fetzer,\nthough she could not do without her.\n\nHe had begun, not without a chastening recollection of his first\ncontribution, to send articles to medical magazines, and he believed\nthat if he could have a year uninterrupted by idle journeying he could\nproduce a valuable work on infectious diseases of the eye. When his\nfirst article was finished he thought of sending a copy to Edward\nLevis, but Levis seemed as far away as his father, and he could not\nrenew the acquaintance in so informal a way. He would some day--no,\nsoon--look him up.\n\nLife had still other satisfactions. A sense of his own ignorance and\nlack of early opportunity kept him constantly seeking for education. He\nwas interested in art and music and in sciences other than his own and\nhe tried constantly to increase his information about them. During his\nearly married life he had bought a small original painting and Hilda\nhad expressed her approval--it was, she said, a more becoming fad for a\ngentleman than diseases. He had then ceased to buy pictures until his\nown income warranted it.\n\nHe might have found congenial friends--the city was not inhabited\nentirely by men and women of Hilda's type--but he knew that his friends\ncould not be hers. It was better to avoid all social connections than\nto rouse groundless but hideous suspicion.\n\nAs the years passed it seemed likely that Hilda's malady would grow\nno worse. Her uncle felt no more anxiety, and Stephen relaxed into a\ncertain peace of mind. He became thirty-five, then forty. He believed\nthat the course of his life was laid out, and that, unsatisfying as\nit was, it was still happier than that of the mass of mankind. There\nwere moments when he said to himself that there was no reason for his\nexistence or that of any one else, that human life was ephemeral and\npurposeless; but he put aside quickly all metaphysical speculation\nbecause it recalled his father's last hours and the deep concern in his\nsunken eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nLEVIS SPEAKS HIS MIND\n\n\nLevis was the only member of his family who had a great deal to say\non the Sunday following Matthew's declaration of faith. At meals\nMatthew ate with his eyes fixed upon his plate, and Ellen wiped away an\noccasional tear. Several times since the sad events of yesterday she\nhad tried to open the door of Matthew's room, to tell him that she was\nsorry she had made him ashamed and to lay before him the reasons for\nher conduct, but the door was locked. Lying in wait outside had been\nproductive of no better results, for, appearing at last, he had quietly\nbrushed her aside. Manda was more mournful than the young people. She\ndid not weep, but the tip of her nose showed that she had wept in the\nrecent past.\n\nWhen supper was over, Levis addressed his family, one after the other.\n\n\"Matthew, what are you going to do this evening?\"\n\n\"I'm going to bed,\" answered Matthew in a low tone. \"I promised to help\nwith the wheat in the morning. Soon it will be a loss.\"\n\nLevis's eyes twinkled. Matthew had lately shown an inclination to\nobserve that his father's methods of farming were not those of the\nthrifty neighbors.\n\n\"Manda, where are you going?\"\n\n\"In my church,\" Manda answered in a tone at once humble and\nreproachful. She was always a person of few words, but her ability to\nexpress a variety of meanings with a _H'm_ or with the valuable _So!_\nof the Pennsylvania Germans made a large vocabulary unnecessary.\n\nAgain Levis's eyes twinkled and again he thought of Mrs. Gummidge, ever\nmourning for \"the old one.\"\n\n\"And Ellen?\"\n\nEllen's tears refused to be longer restrained. She rose from her chair\nand went to her father.\n\n\"Matthew won't speak to me. I went up seven times to tell him that I\nwas sorry and he wouldn't open the door.\"\n\nLevis led Ellen into his office.\n\n\"Matthew is best left alone. He'll come round, never fear! I have a\nvisit to make which will keep me out till after dark. There is a book\nand Matthew will hear you if you call. If you get sleepy, go to bed.\"\n\nLevis kissed her and put on his hat and went away. He did not carry\nhis satchel of medicines nor go to the barn to put his horse into\nthe buggy, but walked down the short lane to the road. Ellen watched\nhim until he reached the gate, and stood for a moment listening to\nthe church bells in Ephrata. When he went on his way, she turned\nwith forgetfulness of all troubles to \"David Copperfield.\" The first\nparagraphs puzzled her, but she did not linger. Mercifully, one did\nnot need to understand everything in a book in order to get intense\nenjoyment out of it.\n\nLevis retraced Ellen's journey of yesterday, except that he climbed no\nfences, but kept to the road until he reached the strange group of old\nbuildings in the hollow, now more uncanny than ever in the twilight.\nThey were entirely dark, and about them in his imagination ghosts\nseemed to wander, some of them saintly and all pitifully deluded. These\nold buildings had trapped him; entering them from curiosity soon after\nhe had taken the practice of the old doctor, he had come out bewitched,\nunable to free himself, the course of his life changed.\n\nMidway between an outer and an inner gate he stood still. He was in\nthe little enclosure beside the public highway where for a hundred and\nseventy years the Seventh-Day Baptists had buried their dead. Here were\nno ornate monuments, but a few rows of simple stones, some sunk deep\ninto the soil. One, a little larger and whiter than the rest, seemed to\ninvite contemplation. Levis glanced at it, hesitated for an instant,\nand then went on. He knew well how unimportant are the remains of\nmortality and that it is mockery even to pause beside a grave in which\nlies the object of a love, extinguished not by death, but by life. The\nshadowy stone recalled not grief born when Mary died, but miseries\nstruggled with long before.\n\nAs he passed through the second gate he heard voices. Beside the tall,\nsteep-roofed buildings stood a little cottage where lived Grandfather,\nthe guardian of the property, and Amos, his nephew, prot\u00e9g\u00e9, and\nfamiliar. Pleased with the attendance at yesterday's meeting, the two\nsat together on the porch, now for a long time silent, now in earnest\nconversation. There was now no prophet's fire in Grandfather's eyes. He\nsat comfortably in an old armchair, the wristbands of his unstarched\nshirt turned back over his coat sleeves, his loosely hanging hands, his\nair of negligent repose suggesting the portraits of the aged Whitman.\n\nHe spoke rapidly and easily, the young man more slowly and in a\nquestioning tone. The prophet's mantle seemed to Amos a heavy robe,\nthough his piety was sincere and he looked, even more than Grandfather,\nthe part of saint. His features were beautifully modeled; his thick\nand curling hair was worn a little long, in faint imitation of the\npious hermits of long ago. His slightly parted lips and wide gray eyes\ngave him a look of expectancy which was the expression of his hopes.\nHe anticipated that the faith which filled his soul would be quickened\nby mystical visions. It had been so in this holy place, it would be so\nonce more. Grandfather had assured him of it a hundred times.\n\nGrandfather believed that in establishing in Amos a preoccupation\nwith spiritual things and with his own soul, he had done him an\ninestimable service, but to Levis this preoccupation was unwholesome\nand unpleasant. He felt contempt for Amos and avoided whenever possible\nthe sight of his feminine beauty. Neither Levis nor any one else had\nrealized that Amos, with his magnificent frame, his delicate beard, his\nlong hair, his literary aspirations, and his formal meditations, was\nnot tragic nor profound nor despicable, but perilously like a figure of\ncomedy.\n\nThe two did not hear the closing of the gate, and the end of their\ndiscourse came distinctly to ears already burning.\n\n\"It is a fine thing for us that young Matthew has taken this stand. I'm\nnot afraid for the little one--it was doubtless conviction of sin which\nmade her run away. I will see her alone, and then she too will come\ninto the fold. It has been distinctly prophesied to me in dreams that\nwith you three anything might be done, Matthew the head of a secular\ncongregation, you of a restored brotherhood, and Ellen of a sisterhood.\"\n\nLevis laid his hand on his heart in an habitual and, almost invariably,\nan unconscious gesture. The blood seemed to beat behind his eyes and in\nhis throat. He had never been so angry.\n\n\"It comes to me sometimes that my life was all wrong,\" sighed\nGrandfather. \"In my youth I had a call to remain single. But I was like\nothers--weak. When a Seventh-Day Baptist shall show by his life that he\nreally believes the assurances of God, then the Spirit will descend in\nrich measure, and we shall have again our hundreds devoted to prayer\nand to good works.\"\n\nA flattered Amos tightened the grasp of one hand upon another. He knew\nthat he was the foundation upon which his uncle's hopes were built, but\nhe had never heard it so plainly stated. He felt his heart burn, he\nseemed to see a light over the steep roof of the Saal, and he believed\nthat a higher authority than his uncle was going to communicate with\nhim. Then he saw a tall man approaching from the gate.\n\n\"There is some one here, Uncle.\"\n\n\"It's Levis,\" said a crisp and angry voice. \"Father Milhausen, I want a\nfew words with you.\"\n\n\"Sit down, Edward,\" said the old man.\n\n\"I'd rather talk where there's a light.\" Levis tried to keep his voice\nsteady. He did not mean to have any of his words go trailing off into\nthe darkness without hitting their mark. Moreover, he meant, if need\nbe, to quarrel and perhaps to storm, and he did not think it decent to\nquarrel so near the white tombstone.\n\n\"All right, I'm willing.\" The old man rose. \"Amos, make a light.\"\n\nThe coal-oil lamp revealed a little room which was at once kitchen and\nsitting-room. It contained a stove, now cold, a table, a shelf holding\nLatin and German books, and another holding specimens of ancient\npottery. All was bare and neat.\n\nThe human element was far more interesting than the furniture. Old\nMilhausen stood for a moment stroking his white beard. His dark eyes,\nhalf covered by heavy lids, looked downward without seeing--he was\npraying for wisdom. Amos stood close to the table fitting a shade over\nthe glaring light.\n\n\"Perhaps I'd better go,\" said he humbly. \"I don't wish to be where I\nhave no business.\"\n\n\"There's no reason why you should go,\" said Levis lightly. \"I'd like\nto have you hear what I say, so that there may be no misunderstanding\nbetween any of us.\" He sat down in a plain wooden chair by the table\nand Amos sat down on a bench on the other side.\n\nGrandfather opened his eyes, having been assured, in some fashion which\nhe understood, of help from on high. He saw that his son-in-law was\nangry and he determined to quiet him if possible. Edward was not one\nwho bore the dispensations of God easily.\n\n\"This has been a very pleasant--\"\n\nLevis had not come to talk about pleasant things.\n\n\"I don't like discussions and quarreling,\" said he. \"I have not had\na bitter word with you since the hateful scene you forced upon me at\nMary's bedside, but now you have brought about the occasion for another\nscene.\n\n\"I promised Mary that the children should not be influenced against her\nreligion, and that I'd let them go to meeting. I've kept my word partly\nbecause I usually keep promises, but more because I didn't believe that\ntwo children brought up in this century in my house would accept the\nteachings of your sect. I\"--Levis raised a silencing hand. Grandfather\nsmiled, then, instead of going on with the remark which he had tried to\nbegin, he hid his lips--\"I still don't believe it, even though Matthew\ncame home yesterday thinking he was 'converted.'\n\n\"While I've kept my promise, you've broken yours. Yesterday, publicly,\nyou called on two impressionable children, hypnotized by darkness and\nheavy air and too much vague preaching, to confess the most foolish\nbeliefs. You did worse than that--you put them into a position where\nit seemed wicked not to confess them. I don't doubt that Matthew would\ngive anything in the world to forget that he made such a conspicuous\nfool of himself. Fortunately Ellen was more frightened than impressed.\n\n\"What I have to say about the matter is this--Matthew is going to\ncollege in the fall and until then he will come no more to church. If\nafter he has been at college and medical school, he chooses to believe\nas you do, you may have him.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid for Matthew,\" said old Milhausen. \"I was bidden to\nbreak my word. I had plain directions.\"\n\n\"You see nothing Jesuitical in that, I suppose? Well, neither am I\nafraid for Matthew. Now about Ellen--\"\n\n\"I'll say no more to Ellen,\" promised Grandfather uneasily. Ellen was\nfar more than Matthew his darling, the delight of his eyes.\n\n\"That is so; you will not,\" agreed Levis. He rose and took his hat from\nthe table. The others rose also, Grandfather towering above the younger\nmen. Deeply disturbed, he tried to fathom Levis's meaning.\n\nAmos understood Levis. He had watched Ellen since she was a baby; he\nhad seen her growing toward womanhood and he believed that he loved\nonly her soul.\n\n\"What are you going to do about Ellen?\" he asked.\n\nIt seemed for a moment that Levis meant to brush by him without\nanswering. Then he said to himself that it was just as well to let\nGrandfather and this saintly young whipper-snapper have their just\ndeserts together and at once.\n\n\"Ellen will come no more to meeting. You have had your chance at her\nnow during all her most impressionable years, for which I blame myself.\nI should have broken my promise long before you broke yours.\"\n\n\"God Almighty will require her soul of you!\" Grandfather's calmness\nvanished, he spoke with gathering power and shrillness. \"You came here\na stranger, you beguiled my daughter, she married you against my will\nand against her conscience, but she saw very soon that there was no joy\nin such a marriage. She gave me her children as a holy gift, and if I\ndied without knowing they were safe, I couldn't be happy in eternity!\"\n\n\"They're my children as well as hers,\" answered Levis. \"I have just as\nkeen a sense of responsibility as you. You've had more than your share\nof their souls. You've taught them superstition, now I'll teach them\nthe truth.\"\n\n\"Superstition!\" Grandfather made a sweeping gesture in the direction of\nthe dim old buildings. \"What do you believe, Edward?\"\n\n\"I believe in an undefinable creative power,\" answered Levis sharply.\n\"As for revelation or miracles or immortality or divinity come to\nearth--they are delusions created by the imagination of men as panaceas\nfor the fear of death.\"\n\nThe old man clasped his hands, anger transmuted into terror.\n\n\"Immortality!\" he repeated. \"You don't doubt immortality?\"\n\n\"I think we shall be immortal as part of the revolving earth.\"\n\n\"Will you tell Ellen that?\" asked Grandfather in a whisper.\n\n\"No,\" said Levis. \"If Ellen has as good a mind as I think she has, she\nwill find all that out for herself. Good-night.\"\n\nAmos barred the way to the door.\n\n\"We will pray for them and you,\" said he.\n\n\"I have no objections,\" answered Levis. \"Pray away!\"\n\nWhen the door was shut, Amos saw that Grandfather was weeping.\n\n\"Don't worry, Uncle,\" said he. \"Matthew is safe. I'm confident of it.\nAnd Ellen will come to school for two more years. She will not forget.\"\n\n\"He came into our meeting from curiosity. He took all I had. He made\nher like a mad creature; she had only one thought and that was to\nbe with him. But she was punished, poor, poor Mary! and now she is\nsanctified.\"\n\nAmos's cheeks burned again. He was curious about such madness.\n\n\"They didn't live long together?\"\n\n\"Four years. At first he was determined to go away, but this Mary\nresisted. She was like the Anastasia of whom our records tell. The\nbetter spirit had begun to work upon her and she knew that if she went\nfrom the shelter of this place she was lost.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid for these children,\" said Amos again.\n\nBut he spoke absently. When the old man had gone to bed, he went\noutside and walked up and down in the thick grass. After a long time,\nwhen it was so late that passers-by were few and no headlights cast\ntheir glare over the little cemetery, he passed through the gate and\nstood by the white stone, thinking of the cousin whose beauty he\nremembered, in whom love was a sort of madness. Yet religion had been\nmore to her than love! A dreadful word which Levis had used tempted\nhim--was she not a fool to give up love? It seemed to him that the\nfragrant night was resonant with voices, calling vaguely and unhappily.\nHe looked down upon the white stone and traced with his hand the\ninscription which he had read a thousand times:\n\n  Mary\n  Wife of\n  Edward Levis\n  Daughter of\n  Abraham Milhausen\n  Aged 25 years\n\nSuddenly he shivered. The tradition of hearts unsatisfied was more\npotent than that of the peace of the saints. Then he went indoors and\nprayed God to forgive him. It was his object to keep himself unspotted,\nto guard his soul unceasingly. His ignorance of the world was well-nigh\nunlimited.\n\nLevis walked back more rapidly than he had come. It was against\nhis habit to think much of the past, and now the future held a new\ninterest. It was a relief, moreover, to have spoken his mind, and\nbecause of it he felt greater toleration for Grandfather. For beautiful\nAmos he continued to have only contempt. He wished that it was already\nSeptember so that he could send Matthew away.\n\nAnother educational project he meant to put into execution at once. He\nwent whistling up the lane, noticed without pausing the blackness of\nthe woodland and the slender moon hanging above, and pushing open the\ndoor found Ellen asleep, her book clutched in her arms. The light was\nburning dimly and beneath it lay a note:\n\n\"I did not go to bed because of the 'phone. Matthew is asleep. I\nlistened at his door.\"\n\nLevis stood and looked down upon plump Ellen. Her cheeks were flushed\nand beadlike drops stood upon her upper lip. Her curls had come out\nof their ribbon and clustered about her face; her relaxed body seemed\ntall. Levis drew up a chair and sat down to a closer contemplation.\nShe bore no resemblance to her mother--Matthew had the maternal\ninheritance. In spite of her discouragement over yesterday's quiz, she\nhad exhibited a surprising maturity of mind.\n\nAt this minute she stirred and smiled and appeared for an instant to\nlose her childishness in a riper charm. Tears filled her father's eyes.\nPerhaps he should yet have companionship in his own household!\n\nPresently he turned to look round the room; then he rose and brought\nfrom somewhere in the house a little table and set it by the window.\nHe went out again and reappeared with a handful of books, worn and\ndog-eared, and sitting at his desk, looked through them; then taking\na sheet of paper wrote several lines upon which he seemed to ponder.\nHe glanced at Ellen as though he meditated rousing her to aid in this\nplanning, but thought better of it, and laid books and papers and two\ncarefully sharpened pencils on the little table together.\n\nThen he lifted Ellen herself. Before he reached the doorway she opened\nher eyes drowsily.\n\n\"Oh, it's you!\" said she heavily and with deep content.\n\nHe was not yet through with his family. Coming back into his room, his\nhand again pressed upon his side as though Ellen's weight had exhausted\nhim, he found a figure, large, bonneted, with hands humbly folded. He\nhad a dreadful fear that Manda meant to announce her departure.\n\n\"Well, Manda!\"\n\n\"I have something to say,\" said Manda in her humblest tone.\n\n\"Sit down, do.\"\n\nManda shook her head. There were proprieties to be observed by a widow\nin her position and she knew them.\n\n\"I should be called Mrs. Sassaman,\" said she. \"I don't mind Manda, but\nit is as if I had lost respect for him.\"\n\nLevis suppressed a hysterical impulse.\n\n\"Of course you shall be called Mrs. Sassaman!\" said he. \"We have all\nbeen thoughtless.\"\n\nWhen she had gone, he lay down upon the old sofa, still showing the\nimpress of Ellen's body. He had thought of himself till this moment\nas a young man, but a man is young no longer when his son sets up his\nwill against him. He looked age in the face; he remembered the senility\nthrough which many pass to their end. Then he turned his cheek against\nthe pillow which was warm and a little damp. It somehow comforted him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nSTUDYING IN VACATION\n\n\nAnticipation of some unusual happening woke Ellen early on Monday\nmorning. She lay for an instant staring at the whitewashed walls, at\nthe carved pineapples tipping the posts of her huge bed, and finally\nat a picture above her bureau in which General Washington, in red\ntrousers, a sky-blue coat, and white wig, bowed to the admiring\napplause of a large throng.\n\nShe sat up, clasped her hands about her knees, and looked down upon\nthe wheat-field where already the first swath had been cut by hand and\nwhere the reaper, driven by Matthew, was about to begin its more rapid\nwork. At once she sprang from bed. It was Monday and a harvest day and\nManda would be cross. Saturday and Sunday had been, in spite of their\nwoe, interesting, but to-day promised only dullness.\n\nBut to-day was to have an interest of its own. She washed the dishes\nand peeled a mammoth bowl of potatoes, then she made up the beds,\nspreading the covers with care and beating the pillows vigorously.\nWhen she had finished, she heard her name called and went down to the\noffice. Her father sat at his desk, a score of little white papers\nbefore him on each of which he was laying a bit of powder from a\nwide-mouthed jar. He seemed to fit in less well than usual with his\nsurroundings, the old book-cases, the rag carpet, the worn furniture.\n\n\"Shut the door, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen did as she was bid. She lifted a corner of the ugly gingham apron\nwhich hung far below the bottom of her skirt and wiped her perspiring\nface. It was exactly a gesture of Mrs. Sassaman's.\n\n\"Take your apron out to the kitchen!\" Levis spoke with unreasonable\nsharpness, not toward Ellen, but toward the apron.\n\n\"Now, Ellen\"--when the last of the little powders had been folded--\"I\ndon't believe that all mental activity should cease because the weather\nis warm. For two hours each day--morning or afternoon or evening,\nwhichever pleases you and Mrs. Sassaman--you are to sit on yonder\nchair and study. Each day I shall set you a lesson which you must have\nready by the next day. The machinery in your head is good, but it needs\nsteady use. First we shall have an examination. I've marked on that\npaper a number of sums which I selected from your arithmetic. There are\ntwenty of them. Then here\"--Levis opened a little book--\"is something\nnew. It's absurd that you shouldn't have been taught about your own\nbody. To-morrow morning at this time, I'll expect you to tell me about\nthese ten pages and to show me your examples. Get them done neatly.\"\n\nEllen grew pale with the intensity of her emotions. The lesson seemed\nlong, but she was not one to hesitate when things were hard.\n\n\"But I will get ahead of my class! I don't know whether Amos will like\nthat, Father.\"\n\n\"His likes or dislikes make very little difference.\"\n\n\"And Matthew will think it's silly. He says that when girls get\nlearning they are like peacocks spreading their tails in the air.\"\n\n\"In spite of Matthew we shall proceed.\"\n\nThus encouraged, Ellen crossed the room and laid her books and paper\non the little table. \"Example 4, page 50,\" she wrote, referring to her\nfather's list. Then she put the tip of her pencil into her mouth and\nlaid herself bodily upon the table.\n\nLevis pushed under her feet an old ottoman.\n\n\"Sit up, Ellen, sit up! And never put anything but food into your\nmouth; no pencils or fingers!\"\n\nEllen flushed. She was often offended by the habits of others; she now\nsaw herself sprawling, and blushed scarlet. With the blush her childish\nunconsciousness of self vanished.\n\n\"And don't chew your tongue, my dear!\"\n\n\"I won't,\" she promised, deeply mortified.\n\nExample 4, page 50, was promptly finished and ruled off, and Example 8,\npage 58, was begun. Levis fetched the morning paper and the mail from\nthe rural delivery box and sat down to read. It was only eight o'clock,\nand he did not start upon his round till nine. Sometimes he glanced\ntoward the window where the scholar labored, jerking herself frequently\ninto the upright position which she had momentarily lost, and striving\nwith many backslidings to control the motions of a tongue which had\nhitherto assisted in all mental processes. Presently Matthew, covered\nwith dust and grime and perspiration, exhibited with stoical pride a\ncut hand. Frowning, Levis bathed and dressed the injury. The clean hand\nand the white bandage looked out of place.\n\n\"Matthew, this is entirely unnecessary.\"\n\n\"The wheat must be cut.\"\n\n\"There are enough people to cut the wheat. We had better lose a part\nthan have you hurt your hands.\"\n\n\"It is nothing,\" protested Matthew.\n\n\"This work hardens your skin and a physician can't have hard hands. Get\na bath and change your clothes and don't go back.\"\n\n\"The men expect me back!\"\n\nLevis made no answer, and Matthew went out sullenly. He thought that\nEllen was being punished for yesterday's misbehavior and felt somewhat\nmollified. But he wanted to go out to the fields. The men would laugh\nat him. He didn't care about his hands and he was determined not to be\na physician.\n\n\"I could make more money farming than Father does doctoring--a great\ndeal more. I don't want to go away; I want to stay here.\"\n\nAfter changing his clothes, he sat by the window. His room was on the\nopposite side of the house from the wheat-field and the men would not\nsee him. It was bad enough that they should see his father idling. And\nEllen should not be writing; they would think that she was playing. A\nhost of angry protests crowded into his mind. He had been for a long\ntime critical of his father and now his father's opposition to the true\nreligion gave him the right to express his disapproval.\n\nHe reached out and took his Bible from the little stand. It had been\ngiven him by his grandfather, who had marked many of the passages, and\nhe turned from page to page. There was one verse about being persecuted\nand reviled for conscience' sake which he smoothed with his hand. Other\nverses came into his mind about separating one's self from one's family\non account of their disbelief. He saw himself a hero, admired and set\non high by the church people. He might leave his home and go to live\nwith Grandfather. He thought of Millie whose eyes gleamed at him so\npleasantly and so strangely.\n\nBut before he had got beyond the most vague of speculations, he found\nhimself rising from his chair in response to a summons from below. Even\nyet his father lingered!\n\n\"Matthew,\" said Levis cheerfully, \"I think that you, too, should do\nsome studying. Here is the University catalogue showing the character\nof your examinations. Get your books together and after dinner we'll go\nover the subjects and see whether you are entirely prepared.\"\n\n\"I have all my examples done already,\" announced Ellen proudly at this\nill-selected moment. \"Now I'm to study physiology.\"\n\nMatthew flushed. So Ellen had not been punished at all! And he was to\nbe set down beside a baby to study in vacation. But again he moved\nobediently.\n\nThe examination proved that Amos had done his work well. Matthew's\nmind, if mechanical in its operations, was tenacious of that which it\nhad once grasped. Mathematics he found difficult, but not impossible;\nGerman was one of his native tongues; Latin had been easy, thanks to\nthe fact that some of the early writings of the Seventh-Day Baptists\nwere in that language and that Amos, poring over them, had acquired\nthorough knowledge and had imparted it to his pupil. In elementary\nscience, he was not well prepared and his father made ready to remedy\nthe deficiency.\n\n\"We can easily rig up a little laboratory, and when you see these\nexperiments and perform them, you won't find them hard.\"\n\n\"I don't see any use in it,\" complained Matthew, almost in tears.\n\n\"But you will. And you must do more English reading. Both you and Ellen\nuse abominable idioms. Here are a dozen prescribed books.\"\n\n\"I don't like to read,\" said Matthew. \"I don't believe it's meant for\nus to read much except the Word of God.\"\n\nLevis looked at his son with an intense, satiric amusement. But he made\nno comment. In a few months Matthew would be sitting under teachers\nwhose elaborate astonishment at stupidity Levis remembered. He would\nlike to hurry him away to-day. He needed to see himself as others\nsaw him; he needed to meet amused and astonished eyes, to hear the\nsmothered laughter of fellow students at his boorish ways. It could not\nbe that the boy was irreclaimable who yesterday was playing with his\nblocks on the floor!\n\n\"You'd better go to your room, Matthew. You should study four or five\nhours a day and you're likely to be interrupted here.\"\n\nMatthew went slowly upstairs. For a while he sat idle; then hearing his\nfather's voice, he opened his books. They proved hateful; a few weeks\nwithout mental effort had made thinking difficult. He heard Ellen, now\nthat her father had driven away, chanting the names of bones and he\nshouted fiercely to her to be still. He was even young enough to shed\ntears. Then he prayed for strength to bear the extraordinary burdens of\nhis lot and it seemed to him that his task was lighter. Once, lifting\nhis eyes from his book, he looked steadily for a long time at the wall.\nHe was following a pleasant train of thought which had for some time\nreceived a subconscious attention. He was planning what should be done\nwith the farm if he had it. It was a delightful occupation.\n\nAfter dinner Ellen, who had hitherto always obeyed Matthew and every\none else who had given her commands, ceased her singing and studying\nand went upstairs, creeping softly on hands and knees. It could not be\nthat Matthew would continue \"mad\" much longer. At other times he had\nbeen angry for a day and a night, but now a day and a night had passed.\nUnfortunately she did not let her approach be known and Matthew,\nlooking up from his meditations, saw her standing in the doorway. As\nmuch startled and alarmed as though she had read his thoughts, he flew\ninto a rage.\n\n\"You sneak on me, do you? I just tell you this, Ellen, you'll get your\npunishment, never fear! A girl to run out of church and refuse to\nlisten to the words of her good grandfather! You know what happens to\nbad people--that will happen to you unless you repent. The Bible says\nwe shan't have anything to do with people who don't do right. I'll\nspeak to you, but I won't have anything more to do with you until you\nsay you are sorry for the way you acted. Get out of my room!\"\n\nEllen got out quickly and went down the stairs. In the office she hid\nher face in the pillows of the old sofa. She understood now that the\nhouse was divided; she felt division in her own heart. The teaching of\nthe Seventh-Day Baptists was the only religious teaching she had ever\nhad--perhaps Matthew was right. Then what would become of her father\nwho did not go to church? And what would become of her who fled from\nchurch?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nAN EVENING PILGRIMAGE\n\n\nThat Grandfather would give up the children without a struggle was\nunlikely. When a month had passed and they had not reappeared at\nservice, he went to visit his son-in-law, taking Amos with him. It was\nSunday evening and the church bells were ringing. He carried a long\nstaff, and looked, with his silvery beard and his unearthly expression,\nexactly like the early pilgrims, worn by vigils and fasting, who had\nset out from this spot in summer's heat and winter's cold to gather\ninto the Net of Heavenly Wisdom all who were willing to be caught\ntherein. Across this undulating land, then thickly forested, had\ntraveled not only Seventh-Day Baptists, but Moravian and Mennonite,\nDunker, Quaker, and New Mooner, all on journeys which were concerned\nwith the salvation of souls, all anticipating the coming of the\nCelestial Bridegroom. They had not walked on a smooth road comfortably\nas did Grandfather and Amos, but with sandaled, stumbling feet in\nnarrow paths, from which they stepped to let pass a single Indian\nwarrior or perchance a horde going noisily to Lancaster with squaws and\npapooses, worn old horses and dirty impedimenta, to exchange, for a few\nhundred pounds, mountains and valleys, great rivers and dense forests.\n\nGrandfather walked silently, his head bowed, and Amos, stepping behind\nhim at the approach of a team, kept that position, his head bent like\nthe old man's.\n\nThe beauty of the evening weaned Grandfather for a little while from\nhis anxiety. The wheat was gathered and in the barns, the corn was\ntaller than his head. Over everything streamed a golden light like the\nimagined light from the portals of the heavenly city. He had often\nfancied himself laying down his earthly burdens on such an evening,\nand he had long desired to go. He was desperately tired of life with\nits complications and unaccountable contradictions. For an instant he\nwondered whether any future could be better than one of entire rest\nand blankness of mind, of such sleep as visited the very weary--heavy\nand uninterrupted by dreams.\n\nThen, with horror, he drove away such speculations. Was he to lose in\na moment's doubting in his old age that heaven which he had desired\nfrom his youth? Moreover, the most important duty of his life still\nlay before him, the strengthening of the young in the faith so that\nthe truth should not be left without witnesses. There was Amos of\nwhose devotion he was sure, but the life of a single man was a slender\nbarrier to set up before the waves of indifference and disbelief which\nwere engulfing the world. If he could not count upon his grandchildren,\nthere was no one left. He gauged with a keen eye the quality of the\nrest of his flock. Feeling suddenly the need of an assurance from his\nsolitary disciple, he called Amos, who stepped to his side, pleased to\nobey promptly.\n\n\"Amos, it will not be long till I am gone.\"\n\n\"Don't say that, Uncle!\"\n\n\"It is so in the nature of things and I would not have it otherwise. I\nintend to leave you so that you will need to feel no anxiety about your\ndaily bread. What else I have will go to my grandchildren under certain\nconditions and some also to the fund to help the repairs. It is a heavy\nresponsibility you have on you, but our founder said that wherever\nthere is a man who has a receptive mind there will the Spirit enter in.\"\n\nAmos's golden head bent humbly.\n\n\"I have no ambition to be prominent, Uncle. I wish there was some one\nelse.\"\n\n\"There is no one else. Besides, you have been trained; there is no one\nbut you to decipher the old writings. If anything should happen to me\nsuddenly, it will be your duty to look after these children. It is\nmy firm belief that Matthew is ours without any question, but it is\ndifferent with little Ellen. You have her in school; everything will\nrest with you.\"\n\nAmos's delicate skin showed a bright color even in the gathering\ntwilight. He had begun to believe that he had unsuitable thoughts about\nEllen, that he had noted with unseemly keenness the changes in her\nyouthful figure. It would be sad if at last temptation should come to\nhim in the form of sweet little Ellen, his pupil! He believed that thus\nthe devil answered his desire to remain celibate. Before he had formed\nthis intention, he had not been troubled. He did not quite hold with\nSt. Chrysostom that a woman was a wicked work of nature covered with a\nshining varnish, but he did believe that she was a serious obstacle to\nthe spiritual life.\n\nThere was a light in Dr. Levis's office where he sat reading. Ellen had\ngone with Mrs. Sassaman to her church, and to their surprise Matthew\nhad brought round the double carriage and had taken the driver's seat.\n\nLevis called \"Come in,\" without laying down his book. When he saw his\nguests, he sprang up and pushed out two chairs. Now that Ellen was\nstudying and Matthew had gone to the Lutheran church, he felt a little\npity for Grandfather Milhausen.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he invited. \"This is a very pleasant evening.\"\n\nThe circumstances of his visit to the Kloster were now reversed--it was\nGrandfather who had no desire to discuss the character of the weather,\nand to his son-in-law's remark he made no reply. Levis looked at him\ncritically. He must be considerably over seventy, but he might live to\nbe a hundred.\n\nThen Levis looked at Amos whose beauty though unpleasant was\nextraordinary--what a sensation he would create among artists!--he\nmight even, with his aureole and his silky beard, produce a sensation\nupon a city street. Levis wondered with amusement what Amos would say\nto a suggestion that he allow his body to be made a delight to the eye\nfor centuries, like that of a certain youthful model of St. John.\n\nGrandfather clasped both hands over the head of his stick and leaned\nforward. His keen eyes fell upon the book which Levis was reading--he\nknew enough of books to be certain that this was no religious work.\n\n\"Edward, I have come to speak again about the children for whom I\nam accountable. I didn't believe you when you said they shouldn't\ncome to meeting. It seemed that you could not be guilty of such\nshort-sightedness and wickedness.\"\n\n\"I meant exactly what I said--that they should go no longer to the\nmeeting of the Seventh-Day Baptists. This evening they have gone with\nthe housekeeper to the Lutheran church.\"\n\n\"Not Matthew!\"\n\n\"Yes, Matthew. He went of his own accord. I hope they'll go to other\nchurches, all the churches. Then they'll realize that much that you\nteach is taught elsewhere, and that will be a step gained.\"\n\n\"The Lutherans are worldly and they don't believe in trine immersion!\"\nGrandfather's voice thundered.\n\n\"What do you suppose the Lutherans would say about you? It's only fair\nthat the children should hear both.\"\n\n\"That isn't the way to train children. They should be taught, line\nupon line, precept upon precept, so that truth is fixed in their minds\nfirmly.\"\n\n\"You've had your chance to fix it firmly.\"\n\n\"I'd like to see them,\" said Grandfather. If there had been the\nslightest break in his voice, if his tone had expressed a hundredth\npart of the misery within him, Levis would have replied more gently.\nBut Levis thought of him only as a bigoted, hard old man.\n\n\"You may come here and see them at any time.\"\n\n\"It isn't suitable that I should come to see my grandchildren when they\nare able to come to see me.\"\n\n\"I'll send for you. I'll drive down and get you myself when you want to\ncome. But the children can't go to meeting, I won't allow it. The other\nday I passed the door of the Saal and it was open and I went in. It is\nincredible that you can hold services there. It ought to be torn down;\nit's like a cave for dampness. I would as soon bury Ellen and Matthew\nas let them continue under the influence of that place. It's a crime to\nstand still when the thought of the whole world is changing.\"\n\n\"We've one business in life, to serve God and obey Him. We're not to\nfollow changing winds.\"\n\nLevis moved impatiently.\n\n\"Your lot may have been cast in those dim, musty, horrible places. The\nlot of my boy and girl is cast in the world where they've got to be\nbetter fortified than your doctrine would fortify them. They've got to\nstand on their own feet and think for themselves. They know right and\nwrong; the rest they'll have to work out.\"\n\nGrandfather leaned forward, scorn upon his trembling lips.\n\n\"What have you worked out? The doctrine of the Trinity? Or trine\nimmersion? Or salvation by faith? Any of these doctrines?\"\n\n\"None of them,\" answered Levis lightly. \"Not a single one of them.\"\n\n\"You will be eternally destroyed,\" warned Grandfather, truly appalled.\n\n\"Well,\" said Levis--then he felt ashamed. There was no use in further\nhorrifying an old man of whom he had so obviously the upper hand. \"You\nand I shouldn't discuss this subject. Each of us knows what the other\nthinks and there's no likelihood of either of us changing.\" He tried\nto recall some pleasant subject upon which he and his father-in-law\ncould agree. Grandfather was not interested in politics, and still\nless in several wonderful medical discoveries which Levis read about\nwith eyes agleam like those of a traveler at sight of a new continent.\nGrandfather held the practice of medicine to be useless idling.\n\n\"We've had a good harvest,\" said Levis, at last.\n\nGrandfather stood upright. His beard was blown to one side by a sudden\nbreeze which made the flame of the lamp waver.\n\n\"Edward, I ask you once more for the souls of these children!\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" answered Levis. \"Their souls aren't mine! If you're going\nhome, you'd better let me drive you down.\"\n\nGrandfather made a rejecting gesture and walked toward the door. Then\nhe saw that Amos had not risen, but sat, turned in his chair, looking\nat a little table by the window upon which lay several schoolbooks, a\ntablet, and two pencils. There was also a glass of water with a few\nrosebuds in it. A sharp suspicion shot through Amos's heart. Was Ellen\nstudying in advance of her class? Then she would not come back! Burning\nred dyed his cheeks; he felt that Grandfather and Levis must both be\nable to read in his heart the emotions which boiled and raged there,\nputting his salvation in jeopardy.\n\n\"Is Ellen studying in summer?\" he asked tremulously. \"These look like\nher books.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Levis. \"You've given her a good foundation, Amos, and\nshe has a good mind. But she must move more rapidly, or she'll get into\nlazy habits.\"\n\n\"I could give her extra work,\" offered Amos, trembling.\n\n\"It isn't fair to ask you to do that. I'll teach her myself till she\ngoes away.\"\n\n\"Is she going away?\" asked Amos.\n\n\"She'll have to go to finish her education.\"\n\n\"She'll not need education beyond what she can get in school,\" said\nGrandfather. Here was a new and greater danger!\n\n\"Oh, yes, she will!\"\n\n\"What do you mean to make of Ellen?\"\n\nUntil this moment her father had had no definite plans about what he\nshould do with Ellen once her mind was trained. Now he expressed a\nsudden alluring thought. She had shown certain aptitudes; even before\nhis sentence was finished it seemed to him that the idea had long been\nforming.\n\n\"I may make a doctor of Ellen.\"\n\nAt that the ticking of the old clock in the corner could be plainly\nheard. Grandfather was amazed and frightened; Amos felt actually dizzy\nas though the world were whirling.\n\n\"Of _Ellen_!\" they said together.\n\nLevis began to elaborate the idea.\n\n\"I wish Ellen to earn her own living. Dependence upon any one after one\nis grown is bad. I wish her to be perfectly independent even of the man\nshe marries, to be able to say to him if necessary, 'I don't need you.'\nShe must have a profession, and it's natural that she has inherited\nsome aptitude for medicine. I mean to give her every opportunity. I'm\ngoing to prepare her for college as rapidly as I think wise, and when\nshe is through college she is to go to a medical school if she wishes.\"\n\nTo Grandfather this was the raving of a madman.\n\n\"You would turn the world upside down!\" he cried.\n\nLevis made no answer. He heard the carriage at the door and Ellen and\nMrs. Sassaman coming in. He wished that they had not returned so soon,\nbut here they were. He hoped that his visitors would depart before\nMatthew finished his work at the barn.\n\nEllen ran in, her cheeks aglow. When she saw her grandfather, she\nhurried forward.\n\n\"Why, Grandfather, when did you come?\"\n\n\"A little while ago.\" There was a quiver under his long beard.\n\n\"And Amos! Amos, I'm studying with Father and I'm not coming back to\nschool.\"\n\n\"So I hear,\" answered Amos.\n\nAfter this no one spoke, but all looked at Ellen with hunger in their\neyes. Standing between them, she felt uncomfortable. She loved them\nand she knew that they did not feel kindly toward one another. A week\nago she would have offered to sit on her grandfather's knee, or she\nwould have taken her fine collection of correct \"examples\" to show her\nteacher. Now she moved backward toward her father, who laid his hands\non her shoulders and held her close to him.\n\n\"I'm studying with Father,\" said she, as though she were defending him.\n\"Some day I'm going to be an honor to him.\"\n\nThe words echoed in two disturbed hearts until the gate of the Kloster\nwas reached.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nMATTHEW MAKES HIS CHOICE\n\n\nAfter stabling his horses Matthew came into the house. One would have\nthought that any lad would have found the prospect of Ellen on one side\nof Dr. Levis's desk and the doctor on the other more attractive than\nthe furniture of a bedroom. But Matthew started up the stairs.\n\n\"Matthew!\" called his father.\n\nMatthew returned obediently to the doorway. He was fast approaching his\nfather's height and promised to be as tall as Grandfather Milhausen.\n\n\"Won't you join us?\"\n\nMatthew said he thought not; he believed that he would go to bed.\n\n\"I hate going to bed,\" remarked Ellen. Between her and Matthew matters\nwere not yet straightened out, but she was hopeful of a gentle answer.\n\n\"You hate many things that are good and right.\"\n\nEllen's brown eyes filled.\n\n\"Now, Matthew, it isn't necessary to be as serious as all that!\" said\nLevis. \"Come and sit down.\"\n\n\"I think I'll go to bed.\"\n\nLevis half rose, impelled to cross the room and lay an affectionate,\npersuasive hand on the boy. But he thought better of it and his face\ncolored with relief at an escape from a possible rebuff. Alas, he knew\nbeforehand all that Matthew was likely to do; he remembered another\nfigure with well-set head and gray eyes that had often regarded him\nunyieldingly from the doorway.\n\n\"Very well, my son. Good-night.\"\n\nWhen he had gone, Ellen looked at her father. Levis was for the moment\noff his guard, his past years were moving before him in review.\nShe said nothing, but she began suddenly to feel a deep and loyal\nindignation.\n\nMatthew climbed to his room slowly, the spark of regret in his heart\nquenched before he reached the upper step. He sat down at his window\nand looked out into the moonlight. He said nothing aloud, but what he\nsaid in his heart was this:\n\n\"The Lutheran preacher prided himself on his learning with his careful\npronunciation and his long, long words. The girls stood gayly dressed\nin the choir for the young men to look at, and each tried to scream\nlouder than the others. I would not look at one of them. Everything was\ntoo rich and too comfortable. Ellen's eyes were like bright, shining\ncat's eyes. It was immodest to stare the way Ellen did.\"\n\nHis gaze sought the moonlit distance as though he would pierce it\nthrough. As clearly as though they were before him he saw the old\nbuildings, the low ceiling, the worshipers with downcast eyes. He drew\na deep breath of earth-scented air. The field beside the house had been\nploughed, and in the dewy night it exhaled a heavy odor, full of decay\nyet full of promise. He seemed to see the farmer, his hands on the\nplough; he saw the forward pull of the shoulders of the heavy bays, the\nwarm dark earth curving from the ploughshare. It was all part of the\nlife for which he longed, for which he was made.\n\nThen he looked back into the room. Dimly on his table he saw a pile\nof books, his hateful books. He was tempted to destroy them, but even\nstubborn Matthew had still a measure of common sense. He would have\nto obey his father and go away, but he would come back. He would have\nanother month at home, then he would have to be at the University\nbefore the opening to take examinations. He had no expectation of\nfailure and he was above deliberate effort to fail. He was determined\nto put himself thoroughly to whatever test the city might offer, a\nDaniel descending willingly into the fiery furnace.\n\nFrom summer day to summer day, Ellen studied. It was with difficulty\nthat Levis restrained himself from giving her longer lessons. When\nthe cooler weather came, then she should have full hours. Last year's\nstudies were reviewed and the equivalent of a half-year under Amos\naccomplished before September. Then, when Matthew, sullen-eyed and\nsilent, had been taken to Philadelphia by his father, Ellen began to\nwork in earnest.\n\nShe had by this time acquired many ideas that were new. The gods of\nher little girlhood, Grandfather and Amos, had been entirely displaced\nand there was but one creature worthy of worship. It was not Levis's\npositive statements, delivered as though there were no disputing them,\nwhich won Ellen; it was his hands on her shoulders and the throb of his\nbeating heart; it was the way he had looked at Matthew when Matthew had\nrefused to come and sit with them. Two months ago he had been like most\nfathers, a tall, distant, directing human being; now he was a creature\nnot only to be obeyed, but to be made much of, even to be protected\nand defended. He would have been touched and amused to know what Ellen\nthought of him.\n\nHe left Matthew in a small room at the University and came away, still\nbelieving that he would \"come out right,\" that is, he would see how\nfoolish he had been. He would make friends, he would learn to be like\nother lads, he would forget the bigotry and narrowness to which he had\ncommitted himself. Matthew was his own son, and he, Heaven knows, had\nnever been bigoted or narrow.\n\nAfter visiting the theater and watching a few skillful operations, he\nwent home. He might have seen, had he chosen to cross the street to\nthe Ophthalmic Hospital, Stephen Lanfair, who was there one day in the\nweek, but he did not choose. He still loved him, but he did not care\nto search him out. He was astonished to find that the confusion of the\ncity wearied and, still worse, worried him.\n\nHe found Ellen waiting for him in the doorway and decided as he crossed\nthe porch that she was going to be a pretty girl. Still there was no\ntrace of her mother about her, and little of him--perhaps from his own\nunknown mother she had inherited her thick curls and her black eyes.\n\n\"I have learned what you gave me to learn,\" she boasted. \"Does Matthew\nlike Philadelphia?\"\n\n\"I think he will.\"\n\n\"You are to go to Umbesheidens' and to Heilmans' right away.\"\n\n\"Has anything important happened?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all.\"\n\nThen Ellen felt a little uncomfortable. Something had happened, but\nit was too small a thing to tell. She had met Amos one afternoon in\nthe woodland. He had been required by a new school law to give a small\namount of instruction in botany and had come to find oak leaves. He\nwas sitting on the stump which was her special seat and, glad to see\nhim and ready to talk, she sat down at once on the fallen tree near by.\n\n\"How is school?\"\n\nAmos did not answer. His curious passion seemed suddenly entirely\nreasonable. Ellen's hair had gone up, her dresses down.\n\n\"It's pretty much like always,\" said he at last. \"But you're not\nthere.\" Then he added hastily, \"And Matthew is not there.\"\n\n\"Are the boys still so dumb?\"\n\nAmos hesitated. The boys were very stupid, but it was against his code\nto speak in such fashion of any one.\n\n\"They do their best.\"\n\n\"And Millie? How does she get her lessons?\"\n\n\"She is no longer there. Oh, Ellen, I wish you would come back!\"\n\n\"But I'm almost through what you teach,\" said Ellen. \"I couldn't stay\nlong if I did come. And I couldn't come, anyway. Two years from now I'm\ngoing to college.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ellen, I hope you'll be a good girl!\"\n\nEllen stirred uncomfortably at the solemnity in Amos's expression.\n\n\"I mean to!\"\n\n\"Don't forget what you have learned!\"\n\n\"I won't. Father says you taught me very well.\"\n\n\"I mean you're not to forget other things--the true Gospel and the\nhealth of your soul.\"\n\n\"I will remember all that,\" said Ellen quickly, frightened by this\nsudden allusion to her soul.\n\n\"And don't forget me, and that I'm praying for you!\"\n\n\"I won't,\" promised Ellen. \"Indeed, I won't.\" Nervously she rose\nfrom her place on the old log. It was late afternoon and the shadows\nsuddenly deepened. She held out her hand. The heart which stirred\nquickly at another's need felt vaguely Amos's misery. \"I must go\nback. I--\" she was still a child until she had uttered her childish\nsentence--\"I'll kiss you if you wish, Amos!\"\n\nThen Amos knew that the devil was after him indeed. But he bent and\nlaid his bearded lips to the smooth cheek. He said nothing, and in a\nmoment she was gone, flushed and frightened.\n\n\"Oh, how silly!\" said she to herself. She felt again the light warm\ntouch upon her cheek. \"How dreadful to have said such a thing!\"\n\nIt was of course impossible to describe this foolishness to her father.\n\nGrandfather thought hourly of Matthew. Each day he became more\npainfully aware that Matthew was young and that temptations were many.\nHe saw him at the end of the week surrounded by all the enticements\nof a lurid Babylon. Members of the church, astonished at the course\npursued by Dr. Levis and permitted--at least they thought it was\npermitted--by Grandfather, poured into his ears descriptions of\norgies indulged in by college students in which wine, women, and\nsong furnished a gay entertainment. Indeed, according to the stories\nheard by Brother K\u00f6nig, wine, women, and song were as necessary to\ncollege students as food and sleep. Church-going was unknown without\ncompulsion, and then all were required to attend a single irreligious,\ninconsistent service where one Sunday Jews preached to Gentiles and the\nnext Gentiles to Jews. Brother K\u00f6nig, so keen when the trade of a horse\nwas in question, had heard that on certain Sundays even Catholics set\nup their altars and tried to proselyte. Matthew, every one believed,\nhad spiritual strength unusual in a young man, but he was, in the local\nidiom, not _that_ strong.\n\nIt was reported also that all evil practices reached their height\nin the Medical School where Matthew, after an incredibly long stay\nelsewhere, would eventually spend four years. Brother K\u00f6nig could\ninvent little beyond that which he had already imparted, but he stated\nplainly that there were other things, _of which he would not tell_.\n\nFrom Matthew directly Grandfather heard nothing. He wrote to him, but\nhis vaguely addressed envelope did not reach its destination. Meanwhile\nhe came to his assistance in another way. The evenings had grown cool\nand he and Amos sat within doors, Grandfather in meditation, Amos\nstudying a Latin manuscript which he had found in a room high under the\neaves of Saron. It was a discourse on \"The Mystic Dove,\" and was one of\nthe few documents which had escaped prying antiquarians. The quality\nof the Latin was poor, but Amos was puzzling it out, believing that\nit had been written by Brother Jabez, one of the most interesting and\ncertainly the most learned of the sect, and that it contained valuable\ndevotional material. Sometimes he read a line to Grandfather, and they\ndiscussed it wisely. Alien and worldly historians had described the\nKloster, but none had written with understanding and sympathy, and\nsometimes Amos dreamed of undertaking the task.\n\nGrandfather's plan for the sustaining of Matthew consisted in the\noffering of prayers each evening at the hour of nine, when, for some\nreason, he fancied temptations to be at their height. During October\nthe two petitioners made their candle-lit way into the dim and musty\nSaal and there knelt down before the old benches, and when the Saal\ngrew tomblike in the cold November evenings, they offered their\noblations both for Matthew and Ellen in the kitchen, which was filled\nwith the sound of Grandfather's sonorous voice.\n\nAmos also, fresh from the work of the devout and mystic Brother\nJabez, prayed for Matthew's well-being, reproaching himself with the\nneophyte's humility for the pleasure which he took in a neatly rounded\npetition. He tried to pray for Ellen, but when he did so he seemed to\nfeel her kiss.\n\nNovember waned, and still each evening the two men besought the\nCreator of the world to watch over their lamb. Grandfather prayed more\nfervently and eloquently, with the desperate earnestness of a Jacob who\nfeels the angel slipping from him.\n\n\"I have had no sign of an answer,\" said he despairingly. \"We must pray\nmore.\"\n\nThe next evening they prayed for an hour. Grandfather's heavy heart\nfound relief, and Amos on his knees with eyes uplifted expected some\nvisible pillar of fire or of cloud.\n\n\"We shall hear from him,\" said Grandfather with assurance.\n\nThe last evening of November was stormy. A late and lovely autumn had\nended yesterday with a fiery sunset and a roaring wind, and to-day\nwind and rain and sleet made the outer world almost intolerable. The\nblast penetrating between the cracks of the cottage blew the fire to\na furious blaze which, roaring up the chimney, gave little heat. The\ngale stirred the end of Grandfather's beard as he knelt by his chair,\nand fanned Amos's cheek. There were the dark shadows, the silvery white\nof Grandfather's beard, the golden light on the brass bowl of the old\nlamp, and all about the sound and fury of the storm, which seemed to\nthreaten the destruction of the cottage.\n\nGrandfather had worked himself into an ecstasy of expectation and it\nseemed to him certain that a divine communication was imminent. Amos\nopened his eyes to look at him and did not close them, so wonderful did\nhe seem. The wind distressed him but the sight of the old man at prayer\ncalmed him.\n\n\"O Lord, we pray Thee for some sign that we are heard. We ask Thee for\nThy blessing upon one whom we love. Thou knowest the cruel snares set\nfor the feet of the young; keep his feet from going in those paths.\nForgive those who have tried to set his way therein. Bring him safely\nhome. We wait, O Lord!\"\n\nThe voice grew shrill; the key upon which it ended was high, as though\nthe petitioner did indeed wait. There was suddenly a sound outside\nthat was different from the wind, a sharp closing of the gate behind\na visitor in haste. Before Grandfather and Amos could rise from their\nknees, the door opened, and, looking up, they saw not a mysterious\nvisitor, still less Matthew, whom his grandfather thought of first of\nall, but Levis, pale and drenched with rain.\n\nLevis looked away; he did not like to see men in the act of baring\ntheir souls any more than he liked to bare his own.\n\n\"I don't wish to interrupt.\"\n\n\"There is no interruption. Sit down, Edward.\"\n\nLevis did not respond to the invitation.\n\n\"Do you know anything of Matthew?\"\n\nAmazement answered him.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Grandfather at last. \"I haven't seen him since long\nbefore he was sent away. What is the matter with Matthew?\"\n\n\"He has left school.\"\n\nGrandfather waited for further information. In his heart he said,\n\"Thank God!\"\n\n\"He hasn't simply disappeared; he has deliberately run away, after\nnotifying the registrar that he was going. He was forbidden to go, but\nhe went nevertheless.\"\n\n\"I know nothing whatever about him.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" said Amos.\n\n\"It was three days ago.\"\n\n\"I've been praying that he would resist temptation,\" said Grandfather\nboldly. \"Perhaps this is the answer.\"\n\n\"I'm not concerned about temptations,\" answered Levis impatiently.\n\"Matthew is no fool. I'm concerned for his health. Where is he?\"\n\nThen Levis felt the door against which he stood move slightly and\nturned with tigerish swiftness and threw it open. In came the wind and\nsleet, and in came also Matthew, rain-soaked, bedraggled, with bent\nhead. He pressed hard against the door until it was closed and then\nstood panting with bright, sullen eyes.\n\nLevis spoke first.\n\n\"How long have you been out in this storm?\"\n\n\"Only a little while. I walked yesterday and the day before, but to-day\nI got a long ride in a market wagon.\"\n\n\"Have you any clothes here that he can put on?\" This in a physician's\nsharp tone to Amos.\n\nAmos beckoned Matthew to the other room.\n\n\"When did you eat?\" asked Levis.\n\n\"At supper time,\" said Matthew and shut the door.\n\nLevis sat down by the table. \"Have you any stimulant in the house?\"\n\n\"God in Heaven, Edward, now that he is here and safe, would you ruin\nhim deliberately? Aren't you satisfied?\"\n\n\"Have you anything that he can take hot?\"\n\nGrandfather rose and opened a cupboard door, his hands trembling.\n\n\"I will make _durch-wax_ tea.\"\n\n\"Make it then, or let your acolyte make it.\" In the midst of his rage\nLevis was pleased with having found exactly the right word.\n\n\"It's very bitter tea,\" said the old man as he poured hot water upon\nthe dried leaves.\n\n\"The bitterer the better,\" said Levis grimly.\n\nWhen Matthew appeared from the inner room, there came into his father's\nwhite face the expression of amazed and intolerable pain which Ellen\nhad once seen. Matthew was unshaven; the dark shade on his cheek was\nnot put there by the soil of travel, it was a curling beard, which,\nabove Amos's black suit, had a significance not to be ignored. For a\nsingle second his father thought that this could not be Matthew, it\nwas Amos. He laid his hand against his side as though his heart ached\nsensibly.\n\n\"Are you tired?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"Then I think we'd better settle this matter at once. Since you've\nchosen to come here and to pass your father's gate, we'll discuss it\nhere and for the last time. Why did you leave school?\"\n\n\"I couldn't see any use in it.\"\n\n\"Do you expect to be a physician without going to school?\"\n\n\"I don't want to be a physician. I have no interest in it. I want to\nfarm.\" Matthew burst into tears.\n\nLevis met tears without a change of expression.\n\n\"Suppose you do want to farm, there's no reason why you shouldn't go\nto school. There are new methods of farming which you could learn. You\ncould at least learn how to live. Do you want to remain an ignoramus?\"\n\n\"I'm not an ignoramus. And I don't want to take your money.\"\n\nLevis made no answer.\n\n\"Because I'm going to be a Seventh-Day Baptist. I'm under conviction.\nIt wouldn't make any difference how long I went to school, the result\nwould be the same. I can't have peace unless I come out openly.\"\n\nNow it was the heart of Grandfather which threatened to stop beating.\nDid God hear the prayers of the faithful, or did He not? He poured into\na cup some of the steaming brew.\n\nLevis folded his arms and settled himself more closely against the back\nof the straight pine chair.\n\n\"Drink your tea,\" he commanded. \"Then I have something to say to you.\"\n\nMatthew swallowed the scalding fluid. It warmed him, put heart in him,\nlike a sacramental wine. The storm was almost over; the roar in the\nchimney had ceased, the roar outside had almost died down; it seemed as\nthough the stage were set for Levis.\n\n\"I don't wish to be interrupted,\" said he. \"I'm speaking to my son and\nyou are perfectly welcome to listen. Afterwards you shall have your\nchance if he wishes to hear you.\"\n\nLevis began in the fifteenth century.\n\n\"The Reformation was a protest against superstition, but only against\nthe more gross superstitions, and the Protestant Church retains to-day\nthe essential superstitions of the Roman Church. The idea of the Son\nof the Creator of the universe in human form is a fantastic one,\nnow fading from the minds of the more intelligent. Matthew, are you\nlistening to me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Matthew in a whisper.\n\n\"The idea of a blood atonement, of the sacrifice of a single innocent\nbeing for the sins of all the world, is monstrous, a development of the\nidea that the crimes of men could be laid upon the back of an animal,\nwhich, driven away, took them with him. To these ideas the Seventh-Day\nBaptists have added others as fantastic as any invented in the history\nof the queer mind of man. I could just as easily worship the bones of\na human being as I could believe it essential to have my feet bathed\nat a church service. Your denial of opportunities is as ridiculous as\nthat of the hermit who prefers to live in bodily uncleanness. You live\nin mental sloth and blindness! Your founder was a charlatan of the\nworst sort who beguiled women away from their husbands and mothers away\nfrom their children, to live in fancied holiness in this grim place.\nGeneration by generation his followers have grown fewer in number. In\nMatthew's generation there will not be half a dozen.\n\n\"Now, Matthew, this is my last word. You may return to school for the\nyear--that is one alternative. Or you may come home and live like a\nnormal human being and farm if you wish and without further education\nif you insist, under the condition that you don't join the Seventh-Day\nBaptists or attend their meetings until you are twenty-one years old.\nOr, you may stay here, allied with the past, letting the world go by,\nalienated from your father and little sister who have a right to your\nsociety and your love.\n\n\"You must choose now, Matthew. I can't continue to hope for years to\ncome that you'll be an honor to me and then have you fail me. You'll\nhave to make up your mind.\"\n\nIt seemed to Levis that he had been talking a long time. He changed his\nposition, driving his hands deep into his pockets and crossing one knee\nover the other. Seated easily, his clenched fists invisible, he had the\nappearance of a man too firmly grounded in his philosophy of life to be\nseriously affected by any chance which might befall. Matthew sat with\nbent head; Amos in the shadow held his hand across his lips. Once he\nremembered a cool, soft cheek. Grandfather seemed to have shrunk within\nhimself; his eyes were half closed, his lips moved. It was evident that\nagainst the influence of Levis's eloquence he was opposing all his\nsupplicatory powers. He looked at no one; he seemed to be in a trance.\nThe wind began to blow louder, whistling round the corners. The silence\nwithin became nerve-racking.\n\n\"Well, Matthew?\" said Levis, sitting suddenly upright.\n\nMatthew answered without raising his head.\n\n\"I'm under conviction. It would be wrong for me to waste my time\nstudying when nothing was to come of it.\"\n\nLevis got to his feet quickly.\n\n\"You mean you're going to stay here?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nNow Grandfather folded his arms across his breast and bent his head\nalmost upon them. Did God hear His children, or did He not?\n\nLevis lifted his hat from the pine table.\n\n\"Matthew, look at me!\"\n\nMatthew lifted his eyes. For an instant, with torn heart, he longed to\nthrow himself on his father's breast. But his Heavenly Father was more\ndear. He dropped his eyes once more.\n\n\"You've entirely made up your mind?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he whispered.\n\nLevis lingered another instant, his back against the door.\n\n\"Listen to me. I have my creed. I believe that no man can behave\nfoolishly or wrongly without having it somehow returned to him. I hope\nthat this hour will never be visited upon you.\"\n\nThen Levis went out to return no more. He stumbled as he crossed the\nstep and then straightened up in the face of the wind which blew\nclear and strong from the north. He went through the gate into the\ngraveyard, and saw the full moon, unveiled with mysterious suddenness,\nilluminating the white stones. The experience through which he had\npassed, the stormy and magnificent night, the moonlight making so\npurely white the tallest stone in the little graveyard--all would have\nmoved and racked another man. But he had the power, cultivated through\nlong years in uncongenial surroundings, of detaching himself from the\npresent. He began to repeat a passage of description of which he was\nfond and which brought before his eyes a foreign landscape which he\nhad never seen, but of which he often dreamed. When it was finished he\nrepeated another passage and yet another, and so came at last to his\nown door.\n\nThe light burned dimly, but a dimmer light would have revealed to his\nseeking eyes that for which they looked. Under a gay pieced afghan lay\nEllen, a book in her arms. Beside her her father drew up a chair and\nthere sat down, scrutinizing each childish lineament, each crisp curl.\nShe slept heavily, and it seemed to him that there was a shadow under\nher eyes and he bent still more closely over her to discover that the\nshadow was only that cast by her long lashes. He put out his hand and\nlaid it softly on the bright cover.\n\nSitting thus, he faced at last his extraordinary situation. Ten o'clock\nstruck, eleven, twelve, and still he was there. His mind traveled to\nMatthew's babyhood, to Matthew's childhood--would things have been\ndifferent if he had been different? He was still young then, and\nthinking not so much of his children as of his own miseries of mind and\nbody, he had not realized that he was guilty of neglect. Even yet he\ndid not feel like a middle-aged man, much less like an old man--but he\nhad a son mature enough to defy him and to leave his house! His pride\nwas deep and high, the pride of a man of intellect--he contemplated\nwith horror the strange atavistic trick played upon him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nA GROWING MIND\n\n\nThat Matthew had returned, that he was to live henceforth with\nGrandfather, that he was not even to come to the house, were facts\nwhich Ellen found difficult to comprehend, yet which she accepted with\na child's willingness to accept what her father told her. The family\nseparation caused comment, but no great astonishment in a neighborhood\nwhere differences of opinion and the separation of dissenters were\nfrequent.\n\nLife went on quietly, yet not without interesting events. Study under\nthe driving spur of her father's encouragement was an absorbing\noccupation for Ellen. Presently catalogues were sent for and schools\nconsidered and compared. When a sample examination paper arrived, it\nseemed possible that she might enter college, thoroughly prepared, in\ntwo years.\n\nOnce, before Christmas, her father took her away. When they drove to\nthe station the pale winter sun had not yet dispelled the pearly mist\nwhich lay over the landscape, nor thawed the ice on farmhouse windows.\nThe fields were covered with snow and it was difficult to imagine\nthem dressed in summer's richness of corn and wheat and tobacco. The\nfarmhouses with their huge barns looked like rich manorial properties,\nas well they might in this deep-soiled country. Until they reached\nthe outskirts of the larger towns nothing was to be seen that was not\nbeautiful, the white stretches of snow, the frozen streams which showed\nhere and there dark pools, the fine clumps of forest trees, white\ntrunks of sycamores, dark masses of evergreens, and willows tipped\nwith yellow beside old spring houses. Nor was there anything that was\nnot indicative of prosperity and peace. The houses were built of brick\nand stone, the fences were straight and in good repair, there were\nno weeds; ignorance might laugh at Mennonite and Dunker, Amish and\nSeventh-Day Baptist, who had tilled the fields and built the houses,\nbut their thrift and labor had founded a great commonwealth.\n\nThe ride across the country did not compare in Ellen's mind with the\nride between the Susquehanna River and the miles of furnaces and mills.\nThe sight of the towering Capitol, viewed at first from the train above\na low stretch of sordid buildings, filled her with delight. When they\nhad climbed the steps to the esplanade, her father turned her away from\nthe Capitol so that she might look down the broad street to the river.\n\n\"Oh, Father!\" said Ellen holding his hand tight.\n\n\"It isn't very long since this was only a frontier fort and the Indians\ncame floating in canoes from far away to barter furs for flintlocks and\npowder, and for mirrors and baubles for their squaws. Sometime we'll go\nacross the river and get a view of the city and the mountains.\"\n\n\"Shall we really come again?\" asked Ellen.\n\nWhen they went indoors, she had nothing whatever to say. The rotunda\nwas at first simply bewildering, its pictured dome was so far above\nher, its walls were so white, the angels who held glittering lamps on\nhigh were so majestic. Led from place to place she saw interpreted\nfor her the history of her State. William Penn stood, an austere\nyoung figure, before an angry father, waited in audience before stern\nmagistrates, or faced westward high on the prow of a boat against a\nstormy sky. Her eyes dwelt with delight upon each detail; here a blue\nsky mirrored in a tiny pool, here bright grass, here velvets and laces,\nhere a lean greyhound's body, here leaping flames and young scholars\ncasting their books upon the fire.\n\nThere were other pictures; the cold, miserable, intrepid troopers of\nValley Forge; William Penn and a magnificent Indian under a yellow\ntree; the reading of the Declaration of Independence; and last of all,\na glorious tableau in which a hundred heroes figured. There was no\ndoubt in Ellen's mind that she had seen the most magnificent edifice in\nthe wide world.\n\nBut there were new joys to follow. At sunset the two walked hand in\nhand upon the long street by the river, keeping on a path close to\nthe brink. When Ellen's eyes left the golden surface of the water,\nthey saw old houses firmly built, stately and well kept. After a while\nthe houses were newer and farther apart. Far across the river trains\nthundered.\n\nWhen they retraced their steps the glow had faded and lights sparkled\nin interminable lines and were reflected in the dark, velvety water.\nEllen was young and eager, a warm hand held hers, she could not help\ndancing by her father's side.\n\n\"I'm choosing a house,\" she said. \"There was one gray stone house on a\ncorner--I'm watching for it. It is where I should like to live. I see\nit now, people are going in!\"\n\nHalted by the tightening of her hand, Levis looked across at the gray\nhouse. An automobile drove away, another was drawing up to the curb.\nWrapped in furs, a lady waited on the pavement for her friends from\nthe second car. The door of the house was open and a maid stood on the\nupper step.\n\n\"Is that a party, Father?\"\n\nLevis did not answer. When the door closed he crossed the street. The\nhouse fronted both on the river and on the side street, and in the\nwing there was apparently a suite of offices. He went closer and read\nthe gilt name on a small black sign--\"Stephen Lanfair, M.D.\" Then he\ntook Ellen's hand and walked on. So this was where Stephen lived when\nhe was not traveling about the world! He smiled without bitterness,\nremembering Stephen's vows of friendship.\n\nEllen looked up at him, a vague impression growing stronger. She\nbelieved that he would like to be here; that he belonged here, rather\nthan with people like Grandfather and Amos.\n\n\"Would you like to live here, Father?\"\n\n\"Would you, Ellen?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\"\n\nShe answered still more ardently that night. After their supper they\nwent to a huge lighted building, where it seemed all the ladies had\ngathered from the fine houses. There were also many gentlemen with such\nan expanse of shirt-bosom as she had never seen. Here was something to\ntell Mrs. Sassaman--what would she say to such ironing as that?\n\n\"What is going to happen?\" she asked in a whisper when they had been\ntaken to seats in the first row of the balcony. Merely to sit there\nwould have been entertainment enough, but it was clear that some\nadditional joy was at hand.\n\n\"Wait!\" said her father.\n\nShe watched the rising curtain; she saw standing on a platform\na slender young man with a violin in his hand. Now violins were\nwicked--Millie's brother, who had long since vanished, was said to\nhave brought one from the city and his father was said to have broken\nit over the corner of the stove.\n\nThen she took her father's hand. The violinist moved his arm lightly\nand her blood raced through her veins. Her mind filled with pleasing\nimages, detached from one another, leading nowhere, dreamlike,\nheavenly. She had never seen dancing, but she felt an impulse to rise\nand discover whether she was really light as air, whether she could\nreally fly.\n\n\"Oh, Father!\" she cried, when the dancing tune was over.\n\nThen she said no more, had no vocabulary with which to say more. She\nfelt both sorrow and gladness, but most of all she felt the pains of\ngrowth. There were tears in her eyes, then on her cheeks.\n\nWhen on the way to the hotel her father asked whether she had liked it,\nshe answered his question in a curious way.\n\n\"I wish Matthew would come back to us!\"\n\nThe identical desire filled Levis's heart.\n\n\"I wish so, too. Perhaps you can persuade him.\"\n\n\"May I take him a Christmas present and speak to him then?\"\n\n\"Certainly. To-morrow we'll find one for him.\"\n\nThe carefully chosen present was a picture which reminded Ellen of the\nview from Matthew's window. It was clear to Levis why she liked it, but\nhe had small hopes that either persuasion or art would move Matthew.\n\n\"May I get a pair of gloves for Grandfather and something for Amos?\"\n\n\"Yes, if you wish.\"\n\nHe took Ellen and her packages to the outer gate of the little cemetery\non the afternoon before Christmas. The location of the cemetery\nsuggested to him always a _memento mori_--the brevity of life was\nnot to be forgotten by the residents of the Kloster! The whole place\nunder the covering of snow seemed horribly dreary and forlorn. Ellen\nclambered out of the buggy and he held her packages out to her.\n\n\"In an hour and a half at most, I'll be here.\"\n\n\"May I invite them for Christmas dinner?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And Amos?\" asked Ellen hesitatingly.\n\n\"Yes, and Amos.\"\n\nShe held her packages with care. She had tied them with red cord--such\nfestive packages were not often carried through the cemetery. So\naccustomed was she to the path that she gave no thought to the white\nstones. When she came to the second gate she laid her bundle down and\nfastened the latch, as Grandfather liked to have it fastened, and went\nup the little walk to the cottage, already shadowed by the Saal and\nSaron. It had never been her habit to knock at the door, and she did\nnot knock now, but balancing her picture carefully on one arm, she\nlifted the latch and entered.\n\nIt could not have been that the three men had not seen her\ncoming--Grandfather sitting by the stove meditating, and Amos sitting\nby the table studying, and Matthew sitting idly by the window, all\ncommanded a view of the gate and the graveyard. Each now had in secret\na throbbing heart, each longed to let his eyes rest upon her, to devour\nher. But none had gone to open the door, and now none rose to welcome\nher.\n\nBut her smile was not to be resisted. It brought a faint motion to\nGrandfather's lips and a red flush to Matthew's cheek, and caused both\nheart and cheek of Amos to burn. All saw a change in Ellen, added\nheight, a brighter color, a longer dress. Her dress was, moreover,\ngayer. Hitherto Mrs. Sassaman in selecting her clothes had remembered\nthat she was destined to be a Seventh-Day Baptist and that therefore\nplainness was her portion; now her father had selected a new coat and\nhat, with a very decided intention that she was not to be plain in any\nsense of the word. Her coloring and his own masculine taste inclined\nhim to red, but the clerk had persuaded him to take brown, and Ellen in\na brown coat and a fur cap gratified him beyond all his hopes.\n\nHer appearance, her gayety, and above all her greeting moved, alas,\nevery heart against her. If she had come humbly, plainly dressed,\nremembering the circumstances under which she had departed, her\ngrandfather would have taken her to his arms. If she had been a little\nless lovely, Amos would not have been afraid of her. If she had been\nquieter, as suited her sex and station, Matthew would not have turned\naway from her.\n\nBut she cried out with singularly poor judgment, \"Merry Christmas,\"\nforgetting that Grandfather believed in searching of heart rather than\ngayety upon such occasions. Upon her grandfather's cheek she bestowed\na granddaughterly kiss, and to Amos she gave her hand. Then going to\nMatthew, she put her arms round him. He longed to respond, to put both\nhis arms round her and to hide his tearful eyes against her curls, but\nthe expression which he gave to this desire was a sharp,\n\n\"You're getting too old for such foolishness, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen backed toward the table.\n\n\"I brought you Christmas presents--gloves for you, Grandfather, and\nhandkerchiefs for Amos, and a picture for Matthew.\" She handed them\nround, one by one, then stood, a bewildered fairy-godmother, in the\nmidst of unresponsive beneficiaries.\n\n\"I go out very little in cold weather\"--this from Grandfather.\n\nAmos did not lift the handkerchiefs from the table.\n\n\"I don't approve of pictures, Ellen,\" said Matthew. \"We would much\nbetter be reading our Bibles than looking at pictures.\"\n\nShe knew suddenly that Matthew would not come home, that they would\nnot come to dinner, but she hurried to give her invitation before she\nshould lose her voice.\n\n\"Father and Mrs. Sassaman and I would like you all to come to dinner\nto-morrow. Every one. We're going to have turkey.\"\n\n\"We have no heart for gayety, Ellen,\" said Grandfather.\n\nThe two young men, with the healthy appetites of their age, had a\nsecond of inward rebellion against this decision, then they acquiesced.\nPerhaps it was his recollection of the Christmas dinner table with its\nhandsomest white cloth with a red border, its smoking fowl, its hot\nmince pies, that made Matthew's voice still sharper, his words more\ncruel.\n\n\"You can wrap your picture up.\"\n\n\"You won't come, any of you?\" whispered Ellen, her eyes seeking first\none, then the other.\n\nLeaving the picture in Matthew's hand she moved toward the door. To\nall she was a most precious creature about to slip away forever. Her\ngrandfather leaned forward in his chair, pleading like an ancient\nprophet.\n\n\"Oh, Ellen, if you could only see the true light! There is only one\nthing worth while and that is peace with God. Not education, but your\nsalvation should be your concern.\"\n\nMatthew's attack was savage. A strange, fierce jealousy filled his\nnarrow heart. Ellen had always obeyed him, she should obey him now!\n\n\"You aren't dressed properly. You should know better if Father doesn't.\"\n\nAmos did not speak, but his eyes burned. If he might only talk to this\npoor lamb!\n\n\"You shan't speak against Father!\" cried Ellen. \"I don't see why we\ncan't live at peace and love one another. It's wicked for Matthew to\nmake Father feel badly. I would rather\"--she knew that she was saying\na monstrous thing, but it was true--\"I would rather lose my soul than\nhurt any one like that. I wouldn't believe a religion that made me act\nlike that. I wouldn't believe\"--she was now too excited to know exactly\nwhat she was saying--\"I wouldn't obey a God that wanted me to act like\nthat. I--\"\n\nHer sentence unfinished, she got outside and shut the door between her\nand them. It was beginning to snow and it might be more than an hour\nbefore her father came, but she could not stay in the little house.\n\nThe snow thickened and twilight fell and she waited, pacing up and\ndown, and feeling the chill of the raw night air through her whole\nbody. She did not go beyond the turn of the road, nor would she start\nhome, for then her father would go into the cottage to inquire for her\nand he might be met by reproaches and impertinence. Lights shone out\nfrom comfortable warm rooms in Ephrata; men returning from their work\nin the village to homes in the country and women laden with packages\nlooked at her curiously; but she did not forsake her post, though she\nmight have walked home easily.\n\nWhen at last her father arrived she was shivering. He held his restless\nhorse with one hand and put out the other to help her. He was late--the\nfastening of a box to the back of the buggy had taken time.\n\n\"What in the world are you doing out here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm waiting for you.\"\n\n\"But why here?\"\n\n\"They wouldn't take my presents,\" wailed Ellen. \"They didn't want them;\nthey think I'm wicked. They won't come to dinner. They were all there.\nMatthew has a--a--beard, Father! I--\" But she could say no more.\n\nWhen she had changed her clothes, she and Mrs. Sassaman taking counsel\ntogether over the proper method of pressing the beautiful coat, and had\nhad supper, Levis asked for an account of the afternoon.\n\n\"We'll think no more of it,\" said he when she had finished. \"Matthew\nhas chosen for himself. We've done everything we can and it's useless\nto cry or worry.\"\n\nBut she refused to give up hope. She thought of Matthew in the night;\nshe thought of him the next morning, when, wakened by the strains which\nshe had heard Kreisler play, she ran down the stairs to find the source\nof the miracle in a victrola at which Mrs. Sassaman and her father\nstood beaming; she thought of him at intervals through the snow-bound,\npleasant day; she thought of him when, with Mrs. Sassaman, she went to\nthe Lutheran celebration and listened to the children singing their\ncarols and saw--oh, beautiful sight!--a tree all set with gleaming\ncandles.\n\nMrs. Sassaman felt the Christmas spirit, and her heart warmed to those\nwhom she served. She was a loyal soul and she often defended Dr. Levis\nwhen her friends blamed him for Matthew's departure. Her marital\naspirations had grown less keen; she asked only to stay and serve. With\nthis thought in mind she visited Levis in his office.\n\n\"I would rather be Manda,\" said she, as though the day of her request\nto be called Mrs. Sassaman were but yesterday.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Levis. \"I like it better, it is friendlier.\"\n\nShe sat down uninvited. She gathered now and then from her friends\ndescriptions of extraordinary diseases, and these she reported to\nLevis, believing them to be professionally useful. She told now of the\nfearful pain which \"took\" the friend of her friend, of the treatment\nby the medical doctor and by the pow-wow doctor and of the \"awful\nwitality\" of the sufferer's constitution. When she had finished she\nrose quickly and went happily away.\n\nEllen thought of Matthew every day through the winter--in the short\nmornings when there seemed to be so much to learn; in the afternoons\nwhen the world moved more slowly; in the evenings when she recited her\nlessons. If he had stayed in school, he would be very wise indeed. But\ninstead of studying he preferred to work in the stocking factory at\nEphrata--that was what Levis's son was doing now!\n\nOne spring evening Ellen went for a walk. The frost was out of the\nground; the April air was full of the odor of wet earth, and when one\nstood still one could hear little, pleasant sounds of running water.\nShe had passed the time when her \u00e6sthetic sense was limited to pleasure\nin a glass filled with wild roses, or a gratifying arrangement of\nautumn leaves; she had begun to observe the delicate colors near the\nhorizon, the soft purple of the old fences, the shapes of trees and of\ngroups of trees. On this spring evening it was heavenly to be alive;\none forgot one's haste to be older, one's regret that learning was a\nslow process, one's desire to see a thousand places, the cathedral of\nRheims, for one, and the Doge's palace and the church of St. Sophia for\nothers, which one would, which one must, see some day. She forgot even\nMatthew.\n\nThen Matthew recalled himself. Ellen was walking slowly, but not so\nslowly as two persons who came toward her. At the beginning of the\ndescent into the little hollow where the stream ran, she stopped and\nstood still to listen to the bubbling water and from there discerned,\nsilhouetted against the yellow sky, two dark figures that might well\nhave been ghosts of the early settlers of the land. The man's figure\nwas tall, the woman's short; she wondered what couple was courting\non this pleasant evening. Imagination made her flush suddenly, but\nbefore she had time to translate the incident into her own experience,\nthe familiarity of the man's outline startled her. There was only one\nperson who had shoulders like that and that was Matthew, who was now a\nSeventh-Day Baptist, having been plunged one morning in the cold waters\nof the creek.\n\nThe girl with Matthew was Millie K\u00f6nig, could be no other, and the\nyoung people of the Seventh-Day Baptists did not walk with each other\nunless they were betrothed!\n\nShe hurried home with her miserable news.\n\n\"Father, I saw him walking in the road, and Millie was with him.\"\n\nLevis knew the significance of this companionship. Under his breath,\nhe said scornfully, \"Good Lord!\" and aloud, \"We'll try not to think of\nit, Ellen.\"\n\nHe had thought often since his visit to Harrisburg of Stephen. He felt\nwith increasing frequency the uneasy sensation in his heart and he knew\nthat he ought to have a word with some one about it. Stephen was an eye\nspecialist, but he was also acquainted with general medical practice.\nThere was a certain disease of the heart which warned gently for a long\ntime and then leaped with tigerish swiftness--but it could not be that!\n\nThere was another problem which he should like to lay before his\nfriend. Life on the farm would be intolerable without Ellen and he\nbelieved himself still young enough to find another place. Stephen\nmight be able to tell him of a practice and to help him to it. Neither\nfavor was too large to ask if the old friendliness continued. He\nplanned to go to Harrisburg at some convenient season, but he postponed\nhis journey week after week, believing that there was still time\nenough.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nUNEXPECTED GUESTS\n\n\nA large store of information may be put into a receptive mind in two\nyears. Levis, watching his sturdy young Ellen to see that her bright\ncheeks did not grow pale or her alert step slow, proceeded to find out\nhow much she could acquire. It was a new and interesting occupation,\nbut his pleasure was tempered by a remorseful wonder as to how much\ncould have been accomplished if he had not been so certain that his own\nblood and the spirit of the age would keep Matthew and Ellen safe.\n\nEllen continued her mathematics and concluded her geography. She had\nstudied Beginner's Latin with Amos, and her father required her to\ntranslate French. Furnishing his pupil with an outline of English\nhistory, he prescribed reading and the relating of what she read.\nElementary astronomy, botany, and physiology she absorbed like a sponge.\n\nHe sent for books which he had long wished to possess, but had denied\nhimself, a many-volumed illustrated history of art, a history of music,\na history of architecture in sumptuous dress. He sat late at night\nthinking over plans for Ellen, and even brought his accounts up to date\nand sent out bills, so that nothing might be denied her.\n\nThe summer and another winter passed and between the farm and the\nKloster there was no communication. Ellen saw Matthew and Millie\nwalking together, and hid by the roadside or turned back. There drifted\nto Levis's ears a report that Matthew wished to marry, but that\nMillie's father was obdurate. Millie should not marry a penniless man,\nthe two must wait; when Matthew's prospects improved, then marriage\nmight be discussed. He had, it was reported, spoken his mind plainly.\n\n\"You should have stayed in the nest. What if you couldn't go to meeting\nfor a while? You are now near twenty-one and then you can do as you\nchoose. You should have consulted with some one.\"\n\nEllen had little idea of what college would be like, and still less\nof what life would be like, but she knew that they must be glorious\nand she longed intensely for both experiences. The second summer\nof preparation passed slowly. She was sure that much was happening\nelsewhere and she knew that little was happening to her.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon she went to sit on her favorite stump in the\nwoodland. Before starting she looked at herself in the mirror, at her\ncurls and rosy cheeks, made redder by a reflection from her scarlet\ntie. She held up her hands and saw with satisfaction that they were\nwhiter than any other hands she knew.\n\nHer inspection had the result which usually follows the self-inspection\nof seventeen--she wished that there was some one at hand to admire.\nPerhaps in the woods she would meet a stranger! There she could at\nleast dream of meeting one.\n\nShe had been established on the stump for an hour, now reading, now\nsitting idly, her chin in her hands, when, lifting her head, she\nobserved that the farmhouse was about to receive an unusual visitation.\nSince the house stood near the main road, she saw daily the cars of\ntourists who were starting across the country, or who journeyed to\nGettysburg or Pittsburgh. Once, sitting on the fence, she had talked to\nseveral elegant ladies who walked about while a tire was being repaired.\n\nNow a car, more beautiful than any she had ever seen, was turning up\nthe lane and approaching the farmhouse. Its passengers had come, no\ndoubt, to ask for some small favor, and she, alas, was not there to\nwait upon them! A month ago she would have run, now she descended in as\nrapid a walk as dignity would permit.\n\nTo her astonishment she found when she reached the porch that the\noccupants of the car, except the driver, had gone into the house.\nCurious as she was, she was seized with sudden shyness and wished\nherself back under the trees. But in plain view as she was from the\noffice windows there was nothing to do but to proceed.\n\nHer father appeared at the office door, his face flushed and smiling.\nStephen Lanfair, halting for a moment at his gate, had seen his name on\nthe letter box and had come in with his wife. He had passed unknowing,\nhe said, many times. Levis's heart throbbed so that he had to draw deep\nbreaths of air. Stephen was the old Stephen; his renewal of their\nfriendship seemed to make possible all he had dreamed. Mrs. Lanfair's\npresence suggested the solution of another problem which had troubled\nhim. Ellen needed associations and opportunities which he did not know\nhow to give her; Mrs. Lanfair might help him to provide them.\n\n\"Oh, Ellen, come here,\" he said, not without pride. \"I was just going\nto find you!\"\n\nEllen felt his arm across her shoulders. It was silly to be afraid of\nmeeting strangers. She lifted her head and went in smiling.\n\n\"This is my daughter.\"\n\nShe felt her hand taken in a long, firm grasp, and received a general\nimpression of height and grayness and alertness and very bright eyes.\nShe looked up into them and smiled, feeling the blood rush to her\ncheeks. She was sensitive and she had as yet received few impressions\nwhich were not those of childhood. This stranger, who was younger than\nher father and much older than herself, was the first person like her\nfather whom she had ever met.\n\n\"Your daughter!\" said a low voice.\n\nThen she heard another voice, and courage vanished and embarrassment\nreturned. It was that of a woman, seated in her father's chair, and\nlooking about with appraising eyes. She was small, and the old chair in\nwhich she sat seemed much too large for her. Ellen saw in a flash the\nhandsome and slightly bizarre dress, through the yoke and sleeves of\nwhich her flesh showed faintly pink, the strange and pretty face with\nbrows which almost met. It was not in the least a happy face, but Ellen\nwas not critical. Hilda was not interested in this plain _m\u00e9nage_ or in\nStephen's old acquaintance, recalled thus suddenly to his mind. But it\npleased her for the moment to be friendly.\n\n\"Come and shake hands with me,\" said she, and Ellen obeyed, feeling\nyoung and awkward and ill at ease.\n\n\"Do you go to school?\"\n\n\"I go to school to my father.\"\n\n\"Have you brothers or sisters?\"\n\n\"I have--\"\n\n\"One brother who is at his grandfather's,\" Levis answered for her.\n\"Lanfair, it is doubtless difficult for an observer to realize that you\nand I were in school together.\"\n\n\"In school together!\" Hilda looked from one to the other. \"Impossible!\"\n\nStephen halted suddenly. He had been moving about restlessly, now\npicking up one of Ellen's books, now reading the titles on Levis's\nshelves. He was at once glad and ashamed to have found Levis. But he\nshould have come alone, he should not have brought Hilda. He stood\nclose to Levis, his tightly closed hand thrust into the pocket of his\ncoat.\n\n\"Levis was an instructor and a Senior at once, and I was a Sophomore,\"\nhe explained. \"He left school and married and I continued to study. I\ndidn't begin to practice till he was well settled in life.\" He turned\nhis head and looked at Levis, and from eye to eye a message flashed. In\nStephen's there was regret and a childlike desire to be restored to the\ngood graces of an older person.\n\nLevis returned the glance steadily and with the same expression with\nwhich he looked at Ellen, as though Stephen needed, as Ellen needed,\nlove and care. She saw the exchange and curiosity and admiration\nquickened. She glanced at Hilda who was taking in from under\nhalf-lowered eyelids the old sofa, the little table, and the doctor's\nmedicine cupboards. Her stare made Ellen determine to examine carefully\nall these articles of furniture. Had the never-failing broom of Mrs.\nSassaman left lint, or had her own dust-cloth touched them too lightly?\n\nA restless step brought Stephen to her little table.\n\n\"Are these your books?\"\n\nEllen explained her course of study. His bright eyes were kind; she\nlooked frankly into them and smiled while she talked.\n\n\"I'm going to college in the fall. I can hardly wait.\"\n\nLevis, after a second's reflection about the present temper of Mrs.\nSassaman, spoke to Hilda.\n\n\"Won't you stay and have supper with us? Now that we have you here,\nwe'd like to keep you.\"\n\nHilda uttered effusive regrets and Levis looked at her curiously.\nHer expression had changed; it was no longer that of slightly bored\ncuriosity, but of anger, sharp and unpleasant. Her eyes darted to her\nhusband, then back to Levis, and then back again to the little table\nwhere Stephen and Ellen stood together.\n\n\"Oh, thank you. It's really very good of you, but it's impossible,\nreally. We have guests ourselves this evening. We should be going now.\nWe sail for Europe on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"Medical convention at Vienna?\" asked Levis, his keen, curious eye\nfixed upon her.\n\n\"Yes; that is, my husband is going there. I'm going to Paris for\nclothes. I don't like conventions. Nor medicine,\" said Hilda as she\nrose. She laid one hand in the other and kneaded them together in a\nstrange gesture.\n\n\"It's time to go!\" said she.\n\nHearing the sharpened voice, Ellen turned swiftly. How fairylike this\nstranger was, now that she was standing! She determined in a flash to\nlive on bread and water, to take some sort of medicine, to do anything\nto resemble her. She saw the small, arched foot, set in absurd,\nhigh-heeled shoes--how did she manage to stand, and how to walk? But\nshe did both gracefully. Ellen had heard the invitation; she hastened\nto second it.\n\n\"I do wish you'd stay!\"\n\nStephen looked down at her. There was a quality in Ellen which was hard\nto describe unless one said that she gave herself with every smile. He\nhad dismissed the thought of children as he had dismissed his father's\ncreed, but from his deeper consciousness an instinctive longing rose.\n\"I wish I had her or one like her!\" said he to himself with sudden\nstartled hunger.\n\n\"Won't you stay?\" said Ellen to him.\n\nThen Ellen was conscious that something unpleasant had been said or\ndone. She could not tell what it was, but she felt that she had given\noffense. Hilda went out quickly into the hall and stood waiting. She\ndid not speak to Levis or to Ellen; she only said once more, \"I said\nthat it's time to go!\"\n\n\"You're not really going this minute!\" protested Levis, his sharp\ndisappointment quickening his throbbing heart.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Stephen. His voice was louder than it had been and even a\nlittle more pleasant. \"We really must be off.\" He held out his hand. \"I\nhaven't forgotten anything, not anything!\"\n\nHilda followed across the grass to the car and stepped in. From the\ncar Stephen waved his hand and Levis and Ellen waved theirs. Hilda did\nnot look back. The car started noiselessly; they sat like king and\nqueen in a state chariot, a silent retainer conducting them.\n\n\"I think she behaved in a very queer way,\" said Ellen.\n\n\"I agree with you,\" said Levis. He went into his office and stood\nlooking at the books in his case, and Ellen followed closely.\n\n\"Who are they?\"\n\n\"He was a friend in college. I haven't seen him for years.\" Frowning,\nLevis took down one of a set of volumes and went to his desk. \"He was a\nnice boy.\"\n\n\"Was he married when you knew him?\"\n\n\"No; I remember hearing that he had married a rich wife.\"\n\n\"She must be very rich. Did you know they were coming?\"\n\n\"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"Where do they live?\"\n\nLevis had opened his book at the letter \"D,\" and did not answer. The\nuneasy sensation in his heart had sharpened once or twice in the last\nhour to an acute though fleeting pain, gone as soon as it was felt. He\nhad seen Stephen, but the visit seemed to make impossible all that he\nhad hoped for.\n\nFor a moment, in curiosity about Hilda's behavior, he forgot his own\nproblems. He had found the article which he wished to consult under\nthe letter \"D,\" but he could not fix his mind on what he read. It was\nin reality something within his own breast which disturbed him, but it\nseemed to him that it was Ellen hanging over his shoulder and cutting\noff the air which he needed.\n\n\"I wish you'd run away, Ellen, for a little while. I'll talk to you\nlater about these people.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Ellen cheerfully, remembering her own unwillingness\nto be interrupted. She read over his shoulder--\"'Dementia'--Father, who\nhas that?\"\n\n\"No one that I know of, Missy.\"\n\n\"I expect you think I have it. Well, read away, I won't bother.\"\n\nLevis smiled at the tone of maternal indulgence, then he returned to\nhis book. Again he put his hand over his heart uneasily. The sensation\nwas now of weak fingers moving gently. He coughed, then he looked at\nEllen who had sat down at her table. What a strange woman Lanfair's\nwife was! What had annoyed her? Most wives who brought fortunes\nproved to be impeditive in some fashion--there was unquestionably an\nimpediment here! He turned a page and read for a moment. There was a\nmental disorder difficult to distinguish in early stages from sheer\ndevilishness of disposition; and patients had peculiar traits and\nnervous ways like this woman. Poor Lanfair! Perhaps he would return and\nconfide in his old friend. He had looked as though he needed a refuge.\n\nPresently Ellen returned to her place on the stump and there sat for\nhalf an hour.\n\n\"I think she was very disagreeable,\" she said, beginning to speculate\nabout married life. She, Ellen, would never make her husband\nuncomfortable!\n\n\"If I get one!\" said Ellen. \"And he was splendid!\"\n\nThey must live in a very grand house--perhaps she and her father might\nsome day visit them. She realized that she didn't even know their\nname--how strange the whole incident was!\n\nAt the end of half an hour curiosity sent her back to the house. Her\nfather had now had time to read all he wanted, she was sure. She\nremembered that to-morrow a dressmaker was coming to get her ready for\nschool and she sang for joy as she walked.\n\nBut in the half-hour that she spent in the woodland, life had taken a\nlong stride. Levis sat with his treatise open at \"Dementia,\" his eyes\nstill bent upon the page. He had not moved since she went away.\n\n\"Father!\" she cried gayly.\n\nHe answered without lifting his head.\n\n\"I've been taken suddenly with a bad stitch in my side, Ellen, and\nI don't wish to move until I've had medicine. You'll find it in the\nright-hand cupboard in a blue bottle. Bring me a pellet.\"\n\nEllen obeyed quickly, growing pale. Levis broke the pellet in his hand\nand held it close to his nostril, then he straightened his shoulders.\nIt was exactly like a tiger that the thing leaped upon one!\n\n\"I'm going over to the couch. Don't be frightened if I go slowly. Lend\nme your shoulder.\"\n\nEllen made her shoulder like iron.\n\n\"Telephone Dr. Wescoe.\"\n\nEllen flew. It seemed when she returned that her father's face was less\nterribly gray and drawn.\n\n\"What shall I do now?\"\n\nLevis managed a wry smile.\n\n\"You'll make a capital doctor. Bring paper from your desk and sit here,\nbeside me. You must be brave and steady.\"\n\nEllen obeyed swiftly.\n\n\"I've known for some time that my heart was a bit out of order. I'm\nlikely to have another attack, but probably not before the doctor gets\nhere. I want you to write something down.\"\n\nEllen looked steadily at Levis. If she held his eyes with hers, they\ncould not become blank, unseeing, as they were a moment ago! There\nwas in his face now a dreadful eagerness. In spite of the last hour\nhe turned in desperate need to the memory of Stephen's old affection.\nStephen had forgotten for a while, but he meant to remember and he\nwould help him now. He felt the same fearful despair which he had felt\nas a boy when he needed food and did not know where to get it. He had\nheard the Creator called upon at too many death-beds to ignore entirely\nthat refuge, but he was not one to turn even in such a moment to a help\nwhich he had denied. The \"sum and term\" of education had not been his,\nthe loss by death of one whom he had deeply loved. If his wife had died\nin their earliest married life, or if Ellen had died, his spiritual\nhistory might have been different.\n\nBut what was it he had meant to do? Ah, yes! Ellen was waiting, pencil\nin hand.\n\n\"I give to my daughter Ellen all my property and make my friend--\"\n\n\"'Make my friend,'\" repeated Ellen after a pause.\n\n\"Can you remember his name, Ellen?\"\n\n\"I don't think I heard it!\"\n\n\"It'll come to me! Listen! You and Matthew inherit this farm from your\nmother. What I have besides you must take. Don't let them shame you out\nof it! Remember it's my will. If you wish, you can live economically\nand share with Matthew after you've had your education. I feel better,\ndarling.\" He took suddenly a long, relieving breath. After all he was\nnot to be cut off now from life, from Ellen. He looked deeply into her\nfrightened eyes. It was now that she would need him! He had, he felt\nsuddenly with amazement, not yet really lived; he could not _die_!\nTears rolled down upon his cheeks. \"I'll be able to eat supper with\nyou, I'm sure. We needn't worry to complete the paper. The doctor will\nwrite it for me. Don't look so horrified. I think--\"\n\nHis smile stiffened suddenly and drops of perspiration appeared upon\nhis forehead. Was everything then over? He put out his hands and took\nEllen's face between them.\n\n\"Don't let them keep you here! Remember!\"\n\n\"I'll remember,\" promised Ellen.\n\nHer head dropped to his breast, pressed by his hands close to his\nheart. She could see nothing, but she could hear a strange beating\nsound like a wooden hammer upon flesh. Her body was cramped; it seemed\nto her that she could not breathe; then her father's embrace relaxed\nand she rose quickly.\n\nHer wild glance sought the window. Mrs. Sassaman drove slowly up the\nlane, Dr. Wescoe's car turned in from the highway, but their coming now\nmade no difference.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nCHANGE\n\n\nWithin a few minutes the farmhouse took on the air of almost hysterical\nactivity which follows upon a sudden death. Mrs. Sassaman, after\nsinking upon a chair and giving a few tearful gasps, went to her room\nto change her dress, so that she might set to work. The tenant farmer\ndrove away to carry the startling news to Grandfather and Matthew,\nand his wife panted up the hill and sat waiting in the kitchen until\nMrs. Sassaman should be ready to give her the detailed information for\nwhich her soul longed. But Mrs. Sassaman had too exalted a sense of\nher own importance to gossip. There were, moreover, many things to be\ndone at once, the house to be put in perfect order, funeral meats to be\nbaked, the bees to be told of their master's death, and all the jars of\npreserves in the cellar to be turned.\n\nMatthew returned with Calvin bringing word that Grandfather would\nfollow with Amos. Having had no active exercise, Matthew had grown\nstout and looked nearer thirty than twenty. He kissed Ellen and they\nsat silently until Grandfather arrived.\n\n\"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the\nLord.\" It was Grandfather's accustomed salutation on entering a house\nof mourning. He spoke with a long sigh which expressed his apprehension\nabout the fate of his son-in-law.\n\nIn spite of his misgivings he planned to bury Levis's body in the\nlittle cemetery beside his wife. Wednesday afternoon would be a\nsuitable time and he would preach the sermon himself. For a half-hour\nthe three men and Ellen sat together in the parlor. Frequently Matthew\nglanced at Ellen, then away. God had strangely given him his heart's\ndesire, but he could not help pitying Ellen. He felt very solemn and\nimportant.\n\n\"I don't think that bright tie looks well under the circumstances,\nEllen,\" he said gently.\n\nEllen rose and went upstairs. As she reached the upper step she heard\nthe door of her father's office open and the undertaker come into the\nhall. At once the three black figures crossed to the office. She heard\nwhispers and the door was closed.\n\nShe did not know whether an hour had passed or only a few minutes when\nshe heard her name called solemnly. Grandfather stood by the parlor\ntable, a tablet in his hand. His black eyes gleamed, his old hand\nshook. Matthew's eyes were bent upon the floor and Amos looked at Ellen\nin a frightened way.\n\nGrandfather stepped between Ellen and the door and closed it. It seemed\nto her that she was shut into prison with three jailers.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" she asked.\n\n\"That is what we have to ask you, Ellen,\" said Grandfather. \"What is\nthis paper?\"\n\nEllen recognized the writing which she had begun at her father's\ncommand.\n\n\"That is mine, Grandfather. Please give it to me.\"\n\nGrandfather held out the paper so that she might read, but he did not\nrelinquish it.\n\n\"Did you write those words?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Who is this friend?\"\n\n\"He is a friend of Father's who was here this afternoon.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Where does he live?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Does he know anything of this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You didn't write this after your father died, Ellen?\"\n\nThe words at first merely paralyzed. When their import was clear, she\ncould say nothing. Her silence was to Grandfather condemning--alas, for\nthe human soul which is unsupported by Christian principles!\n\n\"Why, no!\" she cried at last. \"Of course not! He started to dictate it\nto me, but before he had finished he felt better and thought it might\nbe postponed.\"\n\n\"You knew you were writing words which would take your brother's\nproperty away?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Ellen. \"It was my father's property.\"\n\nShe saw a glance pass from Matthew to Grandfather. Both sincerely\nbelieved that God had prevented Levis from doing a deed of injustice.\n\n\"It wasn't sisterly to write such words!\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to be unsisterly,\" protested Ellen. \"Father wanted me to\nbe educated. He said that Matthew could get along well.\"\n\nGrandfather tore the upper sheet from the tablet and put it into his\npocket.\n\n\"We should have very little respect in the community if such a thing\nwere known.\"\n\nNow Amos found his tongue. He leaned forward, his cheeks crimson.\n\n\"Ellen could not be dishonest,\" he said.\n\nGrandfather looked at him in amazement.\n\n\"The women make serious mistakes, and Ellen has made one. They act\nbefore they think. Now I will take the first watch to-night.\"\n\nEllen crept slowly up the back stairway and closed her door. Tears came\nin a flood, hot, blinding, choking, drowning all thought, preventing\nrealization of the seriousness of her bereavement. After a long time\nshe fell asleep.\n\nIn the two days preceding the funeral she made plans. Only thus could\nshe keep her composure and continue to feel a connection with her\nfather. It was now June. She would stay until September, then she would\ngo to college, as he had intended. Matthew would doubtless come here\nto live and would bring, alas! Millie with him. But she must reconcile\nherself; since she was going to have her way, Matthew should have his.\n\nShe lived through the funeral service with few tears. The house was\nthronged, and the line of carriages and automobiles extended far down\nthe road. Levis had lived differently from his neighbors and there was\nmuch curiosity about his house. He had used it all, treating the parlor\nas though it were no more precious than the kitchen, and drawing no\nshades to keep carpets from fading. There were a few strangers present,\nmembers of the county medical society to whom Levis's connections by\nmarriage were vaguely interesting.\n\nGrandfather preached upon the certainty of death and the necessity\nfor preparation, and made no allusion to Levis's heresies. When they\nreturned to the house Ellen expected that he and Amos and Matthew would\nreturn to the Kloster. But instead all went into the office.\n\n\"Ellen!\" called Grandfather.\n\nEllen went unwillingly and sat down on a chair near the door. She\ndreaded argument, it could only cause ill-feeling. Her plans were made.\n\n\"Ellen, death brings changes with it. It will bring change to you.\"\nThere was a gloating affection in Grandfather's voice. He believed that\nGod was bringing Ellen back to him.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen quickly, determined not to cry.\n\n\"When the father goes, we must consider the property. Now your mother\nhad this farm, inherited from her aunt for whom she was named, and she\nleft it to your father to go after his death to you and Matthew, share\nand share alike.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen.\n\n\"It is only natural that Matthew should want to move on his property\nnow.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen. \"Of course.\"\n\n\"It is Matthew's intention to be married.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen faintly.\n\n\"He has chosen a modest and pious young woman of his own faith who will\ndoubtless be a blessing to him. He wishes to be married soon.\"\n\n\"I'm glad if Matthew is happy.\" Ellen's eyes sought Matthew's timidly.\n\n\"Then he will come here.\"\n\n\"When will that be?\"\n\n\"I had thought not till spring,\" said Matthew for himself. \"But now it\nwill be sooner, perhaps in a few weeks.\" That portion of his cheeks\nwhich remained uncovered glowed brightly. He had waited long to possess\nMillie and the delay was disturbing his regular and calm mental\nprocesses.\n\n\"Not so soon as that!\" cried Ellen, in amazement.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Matthew firmly. \"Father is gone and things are changed and\nthe sooner we get used to the new ways the better.\"\n\n\"But Calvin will be here till April!\"\n\n\"I shall continue to employ him. I have talked with him already.\"\n\nEllen's face paled.\n\n\"I thought I'd stay here with Mrs. Sassaman till September. Then we\ncould have the house ready for you before I go.\"\n\nMatthew changed his position, settling himself more firmly in his\nchair. Ellen would have to do as he said; God was blessing her by\ngiving her no choice.\n\n\"Now, Ellen, let us talk this out. The farm belongs to you and\nme--isn't it sensible that we stay here and work it? Millie isn't such\na strong person as some and she may be from time to time laid up, and\nthen there would have to be hired help. Isn't it foolish to hire a\nwoman when you are well and strong?\"\n\n\"Oh, but, Matthew, I'm going to college! It's all settled! You know\nthat I'm to go to college!\"\n\nSilence was Matthew's answer. It was a pity that Ellen was still\nstubborn. Grandfather took off his spectacles.\n\n\"Ellen,\" he began patiently, \"you don't understand business matters.\nThe farm is much run down and Matthew means to build it up. If he gives\nit the attention it should have, and makes new fences, and gets the\nimplements and lime and everything needed, there won't be any extra\nincome for five years anyhow.\"\n\n\"Then I shall be too old to go to college!\"\n\n\"You know already far more than is necessary.\"\n\n\"But if I'm not willing to stay here, if I think it's wrong, if I\n_refuse_?\" Ellen's voice was still steady.\n\n\"I don't wish to be hard on you, Ellen. My heart yearns over you. But\nI'm your natural guardian and I have control over your property. I\nthink that Matthew's plan is correct, and that it should be carried\nout. You can't expect him in these first years to run a farm and raise\na family and pay an income besides!\"\n\n\"But there was Father's will that he wished me to write,\" said Ellen,\nstill steadily. \"His last thought was that I should be educated.\"\n\n\"It is this way, Ellen. Your father left no real will. He had about\nfive thousand dollars saved. Now half of five thousand is two thousand\nfive hundred, and the income on that is only a little over a hundred\ndollars a year. That would not take you far.\"\n\n\"But he thought it was enough!\"\n\n\"He meant to let you spend the principal, Ellen. That cannot be now.\"\n\nEllen knitted her brows.\n\n\"I'll sell Matthew my part of the farm.\"\n\nGrandfather shook his head.\n\n\"We couldn't let you do that. The farm will be worth much more in five\nyears than now. If we did such a thing our neighbors would reproach us\nbecause we hadn't dealt fairly with you.\"\n\n\"Let me have my two thousand five hundred dollars,\" begged Ellen. Here\nwas light in darkness! \"That is all I need; that will see me through.\"\n\nGrandfather shook his head.\n\n\"I can't consent to that, either, Ellen. That must be held against a\nrainy day and meanwhile its income must go into the farm. My child, try\nto accept your lot! You have a home, comfort, everything you need, and\nif you stand by Matthew you will have more than you need.\"\n\n\"I think families should be alone!\" Ellen cried desperately. \"If I were\nMillie I wouldn't want any one to help run my house.\"\n\n\"You don't know Millie,\" said Matthew earnestly. \"She has no proud\nideas and she's very willing to have you help her. I have laid the\nmatter before her.\"\n\nGrandfather went to speak to Calvin and Amos followed him. Matthew\nwould have followed also, but Ellen called him back. She stood by her\nfather's desk, facing his unwilling gaze.\n\n\"Is it possible, Matthew, that you won't help me go to school? Couldn't\nyou lend me money? You have the farm as security.\"\n\n\"You're not of age. You'd have to have Grandfather's consent, and that\nhe wouldn't give. Besides, to be frank with you, I've had experience\nwith advanced schooling and I couldn't help you to it under any\ncircumstances. It begets pride of intellect, it leads young people away\nfrom God, it is a curse.\"\n\nSuddenly Ellen looked at her brother with a detached curiosity, as her\nfather had looked at him. When he had gone she went up to her room. Its\nloneliness was intolerable, and still more difficult to bear was the\nsound of the evensong of birds, the sight of the young moon rising\nover the woodland, and the echo of a laugh from the road. She went\ndown to the kitchen. Mrs. Sassaman was on the porch, her handkerchief\npressed to her eyes, swaying back and forth in her rocking-chair: Ellen\ndetermined to go and sit on the step and lay her head against her knee.\n\nInstead she turned and went back to her room and sat down at the\nwindow. She would not give way to mourning with Mrs. Sassaman, kind\nthough she was. This was no time to mourn; she must think, must find\nsome avenue of escape. Wisdom and peace of mind came from learning--her\nfather had had both--learning she must have to lift her from despair.\n\nSuddenly her heart leaped. The mysterious visitor to whom her father\nmeant to entrust her--who and where was he? He had said that he lived\nnot far away. Lancaster, Harrisburg, Reading, York were not far\naway--even Philadelphia was not much more than fifty miles. But she did\nnot know his name, she had not observed which way his car had turned\nat the foot of the lane. And he was sailing at once for Europe! But he\nmight read of her father's death in the newspaper before he sailed or\nlater in one of the medical journals which published obituaries. Here\nwas a gleam of hope! Her immaturity resented grief, repudiated it,\nwould not harbor it. She paced up and down the room, now making wild\nplans, now crying. She had not yet realized what had happened and she\nstill had high hopes of life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nA QUICKENING TERROR\n\n\nMrs. Fetzer, the housekeeper, received Hilda's dinner guests on the\nevening of the visit to Levis. It was not a convenient season for\nguests, it being Sunday and the larger part of the staff of servants\nhaving been dismissed yesterday, but Hilda had extended her invitation\nwith her usual indifference to the comfort of others. Her trunks were\nnot yet packed nor had she indicated what articles were to go into\nthem. Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane, who had expected to receive that\nafternoon directions about a rearrangement of Stephen's records and the\npreparation of data for a series of articles, had come at five o'clock\nand waited until seven.\n\nFetzer was annoyed, but not in the least dismayed, having been prepared\nfor this event by many similar experiences. She put on her best black\nsilk dress and welcomed the two women and two men who, undisturbed,\nsettled themselves in the library for a game of cards; then she changed\nto less elegant attire, since in the absence of the waitress she would\nserve their dinner. Neither the black patch over her eye, nor the\nquick motions by which she compelled one eye to serve as two, made her\nrepulsive or grotesque.\n\nWaiting upon the table she saw that something more serious had occurred\nthan the puncturing of a tire which had delayed the Lanfairs after\nleaving Levis's house. Hilda hailed her friends carelessly and asked\nthat dinner be served at once. She ate little, watched impatiently\nFetzer's deliberate ways, and announced as she rose from the table that\nher packing was still to be done. The guests departed amiably with loud\ngood wishes for the journey.\n\nFetzer, going into the hall to tell Stephen that Miss Knowlton and\nMiss MacVane waited, approached the library door slowly. Observing him\nfurtively during dinner, she had been shocked by his expression; he\nlooked to her like a beaten child who appealed from earth to heaven,\nand she sent up several fervent petitions in his behalf. She longed\ndesperately to help him, but she was wholly powerless.\n\nTo Fetzer Hilda was a wicked woman; no other explanation for her\nmistress's behavior had ever occurred to her. Even Stephen's patience\nsuggested no different explanation.\n\nShe did not advance far into the hall. Hilda had restrained herself\nin the presence of Fickes, the chauffeur, and with greater difficulty\nbefore her guests, and the postponement of the expression of her wrath\nhad not in the least softened her heart. It had, on the contrary,\nexaggerated the grievance and sharpened the tongue which was to utter\nher wrongs.\n\n\"But she was a child!\" Fetzer heard Stephen protest. His voice was like\nhis eyes, childlike in its earnestness. It was bitter, indeed, that\nthis old friendship which had been without exception the happiest in\nhis life was now finally spoiled. What would Levis think of him? He\nregretted with sickening self-reproach his call. He might have known\nbetter; now he could never see him again, he hoped that it might never\nbe necessary to see him--a hope, indeed, which was already granted.\n\nHilda accepted no apology.\n\n\"Child!\" she repeated. \"That was a pose to attract. How ridiculous to\nshow you her books! She didn't look at you like a child, nor you at\nher.\"\n\nFor a moment silence prevailed. Fetzer meditated advancing. But Hilda\nhad not finished; she found Stephen's silence far more irritating than\nhis speech. She turned fiercely upon him with a remark which, while it\nwas not new, was uttered with truly original ferocity.\n\n\"You'd like me to be dead; then you could live as you pleased on my\nmoney!\"\n\nFetzer withdrew. She went through a passageway to the office where\nagain Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane waited.\n\n\"I guess Doctor'll be out soon.\"\n\nNeither of the women answered--sometimes she believed that they\nobserved nothing, sometimes she believed that they knew everything.\n\nAfter loitering for about ten minutes in the passage she again\napproached the library. Now Stephen was alone, sitting with his back to\nthe door.\n\n\"Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane are here, Doctor.\" She spoke as though\nthey had arrived at this moment.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Stephen, without turning. Fetzer saw that though his\nhead was bent there was no book on his knee. For the thousandth time\nshe breathed a silent petition in his behalf. The ways of the Creator\nwere, indeed, past all finding out.\n\nStephen sat for a long time looking down at his clasped hands. He\nbelieved that his life was at times in danger, but he did not believe\nthat a committee of inquiry could find proof of the madness whose\noutbursts were reserved for him alone. It was a pleasant prospect for a\nEuropean journey!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nMATTHEW COMES HOME\n\n\nTo Millie K\u00f6nig the last few weeks of single life were a period of\nintense satisfaction. Her waiting for Matthew and matrimony had seemed\nlong, but now, at last happiness and prosperity were at hand. It was\nvery unlikely that any of her seven sisters would marry so well.\n\nFor the home which she was leaving she had no deep affection. She\nbelieved herself to be the only quiet soul in a noisy brood, and the\nincessant chattering and laughing which accompanied all the daily\ntasks, the crowded kitchen, the shared bedrooms, the full knowledge of\none another's affairs, offended her. She disliked to be teased, and the\nchief form of wit in the K\u00f6nig household was teasing. She had loved to\ngo to meeting because it was quiet and she could sit and think about\nher own affairs, and she liked Matthew because he was quiet.\n\nShe was ambitious and her future offered as large a field for\nadvancement as she could conceive. The Levis farm was in poor\ncondition, but the land was fertile and the buildings were solid. On\nthe other side of the wood-crowned ridge ran a vein of limestone which\ncould be made a source of profit--Matthew had told her long ago of his\ndesire to develop it, together with many other secret wishes.\n\n\"Five years of careful economy,\" said Matthew now. \"Then we shall not\nneed to travel with horses\"--this with actual as well as figurative\nmeaning.\n\nOn the evening of his father's funeral he laid before Millie his\ncompleted plans. He came to the door of the farmhouse and asked her to\nwalk with him to the gate.\n\n\"It's all over, Millie.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Millie with a becoming sigh. \"I was there this afternoon.\nI thought your Gran'pop laid things out right to those of us that are\nleft.\"\n\nMatthew had no desire to discuss his grandfather's sermon which had\ndecently omitted many things that might have been said. He had no\nsense of triumph; he accepted God's will when it profited him as he\naccepted it when it sent him to work in the Ephrata stocking factory.\nHis mind was upon Millie; in the twilight he put his arm round her and\ndrew her close to him. Her cheek was like a rose petal and her whole\nbody breathed freshness and health.\n\n\"How soon could you get married, Millie?\"\n\nIt was not in Millie's nature to be coy.\n\n\"I'm ready now,\" she answered promptly. \"I have all my things this long\ntime, and it's not like going into a house where there is nothing.\"\n\n\"In a month, then?\"\n\nMillie saw no reason for even a week's delay. An intense impatience\nfilled her soul.\n\n\"Yes. How is Ellen?\"\n\nMatthew shook his head. A heavenly providence had delivered Ellen into\nimproving hands.\n\n\"She can't accept this. It's so with people who are not religious.\"\n\nMillie determined to show herself kind.\n\n\"She needn't think that she will have it too hard. Everything can be\npretty much like always. I think we should even put away the bedding\nand things like that for her. I shouldn't like her to say that I used\nwhat should be for her _Aussteir_.\"\n\nMatthew tightened his arm round this thoughtful creature. He had come\na long, hard way to his happiness, but it promised to be worth the\njourney.\n\nThe next day Millie counted her sheets and blankets and table-cloths\nand her many pieced quilts, made in long winter afternoons to an\naccompaniment of steady sisterly chatter. No bride of the neighborhood\nhad ever had so fine an assortment.\n\nMatthew lived at the farmhouse. He slept in his old room and ate his\nmeals with a quiet Ellen and a tearful and monosyllabic Mrs. Sassaman.\nAt other times he was at his work. His eyes shone with eagerness, his\nbrow was furrowed with pleasant thinking. He could have embraced the\ntrees and thrown himself upon the soil which he loved.\n\nAlready, though the farm was run down and needed all that he could put\ninto it, he looked with longing eyes upon a small adjoining property,\nacross which he could reach the highroad directly from the quarry he\nmeant to open. He looked down upon it from the woodland one August\nafternoon. The undertaking would be inexpensive and the profit would be\nout of all proportion to the small outlay. If he only had enough money\nto begin! Perhaps Grandfather would lend it to him. He did not like to\ngo to Millie's father, would not, indeed, though success was certain.\nThat was no way for a self-respecting son-in-law to begin married life!\n\nThen, as though his question had been borne aloft by the wind, the\nwind returned an answer. He looked at the nearest tree, a fine oak\nfrom which the soft whisper came; he looked at the next tree which was\nequally fine. In reality the plan for their own destruction was not\nbreathed by the trees, but originated in a suggestion of Millie's, made\nlong ago when possession of them seemed only a dream. The price of the\nadjoining fields was in his hand!\n\nEllen and Mrs. Sassaman cleaned the house and Ellen packed away her\nfather's belongings, realization of the finality of death being now\ncomplete. Once she asked a question.\n\n\"Shall we leave the office as it is, Matthew?\"\n\nMatthew blinked; he was calculating at that moment the price which the\ntrees would bring.\n\n\"I'll ask Millie what she wants,\" said he at last, bringing himself to\nconsider Ellen's question. \"And I'll ask Dr. Wescoe whether he would\nlike to buy the medicines and the books.\"\n\n\"Not the books!\" Ellen began to twist her hands together in the most\nexcited way.\n\n\"Very well!\" he answered impatiently. \"As you like.\"\n\nMrs. Sassaman also approached with a question.\n\n\"When, then, am I to go?\" Her large face was pale and her hands drooped\nfrom the wrist joints, like the front paws of a rabbit sitting upon its\nhaunches. She might have been asking for the date of her execution.\n\n\"I'm going to be married on Saturday at meeting,\" said Matthew.\n\n\"Well, I guess I'll go then Saturday morning.\"\n\n\"You're going to your sister?\" asked Matthew kindly, putting his hand\ninto his pocket. \"I'll pay you now--for the whole week, though it isn't\ndue till Monday.\"\n\nMrs. Sassaman did not hold out her hand and Matthew laid the money\nin her lap, the last full salary he would have to pay for domestic\nservice. Suddenly he was amazed. Mrs. Sassaman rose and the money\ndropped to the floor.\n\n\"You're doing wrong, Matthew,\" said she slowly. \"You were always such\na headstrong boy, but I never thought you would be such a cruel boy.\nReligion is right, so far, but not farther.\"\n\nMatthew said nothing, but went out the door and down the road to pay\na last visit to Millie. Mrs. Sassaman did not make him uncomfortable\neven for a moment--such is the sustaining power of a good conscience.\nHe supposed that she was alluding to Ellen, but what she said was\nunimportant.\n\nOn Saturday morning he told Ellen the hour of his wedding.\n\n\"It will be in the afternoon in the Saal. I suppose you will hardly\ncome.\"\n\n\"I can't, Matthew.\"\n\n\"You take things too hard, Ellen. We've got to live, no matter what\nhappens!\"\n\n\"But not rejoice!\" said Ellen tragically to herself. Then she said\naloud, \"You'll come here for supper before you go away?\"\n\n\"We'll go to her folks for supper. You are invited also, but I said I\ndidn't think you would go. We'll come here later.\"\n\n\"You're going away for a trip?\" asked Ellen, suddenly alarmed. \"I don't\nmean for a long trip, but for a little journey?\"\n\n\"Of course not. I don't approve of such celebrations; they're expensive\nand they accomplish nothing but the spending of money. We shall come\nhome.\"\n\n\"Home!\" repeated Ellen when he had gone. \"Oh, I wish they would not\ncome home!\"\n\nShe flung herself into the arms of a bonneted Mrs. Sassaman.\n\n\"They're coming here to-night!\"\n\nMrs. Sassaman wept also.\n\n\"Don't cry, Ellen! You're young yet. You don't have it as bad as I who\nhave lost two husbands. The thing for you is to marry and spite them.\nMarry some one who will stand up for you and tell Matthew the meaning.\nThat's the thing for you to do.\"\n\nShe climbed into the spring wagon beside Calvin and was gone.\n\nThe day had promised to be fine, but at nine o'clock a soft rain began\nto fall. At ten o'clock Matthew came downstairs dressed in his best\nclothes and drove away. The pleasant courtesies once natural were\nforgotten or ignored in their mutual embarrassment and he did not\nbid his sister good-bye. It was not altogether pleasant that one's\nwedding day should be rainy, but the fields needed rain and he was not\ndisturbed.\n\nThrough the long morning Ellen sat idle. She could not bear to be\nin the house, but sat on the porch, a lonely and mournful figure. A\nscore of vague plans came into her mind only to be rejected. Could\nMatthew be won over?--she did not think so. Could her grandfather be\npersuaded?--she doubted it. Could they be compelled by law to give\nher what was right?--she had no friends to advise her. The mysterious\nvisitor to whom her father had meant to entrust her--she thought of him\nwith despair.\n\nBy turns grief and resentment overwhelmed her, but finally apathy\nsucceeded both. The blow which she had received seemed to have injured\nher beyond recovery; plans were useless when all earthly hopes could be\nso quickly dissolved.\n\n\"I may die!\" said she and found in that a dreary consolation.\n\nAt dark Matthew brought Millie home and the three sat for a while\ntogether on the porch. Ellen had been afraid that she might cry, but\nthe event seemed too unreal to draw tears from a fountain so nearly\nexhausted. Millie rocked rapidly back and forth, for once as loquacious\nas her sisters. She stood a little in awe of Ellen's mind, but she\nbelieved that she was making a favorable impression upon her. She was\nnervous and excited and her short sentences were not always completed.\n\n\"I haven't yet been in your house except last month when your father--\"\nMillie feared that she had made a mistake.\n\n\"Would you like to go through it now?\" asked Ellen, unmoved by Millie's\nallusion.\n\n\"To-morrow will do for sight-seeing,\" said Matthew with heavy\nfacetiousness unlike him.\n\n\"I guess it will!\" laughed Millie. \"It seems as though I'm to be here a\nlong time, from what the preacher said!\"\n\nWhen the clock struck nine, Matthew rose. Calvin had attended to the\nstock, Matthew had given himself a whole holiday, the only holiday he\nwas to give himself deliberately in all his life. Millie also rose\nabruptly.\n\n\"Are you going to bed, Ellen?\" asked Matthew.\n\n\"Not yet.\"\n\n\"You'll lock the doors?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" answered Ellen.\n\nTen o'clock struck and eleven and Ellen sat still. Then she went in and\nadvanced slowly toward the stairway. With her foot on the lowest step,\nshe heard Millie laugh. Grossly offended, she turned and went into her\nfather's office and closed the door. Millie had asked for no changes,\nand here was the old sofa with its worn cushions, a desk, a chair, and\na little table, upon it a few books, a pad of paper, two lead-pencils,\nand some withered flowers in a glass. Ellen lay down upon the sofa as\nthough it were her bier.\n\nIt was part of Millie's religion to have kindly feelings toward all\nmankind. Finding breakfast on the table in the morning, she praised\nEllen and thanked her and assured her that she would be lazy no more.\n\n\"We can plan everything so that neither will have more to do than the\nother.\"\n\nIt was now Ellen who was nervous.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said she in a tone which seemed to Millie to express a\nbecoming gratitude.\n\nMillie was sincerely commiserative; she pitied every one in the world\nwho was not Millie Levis--except Matthew to whom she belonged.\n\n\"I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I am for you, Ellen,\" said\nshe, looking pleasantly into Ellen's heavy eyes. \"But we must remember\nthat God doeth all things well.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nAMOS VENTURES INTO THE WORLD\n\n\nIn the autumn evenings Grandfather sat beside his stove in meditation.\nIt was against his principles to permit himself too high a degree of\nphysical comfort, but as the current of his blood ran less swiftly he\ndrew unconsciously closer to the stove. As he had often sat here and\nordered his life, so he was ordering now his departure from life. He\ndreamed sometimes of a burial such as the fathers had had, at midnight\nunder the light of torches, with antiphonal singing and solemn tolling\nof bells, and with a procession of the Brotherhood of Zion and the\nSisterhood of Spiritual Virgins.\n\nAmos was at the pine table, now correcting the papers of the children\nin his school, now bent over his Latin manuscript. It seemed to him\nthat his mind became less active and that the devil tempted him to\ndream when he ought to be at work.\n\nTo Grandfather there had been in the universe two stable realities, the\nexistence of a wise and all-powerful Creator and the correctness of the\nSeventh-Day Baptist interpretation of the Creator's mind and works.\nNow in his old age he dwelt with increasing satisfaction upon a third\nreality, the divine appointment and fitness of Amos, on account of his\nfaith and piety, to interpret both Creator and theology. He thought, as\nthe weeks passed, less anxiously about Ellen, ascribing her placability\nto his own advice and to her better mind, rather than to the stern\nnecessities of her case. She would, he believed, now that the dangerous\ninfluence of her father was removed, \"come round.\"\n\nOne day he summoned a carpenter and went with him over the old\nbuildings, measuring and inspecting. Here a wall needed strengthening,\nhere a chimney rebuilding, here fresh plaster should replace the broken\nmortar of clay and grass. The sum required to put all in order was not\nlarge.\n\nSitting drowsily by the stove Grandfather peopled the quiet night with\nfigures. He saw Saron filled; he saw men going after prayer to work in\nthe fields and women in white filing in solemn procession to worship\nat midnight. They went joyfully, as he and Amos went sometimes to pray\nin the Saal. He heard above his little cottage heavenly songs issuing\nfrom the high matin room of Saron.\n\nBut the figures in his dreams were not those of departed saints. The\nface of the speaker in the pulpit who held an audience enthralled,\nnot alone by his eloquence, but by the power of truth, was not that\nof Father Friedsam, but of Amos; the cowled and robed figure which\nwas followed by adoring converts was that of Amos; the religious who\nknelt alone in the Saal at midnight praying for his people was Amos. It\nwas medi\u00e6val and strange, but it was real to the dreamer. It had all\nhappened once, less than two hundred years ago--it might, if it pleased\nGod, happen again.\n\nBut Amos, alas! had come to doubt his own strength, had come indeed to\nfear his own thoughts. As he bent over \"The Mystic Dove\" on this winter\nevening his face was drawn, the fingers with which he held his pen were\nicy. He was trying to translate a sentence which he believed praised\nthe holy mystery of the sacraments, but his mind was not upon his work,\nand, spoken to suddenly, he started as guiltily as though Grandfather\nhad looked into his heart and detected his disquiet.\n\n\"Our little girl is learning to submit herself,\" said Grandfather\ncontentedly. \"Matthew tells me so. That's the first lesson\nlearned--quiet. She is like the noble Sister Anastasia whose pride was\nsoftened. Have you seen Ellen at any time?\"\n\n\"Once,\" answered Amos without lifting his head. He spoke indifferently\nand bent more closely over his work, as though he had reached an\nimportant paragraph. It was the acting of a lie, for he thought of\nEllen in school and at home and especially in the long evenings when\nit was supposed that his sacred task occupied his mind. He had been\nthinking of her when Grandfather spoke; for her benefit he was making a\nstrange plan.\n\nLast Sunday afternoon he had gone for a walk. Even then he had not\nbeen quite honest with himself, for he had pretended that his object\nwas exercise, when deep in his heart he hugged a hope of seeing Ellen.\nAn intense natural shyness and a consciousness of guilt forbade him\nMatthew's door. It was unthinkable that he should \"go to see\" Ellen!\n\nMaking a long d\u00e9tour he had arrived at last in the woodland back of the\nLevis house and there waited for darkness to become complete, when he\nintended to go to the edge of the woods and look down upon the lighted\nwindows and perhaps see Ellen's shadow moving back and forth.\n\nThe November evening was still and he had taken only a few steps into\nthe woodland when he heard the sound of crying. Ellen herself was no\nmore tender-hearted and he at once moved forward rapidly, then stood\nstill, trying to decide upon the direction from which the sound came.\nHe could now hear nothing; perhaps his footsteps on the dry leaves had\nbetrayed his approach. Then he heard the sound again nearer at hand. It\nwas not the whimper of a trapped animal, it was the smothered sobbing\nof a human being. He went forward swiftly. Then again he paused. The\nlow western sun cast a single level beam through the clouds; the light\nfell upon Ellen, a mournful figure in a black shawl upon a stump, Ellen\nalone in the twilight, Ellen unreconciled to her bereavement, Ellen\nchanged and forlorn.\n\n\"It is I. Can I help you, Ellen?\" he asked breathlessly.\n\nEllen sprang to her feet, her black shawl trailing.\n\n\"Oh, is it you?\" She drew a long breath of relief. Amos was\nnegligible--she had thought that it was Matthew! It made little\ndifference whether Amos observed her woes.\n\n\"You can persuade them to let me go away,\" she said despairingly.\n\"I haven't anything to live for, I'm all alone.\" Then she recovered\nherself. \"Please forget this. No one can do anything.\" She rubbed her\neyes furiously with a wet handkerchief and pulled her shawl round her.\n\"I hadn't any business to talk about it.\"\n\nAt once she walked rapidly out of the gloom of the woods into the\nbrighter light and made her way, somber and forlorn, across the fields.\n\nAmos took her place upon the broad stump. He saw her reach the kitchen\ndoor, he saw the light gleam. It was possible that Matthew and Millie\nwere away--was she then alone, poor, poor Ellen? He would go down and\nspeak to her further; he should not have let her go uncomforted, he\nwho meditated upon religious matters, who translated holy books! But\nsuppose that Matthew and Millie should return, Millie with her sharp,\ncunning eyes! Besides, he knew that he could not help Ellen, she would\nnot listen.\n\nThen, the devil tempted him. Grandfather's plan for her was a mistaken\none, she would never bind herself to conventual life. In the Normal\nSchool whither he had gone to learn elementary Latin there had been\nmany lady teachers, confirmed in singleness, faithful to their duties\nand to their various denominations, and useful to the world--it was\nnot wrong to think of Ellen bound to education! He rose and went home,\nmeaning to speak in her behalf.\n\nBut between the time of that bold intention and this evening,\nmisgivings troubled him. If he were listened to he would be helping\nto send Ellen into the world. She wished to go farther away than the\nNormal School, farther away than Lancaster or Harrisburg, and about the\nsafety of the world beyond he had grave doubts. She might even go to\nNew York where, every one said, wickedness was rampant. There was no\ntelling where she might not go!\n\nPresently a solution presented itself. It was possible to learn much\nfrom books; he had gained all his information from that source,\nand from books he would learn about the present condition of the\nworld. Before speaking to his uncle he would acquaint himself with\ncontemporary writings and be governed by their character. In Harrisburg\nthere was a State library from which he occasionally secured books by\nmail, and he had sometime ago announced to Grandfather his intention\nto apply there in person for a new volume. At Christmas, when school\nclosed for a week, he would be his own master. When he had come to this\ndetermination his mind was easier and he was able to proceed with his\ntranslation.\n\nHis preparations for departure consisted of earnest prayer and the\npacking of a frugal lunch. When he found that he could conscientiously\nask the blessing of God upon his undertaking his spirits rose. As for\nthe material preparations, prices in city restaurants were high and\nwastefulness was wicked.\n\nThe day which he had selected dawned bitter cold; the fire in the\ncottage did not burn well and the pinched and blue countenance of\nGrandfather distressed him. But Grandfather would listen to no\nsympathy.\n\n\"My trials are small beside those suffered on this spot.\"\n\nThe landscape showed bleak and gray in the dawn; the lighted windows\nsuggested not the cheerfulness of evening and of family gatherings,\nbut unwilling rising in cold rooms, the breaking of ice in pitcher\nand bowl, the torturing operation of milking with stiff hands. Wheels\ncreaked over the frozen snow, and horses puffed like chimneys. Amos was\nnot warmly dressed; he had never, in fact, been dressed warmly enough\nto meet winter storms. Having climbed into the trolley car, he tried\nto restrain his tears while circulation returned to his frost-bitten\nfingers. He looked fully the part of a shivering Saint Francis. A\ntraveling man, wrapped in a fur-lined coat, and cursing inwardly the\nluck which had kept him overnight in the village, stared.\n\n\"Who is he?\" he asked the conductor; but the conductor, being busy with\nhis fares, made no reply.\n\nHis was the first but not the last comment upon Amos that day. Entering\nthe train at Lancaster he walked the length of the car to find a\nseat, and after him heads turned. Even persons who were familiar\nwith Lancaster County's strange types looked startled; one or two\nimpressionable women shivered.\n\n\"Do you suppose he's very wise or very stupid?\" asked one woman of\nanother.\n\n\"He's very handsome.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\"\n\n\"Yes, he's too handsome.\"\n\n\"I'll warrant he's the kind of a crank after whom women would travel in\ndroves. Perhaps we'll have a new sect.\"\n\nAmos heard no comments. He sat down and looked at the smooth farmlands,\nthen at the river filled with floating ice, then upon the tall\nstacks and chimneys and into the heart of glowing furnaces. It was\na bewildering world to which he was an alien. He was trained to be\ninterested not in mechanical operations or in the achievements of\nscience, but in the operations of the human soul. A famous saint had\nput into words, centuries before, Grandfather Milhausen's teaching.\n\"Suppose that you had subtilty and learning enough to know all things,\nthat you were acquainted with all languages, the courses of the stars,\nand all the rest--what is there in that to be proud of? The glory of\nman is to be faithful to God.\"\n\nCatching a glimpse of the dome of the Capitol soon after he had left\nthe station, he walked up a narrow street to the rising ground. Now\nthat he was here he would not confine himself to the library, but would\nlook about--this, too, might be a part of Ellen's world! It was nine\no'clock and the sun gave a small measure of warmth. Squirrels ran up\nand down the tree-trunks and pigeons wheeled above his head. Their\nfriendliness with the passers-by pleased him.\n\nThen, abruptly, pleasure ended. He looked not down at the parked\nstreet, as Ellen had looked at first, but up at two groups of statuary\nnewly placed on each side of the main entrance. Here, in broad\ndaylight, fixed eternally and shamefully in marble, were human beings\nwithout clothes! He did not blush; his astonishment and incredulity\nwere too deep. After a long stare he withdrew his gaze embarrassed. It\nwas to escape the glaring nudities that he entered the bronze doors, on\nwhich were represented various worthies of the Commonwealth. He did not\nsmile at the neatly collared gentlemen whose heads protruded like the\nheads of turtles; he found them vaguely an assurance of the stability\nof the world.\n\nOnce inside, he felt a measure of confidence. Upon his childlike mind\nthe soaring dome, the painted walls made the same impression which they\nhad made upon the mind of Ellen. He looked longest at the lunettes in a\ncorridor which pictured the early sects and found at last his own. How\nbeautiful was this quiet place and how intolerable the group without!\nHere, in Moravian, sounding his trombone from the tower, in pious\nQuakeress preaching to the savage, in Wissahickon mystic at prayer on\nthe hillside, was nothing to hurt Ellen.\n\nFor an hour he wandered about, walking on marble stairways and thick\nrugs and letting his astonished vision rest on masses of color, the\ngreen of Penn's rich coat, the Admiral's scarlet robe, the blue sky. He\nhad not known that such colors existed. Suddenly he apprehended dimly\nthe beauty of the world, of trees and streams and the bodies of human\nbeings. But they were all an obstacle between man and God!\n\nHe felt with sudden depression his own insignificance. He had seen in\nall his years no crowds of human beings, had been part of no large\nbody of men, had had a share in no concerted movement. He knew in a\ngeneral way the history of his State, but he was not of it; he taught\nthe history of his country, but felt no thrill at sight of its flag. He\nread no daily paper, and in his religious weekly all the news of the\nworld was censored and emasculated.\n\nIn the library he stood most astonished and confused. Shelves upon\nshelves of books, hundreds and thousands of books! He was confounded by\ntheir number and by the vastness of the world which they represented;\nhe was embarrassed by the studious silence; he was frightened by the\ncool black eyes of a young woman behind the desk. To gain a moment's\ntime, he stepped aside to look at an old map and at a framed and\nvaluable proclamation offering ten thousand dollars for the arrest of\nthe assassin of Abraham Lincoln.\n\nAt last he summoned sufficient courage to ask for \"The Early Sects,\"\nand was told that it was at present out of the library.\n\n\"I wanted it for study,\" he explained. \"I have sent for books from\nhere.\"\n\n\"If you will leave your name and address we'll send it to you.\"\n\nAs he wrote his name on a card, his eye fell upon a row of books at the\nend of the desk whose bright bindings marked them as the modern works\nfor which he sought. He thought it best to buy copies of his own; he\nwas not a rapid reader and he wished to study them carefully.\n\n\"May I copy their names?\"\n\n\"Surely!\"\n\nHe looked at the titles in an uncritical spirit and took them as\nthey came. The volumes belonged to the \"Thinker's Library,\" a\nsomewhat poorly bound, carelessly edited series of English novels and\ntranslations of other European novels and tales. It was a curious list\nwhich he transcribed--\"Bertha Garlan,\" \"Russian Stories,\" \"Esther\nWaters.\"\n\nHe found at last in a store, where he had to thread his way among women\nbuying laces and handkerchiefs and table linen, a corner where books\nwere sold. The first two volumes on his list were on hand, \"Esther\nWaters\" was not to be had, but \"Evelyn Innes\" was suggested by the\nclerk as a substitute. Then, his bundle under his arm, he walked out.\nNow that his business was attended to, he would satisfy his still\nundulled curiosity. It seemed to him that the gaze of every passer-by\nsought his, and he was uneasy until he realized that his glance sought\nthe eye of every passer-by. This fact discovered, he walked on looking\nstraight ahead and holding his shoulders stiffly.\n\nHe came at last to the street with the park in the center running from\nthe Capitol to the river. There stood large churches, and seeing a few\nwomen enter the most imposing, he entered also. He made no excuse for\nhimself, though he knew that his uncle would not approve; an inspection\nof churches seemed a legitimate part of his expedition.\n\nWhen with a single astonished glance he saw that the few worshipers\nwere kneeling, he knelt also. He had not dreamed that anywhere but in\nthe Saal men went to pray alone. He prayed now for the Kloster and for\nhis uncle and for Ellen--poor little Ellen whose sobs he would never\nforget. It seemed to him that God spoke to him and told him that it\nwould be right to help her to her heart's desire, and he sighed happily.\n\nThen--it may have been the tinkle of beads slipping from finger to\nfinger, it may have been a subtle ecclesiastical odor different from\nthe odor of the Saal--he felt a sudden misgiving. He opened his eyes\nslowly and looked at the woman kneeling near by, who was not so\nabsorbed in her devotions that she did not have a startled eye for her\nneighbor whom she believed to be some sort of very holy man. Next he\nsaw the stations of the cross along the wall, and then the marble altar\nwith its tiny, gleaming lamp. Whither, oh, whither had he come?\n\nAt once terrible words rushed into his startled mind--\"popish images,\"\n\"idolatry,\" \"confessional.\" He rose and clutched his package and went\nout. In the vestibule he saw a woman performing what he took to be\na slight ablution in a sort of basin--it removed his last lingering\ndoubt. He fled, and the door closed noisily behind him, disturbing\nthose within.\n\nAs he walked weakly toward the river, he realized that it was not\naltogether emotion which had exhausted him, but partly hunger. To one\nwho was accustomed to the damp coldness of the Saal a meal out of\ndoors, even on such a day as this, was tolerable and he sat down on a\nbench near the spot where Ellen and her father had paused hand in hand\nto look across toward Stephen's gray house. He, too, looked at it, but\nthe lives lived there did not come within his experience and were not\nto be imagined.\n\nWhen his lunch was eaten, he returned to the station to wait for\nhis train and sat holding his package of books, and watching the\never-changing throng. All he saw had a bearing upon his errand, and\nhe tried to picture Ellen among the travelers--not Ellen in her black\nshawl, but Ellen in her brown coat and tight-fitting cap, her Christmas\ngifts in her hands, all smiles and happiness. His day in the world had\nbrought him to no final decision; Ellen's future still waited upon his\nreading.\n\nFor some reason unknown to him, the train waited for a long time upon\na siding outside the city, and he could look directly through an\nopening in a high fence into the yard of an iron mill. Opposite the\nopening stood a lofty shed, apparently a vast store-house for finished\nproducts, in which cranes moved like gigantic men, lifting and laying\ndown masses of iron and loading long girders upon cars. He watched, as\nhe sometimes watched the farmers intent upon their work, the men who\nmanipulated the enormous machines, and the men who came and went in the\nyard. Simply to live and work and not to think, what happiness in such\na lot! But he reproached himself sharply for desiring the glory of the\nmoon rather than the glory of the sun which was his. He had chosen the\nbetter part, or to speak exactly, it had been chosen for him. Let him\nbe grateful.\n\nHe entered the gate of the Kloster after dark. Grandfather had lighted\nthe brass lamp and sat by the stove asleep. On the stove were several\npots with a fragrant steam escaping from under their lids. As Amos laid\ndown his books on the sill outside, his conscience reproached him. But\nhis motive was, he reminded himself, excellent.\n\nGrandfather went early to bed on his hard cot in the next room, leaving\nAmos bending over the manuscript from which he had been separated for\na day, and charging him not to work too late. When the old man's light\nbreathing could be heard, Amos opened the door, brought in his precious\nparcel and with shaking, thrifty hands untied the hard knot with which\nit was fastened. He selected the book which was uppermost and laid the\nothers in the drawer of his table. In the silence of the night he\nbegan to study the world into which he was to launch Ellen. Surely none\nof these authors had hitherto been read in a stranger spot! Close to\nthe little cottage on one side crowded the graves of the dead, above\nit on the other rose the grim old buildings. All spoke, not of love,\neither good or evil, nor of the present, nor of life, but of the past\nand of the peace of death.\n\nThe book he had selected was the volume of Russian stories. He read an\nintroductory paragraph which stated that the author gave a description\nof his impressions of the Russian-Japanese War, an event as dim to Amos\nas though it had taken place in 1904 B.C. instead of 1904 A.D. He was\ndisappointed--he was not interested in war! But having begun he kept\non. He had thought himself a slow reader, but he had read hitherto only\nthe subtle abstractions of mystic writers, pondering as he went; he had\nnever had before him such texts as these.\n\n\"Horror and madness!\" The opening words were not reassuring. But he\nread on.\n\n\"I felt it for the first time as we were marching along the\nroad--marching incessantly for ten hours without stopping, never\ndiminishing our step, never waiting to pick up those who had fallen,\nbut leaving them to the enemy that was moving behind us in a compact\nmass.\"\n\nHe blinked as though to clear his vision; then his pupils moved back\nand forth, back and forth.\n\n\"An hour passed, but the multitude still moved on, and the air and the\ndistant, phantom-like ranks trembled as before. Again the burning heat\npierced my body ... I was surrounded by a group of gray people; some\nlying motionless, perhaps dead; others sitting up and staring vacantly.\nSome had guns and resembled soldiers; others were stripped almost\nnaked, and the skin on their bodies was so livid that one did not care\nto look at it. Not far from me some one was lying with his bared back\nupturned. One could see by the unconcerned manner in which he had\nburied his face in the sharp, burning sand, by the whiteness of the\npalm of his upturned hand, that he was dead, but his back was as red as\nif he were alive. And I saw--\"\n\n\"What is this?\" whispered Amos. But he read on and on until headless\nmen surrounded him and a sea of blood seemed rising to engulf him.\n\nHe finished with a dying light and a body aching cruelly with cold.\nThe fire had gone out; there echoed about him the mysterious crackling\nsounds of a bitter night. He rose and stood in the darkness, appalled\nby the things he had read. Was this the world into which he had thought\nto send pure and lovely Ellen?\n\nAfter a long time he heard his uncle sigh in his sleep, and the tears\nbegan to run down his cheeks. It must be almost morning; he would wrap\nhimself in his coat and await the striking of the hour, then, if it\nwas not too early to disturb his uncle, he would make up the fire.\nMoreover, he would make it up with these hideous writings for which he\nhad spent good money.\n\nBut deliberation brought better counsel--Ellen would have no encounter\nwith war! Besides, it was a Russian story and Ellen did not mean to go\nto Russia. He would read the other books.\n\nThe next evening he did not wait until Grandfather had gone to bed; but\nlaid his book inside the manuscript of \"The Mystic Dove\" and began. A\ngreat deal of \"Evelyn Innes\" he did not understand, but he understood\nenough. He read like a child for the story, all else escaping his\nimmature attention. The technique of music was an uncharted sea; the\nambitions of Mr. Innes he did not comprehend; he had never seen an\nopera, nor was he able to picture one. But he saw clearly what had\nhappened to Evelyn. A cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was well\nfor Ellen that he had set out to discover the world!\n\nThen he was guilty of a curious and natural inconsistency. He concluded\nthat it was his duty to acquaint himself further with wickedness, so\nthat he might the better resist it. When he had finished \"Evelyn,\"\nhe returned to the book of Russian stories, laying it, too, between\nthe pages of \"The Mystic Dove.\" He saw a dark river which carried on\nits strong current a raft, and understood that a young man, a pious\nChristian, worked at the stern and watched his wife made much of in a\nshameful way by his own father in the bow.\n\nBut still he read on. \"The Raft\" was short; midnight was still far\naway; he opened the third book. Again the accident of his choice was\nunfortunate. The story was simply and plainly told. Bertha Garlan,\nwidowed and with a little child, sought out, under pressure of\nirresistible desire for affection, an old sweetheart who had attained\nfame and who lived grossly, and had with him a brief liaison. Her\npassion and her shame were pictured with equal skill--it was a moving\ntale, and it pointed as bitter a lesson as the pen of moralist could\npresent.\n\nIt was not strange that when he tried to work at his \"Mystic Dove,\"\nthe language proved dull and meaningless. He ceased to translate and\nbegan to walk about, traveling over the frozen roads at night like one\ncondemned to wander for his sins. The world was a whirlpool of crime\nin which each hour betrayed and murdered thousands were sucked down to\ndestruction. His uncle had been right.\n\nAt last he began to think of another way to help Ellen. His uncle\nbelieved and had taught him that a man's first concern should be the\neternal safety of his own soul. Might there not be a higher duty?\nSpeculating, he felt his cheeks burn, his heart throb quickly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nELLEN IS OFFERED A WAY OUT\n\n\nLife in the Levis house, tolerable during the remaining weeks of the\nsummer and early fall when there was much to be done out of doors,\nassumed a more complex character when it was confined entirely to the\nkitchen. Millie had believed that she desired escape from home partly\nfor the sake of freedom from continual chattering; apparently, however,\nit was merely the silence of others which she desired. She now became\nloquacious; Ellen, she discovered with amusement, knew nothing; that\nis, she knew nothing of the private affairs of her neighbors, of\nstrange old scandals, of recent deeds of foolishness and sin. Millie\nknew stories about all the people on the surrounding farms, about all\nthe people along the road to the Kloster; indeed, about the ancient\ninhabitants of the Kloster itself, those holy souls who had given up\nall the pleasures of the world for the sake of salvation. She described\nin detail the misdeeds of Brother Reith, who in the absence of his wife\nin the asylum was a rake of the first order. She had even a story about\nMrs. Sassaman--did not Ellen know that! Millie laughed. Such proud\naloofness as that of the Levises must have made life very dull.\n\n\"I don't believe that about Mrs. Sassaman,\" answered Ellen soberly. \"My\nfather would not have had her here to take care of us if she was not a\ngood woman.\"\n\n\"I don't want to say anything against your father, but he had very free\nideas.\"\n\n\"Not so free as that.\"\n\n\"Don't you believe that I tell you the truth?\" demanded Millie.\n\n\"You must be mistaken.\" Ellen was pale and offended, but she was\ndetermined to give no offense.\n\nOn her first free afternoon she went to her room and opened her books.\nShe remembered all that she had learned and it was still not too late\nto be educated. In the evening she heard Millie complain to Matthew of\nloneliness, and the next afternoon she took her books into the kitchen\nwhere the sight of them proved irritating. Millie stood no longer in\nawe of her superior education; she hated it; it seemed, in some dim,\nominous, and inexplicable fashion, to threaten her.\n\n\"Matthew thinks learning is unnecessary beyond what we need for our\nevery-day lives.\"\n\nEllen made no answer. Presently Millie came to believe that her growing\nannoyance with Ellen and her ways sprang from anxiety about her soul.\n\n\"I can't be here with you all the time without reminding you to make\nyour peace with God.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Ellen shortly.\n\nTo Matthew life was intensely satisfactory. Along with love for the\nland he had been endowed with a farmer's good judgment. The early\nPennsylvania Germans had selected with unerring instinct the thickly\nwooded limestone country, leaving to their Scotch-Irish neighbors the\npoorer and more easily cultivated soil. To Matthew it seemed that his\ndeep fields had qualities which were almost human; they looked to him\nfor proper cultivation and nourishment as they looked to God for rain.\n\nHis labors were interrupted only by the time necessary for meals and\nsleep. When winter came, the rebuilding of the fences occupied him\nwhenever it was possible to be out of doors. On snowy and rainy days he\nworked in the barn, repairing partitions, mending harness, and planning\nfor the future. He wrote down in a notebook all his plans; he drew a\nmap of the farm and hung it on the wall; he dreamed and meditated about\nspringing corn and golden wheat. Mind and body were at rest, and all\nwas as it should be in a world which had hitherto been trying.\n\nWhen Ellen appeared one afternoon in December in the barn chamber to\nmake once more her foolish request about school, he answered her by\ncommending her for her good behavior. He seemed to himself to be at\nleast twenty years older than Ellen in experience and wisdom.\n\n\"Millie and I were saying yesterday how well you accommodated yourself\nto life as it is. It will soon be even better.\"\n\nBut Ellen had not come to hear compliments or to interpret cryptic\nremarks.\n\n\"Do you mean I can't go?\"\n\n\"Soon you won't want to go.\"\n\n\"I shall always want to go,\" insisted unreasonable Ellen.\n\nShe did not return to the house. A week of clear weather had ended;\nthere was a lowering sky and a cold damp wind which gave warning that\nbad weather was at hand. She walked a long distance on the soft country\nroad, and then struck across the fields, meaning to return through the\nwoods which seemed to promise temporary peace of mind. She was aware\nas she approached her favorite seat that it was occupied and she was\nirritated when she recognized the occupant. Amos was young and strong,\nyet he was content to live in the past, to earn a pittance, never to\nsee the world or to advance.\n\nBut before the ravaged face which he lifted, no one could long be\nangry. He seemed to have lost many pounds which he could ill spare;\nhis clothes were too large, his hair was much too long, and he wore to\nEllen's startled gaze a look so unworldly as to be almost imbecile. Her\nheart pitied him, while her mind was filled with a sharp repulsion.\n\nPoor Amos's horror of the world as he found it in \"Bertha Garlan\" and\n\"Evelyn Innes\" had changed to an unspeakably shocking desire to know\nstill more about it. The temptation was of the devil--that he well\nknew--and he was resisting it with all the strength that was in him. He\nwas tempted, not to go into the world, but to take more of it into the\nKloster in the form of books, to read and read and thus lose himself\nand forget his self-reproach, his despair, and a new and wild desire.\n\nWhen Ellen spoke he stared like a man in hiding come upon by the enemy.\nHer brisk walk had made her cheeks glow, and her commiseration for\nAmos gave a deeper color to her eyes. Like Millie she breathed youth\nand freshness, but she had in place of Millie's empty beauty an eager\nvitality of mind and body. You could be with Millie and forget her--you\ncould never forget Ellen. Her spirit had been for a while in eclipse,\nbut it could not continue thus. Amos could not analyze her charm, but\nhe felt its least emanation.\n\n\"I haven't seen you for a long time. Aren't you well?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered faintly.\n\n\"And Grandfather?\"\n\nAmos seemed not to have heard. He rose abruptly and approached Ellen,\nhis hands clasped before him, his body trembling. His cheek-bones\nseemed to press against the skin, his gray eyes to have turned black.\nHe saw not a helpless creature who needed his succor, but a gleaming\nlight in darkness, a refuge in deep trouble, a rock to which he could\ncling.\n\n\"I've been thinking so much about you, Ellen, and I've been trying to\nhelp you. I thought once I would ask Uncle to let you go away. But\nI can't make my conscience agree to such a plan. I can't for a good\nreason.\" He laid his hand across his eyes. At this moment the world\nhad become wholly unattractive; it offered no invitation to further\nacquaintance; he saw headless figures, heard men offering illicit love.\n\"But I could take you away from where you are, Ellen.\"\n\n\"How?\" asked Ellen stupidly.\n\n\"You could come to me.\"\n\n\"To you,\" she repeated, more mystified than before.\n\nThen a bright, tingling flush mounted to her cheek. She saw the\nexpression in his eyes, and recognized its tenderness.\n\nHe made his meaning clearer.\n\n\"If you were married you would be freer.\"\n\nShe took a step backward and rested her shoulder against the trunk of a\ntree. The act indicated not fear, but a desire for support. The keenest\nof all her startled sensations was curiosity. What was the motive for\nthis amazing offer? Surely not love as she understood love! Did he mean\nto sacrifice himself and all his plans to make her comfortable? He\ndidn't seem ridiculous; he seemed incredible.\n\n\"But you weren't to marry!\"\n\n\"I'm my own master,\" said he with dignity. \"I must decide what is best.\nI'm the only one who can decide.\" His trembling became more violent. \"I\nsometimes sit here in the evening and look down and think how happy you\nand I could be in such a house together. I think of it day and night;\nthere isn't any rest for me.\"\n\nA succession of images passed rapidly through Ellen's mind, herself\nin Amos's arms as Millie stood in Matthew's embrace--shameless\nMillie!--her father's keen face, the face of his friend who had\nsomewhat resembled him, the dim Saal with its heavy air, its pale\nlight, its stolid worshipers.\n\n\"Oh, it couldn't be!\"\n\nSilence answered like the silence which follows an execution.\n\n\"I'm not worthy of such an offer,\" said Ellen, suddenly wretched. \"I'm\nnothing; I know nothing. I'm hasty and bitter and hateful.\"\n\n\"You are worthy!\" protested Amos. The language of the stories he had\nbeen reading, much as he loathed them, helped him to find words. He\npleaded with her, not for her sake but for his own, that she would\nsave him from despair. \"There isn't any one like you. You grow more\nbeautiful each day. I was in Harrisburg, and there I sat in the station\nand watched the people come and go, especially the young girls, and\nthere was no one who carried her head so high and who had such deep,\ndeep eyes, like a dark night, Ellen, when the sky is very clear and\nsoft. There's no one round here with a mind like yours. I'm not\nold-fashioned; I understand that it is the day of greater liberty. I'll\nlet you judge and decide in everything. Don't say you aren't worthy;\nthat isn't true!\"\n\nEllen looked down at the ground. Praise like this was new and not\nunwelcome, even though it came from the lips of so strange a lover.\n\n\"If you would come to me, I believe the peace of God would come to you.\"\n\nNow Ellen pressed her whole body against the tree, so as to get farther\naway. The peace of God! That was not what she longed for.\n\n\"You're mistaken in me,\" said she. \"There's only one thing I want and\nthat is to learn. I'm grateful to you, and I shall always think kindly\nof you; you are my best friend, but I don't wish to marry any one.\"\n\n\"It is God's holy ordinance,\" said Amos thickly. \"It saves from gross\nsin. Outside its bonds men and women burn with sinful passion. Have I\nmade you afraid of me, Ellen? I have loved you since you came a little\nchild into my school, and indeed, before that.\"\n\nInto the minds of both came the scene enacted on this spot, the\nchildish arms flung out, the kiss given and taken.\n\n\"Oh, I can't!\" cried Ellen. \"I'm sorry for you. Do put this out of your\nmind.\"\n\n\"I don't wish to put it out of my mind. But I'll not trouble you by\nspeaking again. If you need help that I can give, you have only to ask.\nPromise me you will remember that!\"\n\n\"I'll promise.\" She looked suddenly over her shoulder. Millie's eyes\nwere keen and cruel; her mind was suspicious; she had related to\nEllen a score of clandestine meetings, spied upon and reported to the\nconfusion of lovers. \"I must go home!\" said she, moving away. \"Don't\ncome this way too often!\"\n\n\"I'll do whatever you wish,\" promised Amos. \"You don't have any\nill-feeling toward me, Ellen, I hope?\"\n\n\"No!\" said Ellen. She flung back a crumb of comfort. \"I told you you\nwere the only friend I had in this world!\"\n\nIt was four o'clock when she opened the kitchen door. Matthew and\nMillie stood by the table together, his arm across her shoulders. They\nhad driven together to the store in the village and their cheeks glowed.\n\n\"Well, Sister?\" said Matthew.\n\nEllen heard with wonder the unusual salutation. What had come over\nMatthew? Her own cheeks still burned. Subconsciously Millie noted\nher color and her excited eyes. But Millie was occupied with her own\nemotions. She laughed in her sharp, detached way and pushed Matthew\nfrom her. He went smiling, and when the door was shut, she laughed\nagain.\n\n\"See what I've bought!\" she cried, her hands slipping the cords from\nher parcels. \"He said this was the time to spend.\" There appeared\nwhite, delicate muslins and yards of lace and ribbons and tiny\npatterns. \"See! Aren't they beautiful? He thinks you are every day a\nlittle less self-centered, Ellen, and it is a good thing, for you will\nsoon be certainly needed. Aren't you glad you didn't go to school?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nELLEN SOLVES HER PROBLEM\n\n\nThe spectacle of complete happiness is so rare that it is valuable as\na phenomenon, even when its causes are not wholly commendable. A queen\nupon her throne who knows no threatening usurper and has never trembled\nat the voice of reforming democracy could have been no more confident\nof herself and her position than Millie. She was beautiful--indeed,\nshe had long since decided correctly that none of her acquaintances\nwas so pretty. She was prosperous, she was a good Christian, she was\nfulfilling the most honorable function of her sex.\n\nAs a prima donna who has sung gloriously gathers the roses of her\nadmirers, she gathered to her bosom as her due the affectionate care of\nMatthew, the interest of her mother and sisters, and the approval of\nGrandfather Milhausen. She gathered also the services of Ellen, given\nwillingly and with a virginal awe. She laughed at Ellen's innocence and\nextended her knowledge in new directions.\n\nEllen did not consider her work drudgery, though she did all that\nshe and Mrs. Sassaman had done together and all that she and Millie\nhad done together. It was right that Millie should be taken care of,\nand Ellen was too inexperienced to know that no young woman in that\nhard-working and healthy community had ever expected such tender\nindulgence.\n\nLate in February occurred a regrettable incident in a peaceful life.\nMatthew's correspondence had increased, and Ellen, who fetched the\nmail from the box at the end of the lane, found many pamphlets with\nthe words \"State College\" on the corner of the envelope. Matthew, she\nthought, would not care for them; the senders were wasting paper and\npostage and pains.\n\nBut Matthew did care for them. At the end of a day which Ellen had\nfound unusually hard, he mentioned that he was going away for two\nweeks. She looked at him astonished; Millie, she saw, was aware of his\nintention. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"State College is to give a special course in the treatment of soils.\nMany farmers will attend. I don't know whether they have anything\nreally valuable to teach, but I'm going to see.\"\n\nEllen laid down her spoon, which fell, not upon the saucer as she\nintended, but into the cup, splashing the clean cloth.\n\n\"Well, Ellen!\" cried Millie.\n\n\"You're going to school, then, Matthew! Surely you'll let me go in the\nfall. You've changed your mind about education!\"\n\nMatthew frowned. It seemed to him that Ellen thought she had him in a\ntrap. \"This is different.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't different!\"\n\n\"This has to do with soils and the production of food for the human\nrace. It's not idle learning.\"\n\n\"Mine would not be idle learning. You're not fair. You're cheating me\nout of what should be mine and taking it yourself!\"\n\nOn the other side of the table Millie lifted a reproving face. If she\nhad been a little more sophisticated, she would have contrived to faint\nor to have hysterics.\n\n\"It isn't safe for me to hear such discussions, Ellen. You should know\nbetter than to try to quarrel now!\"\n\nMatthew looked at Millie in alarm. There was some ground for Ellen's\nresentment, but her heart was wrong, her demands were wrong, her\ncarelessness of Millie's health was most wrong of all. He silenced her\nroughly and effectively. \"Can't you cut it out, Ellen? Especially under\nthese circumstances?\"\n\nMillie's convalescence after the birth of her baby was, as was to be\nexpected, a slow and luxurious process. Her mother, an inmate of the\nLevis house for a month, scolded, the doctor admonished, but she lay at\nease, her young prince on her arm. When her mother departed, protesting\nthat only pity for Ellen had kept her so long, Millie took jealous care\nof the baby. She sat day after day in the kitchen with him asleep in\nher arms, being unwilling to trust the pleasant June air. She had been\nslow to forgive what she chose to consider a wanton indifference to her\nhealth, on Ellen's part, but that seemed now to be forgotten.\n\n\"Next time I'll be up sooner,\" she promised sweetly.\n\nEllen made no answer, having learned at last to hold her tongue. Her\nbody ached and her soul quivered. If Millie had been at all clever, she\nwould have assigned to her some of the care of little Matthew even in\naddition to her own work, but Millie was not clever.\n\nLate in September Grandfather Milhausen came one Sunday evening to\nsee his great-grandchild. He and a nervous and unwilling Amos walked\npilgrimwise along the road and at the entrance to the lane separated,\nAmos going to the next farmhouse to attend to an errand. Poor Amos was\nno happier, and the few hours of rest which he took in one of the cells\nin Saron had made him no stouter. His ability to concentrate his mind\nupon abstractions seemed to be destroyed, and outside of school hours\nhe had no occupation. Grandfather found Millie in the kitchen with her\nbaby. He laid his hand in blessing upon the little head and his eyes\ngleamed. Here was an earnest for the future; this child might live to\ncomplete the restoration of the Kloster which his elders were to begin.\n\n\"And where is Ellen?\" he asked with a sigh. Ellen had not yet \"come\nround\"; it was now more than three years since she had run away so\nincontinently from the Saal and she had never returned.\n\n\"She went for a walk,\" explained Millie. \"She's a great one to go off\nalone, and I don't like it. It doesn't look well.\"\n\nMatthew moved uneasily in his chair. It was natural for Millie to\nexpress to him disapproval of Ellen's ways, but he did not like her to\ncomplain to others.\n\n\"I'm sure that Ellen does no harm.\"\n\n\"I'm sure of that also. But it looks as though she wanted to be away\nfrom us. She--\"\n\nThe opening of the door interrupted Millie's sentence. It was plain\nto Ellen entering that they had been discussing her--why, otherwise,\nshould they all look so self-conscious? Hearing a sound behind her, she\nglanced nervously over her shoulder, to find that Amos had come round\nthe other corner of the house and was close at her heels. It had been\na day of heavy depression of spirit and of sharp irritability when she\nhad kept silence with difficulty. Her eyes met first of all Millie's,\nin which she saw a startled and amused curiosity. Amos had with all the\nbrethren a reputation for immaculate behavior, but to Millie no one was\nimmaculate.\n\n\"Where have you two been?\" she asked gayly. \"Walking together?\"\n\nIn her intense desire to turn attention from herself, Ellen uttered she\nknew not what.\n\n\"We have a nice baby here, haven't we, Grandfather?\"\n\nMillie was not to be turned aside even by the praise of her offspring.\n\n\"You should have one just like him, Ellen,\" said she with her sharp\nlittle laugh. \"Then you wouldn't be so discontented.\"\n\n\"It isn't a subject to be jested about, Millie,\" said Grandfather\ngravely. But he looked at the two young people with startled eyes. He\nremembered that Amos had once defended Ellen; he remembered that he\nhad seemed to have for some time a burden on his mind. Alas, for the\nrestored Kloster with its monastic orders, its brethren and its holy\nspiritual virgins, if Amos should go the way of all the world! Silence\nfollowed Grandfather's reproof, and silence spread. Like graven images\nGrandfather and Millie and Matthew sat in their chairs, and like graven\nimages Ellen and Amos stood by the door.\n\n\"I shall put corn in the east field next summer,\" said Matthew after a\nlong pause.\n\n\"So!\" said Grandfather and returned to his alarmed speculation.\n\nMillie's mischievous eyes went round and round the circle. They\nsignaled a laughing message to Matthew, they gazed with intense\namusement at Amos and Ellen. Ellen's blood raced through her veins and\nangry thoughts through her mind. It seemed to her that she was on fire.\nAmos stood with his eyes upon the floor, all the machinery of thought\nparalyzed. Millie saw guilt written upon them both.\n\n\"Grandfather,\" she began again mischievously; but before she could go\non Matthew stopped her with the first remark which came into his mind.\nEven Ellen's comment upon the baby had not been so unfortunately chosen.\n\n\"I have engaged Umbesheiden to cut the trees.\"\n\nEllen turned upon him swiftly, her eyes flashing.\n\n\"What trees?\"\n\n\"I'm going to cut the woodland.\"\n\n\"My trees!\"\n\n\"They are no more yours than mine. I have Grandfather's permission, and\nit's only what any far-sighted person would do. It will in the end be\nvery profitable to you, as well as to me.\"\n\nEllen took a step forward. Here was the last of heaped-up injuries!\nConsidering the turmoil of anger and grief within, she spoke quietly.\n\n\"I've decided that unless you and Grandfather are willing for me to go\nto college at once, I'm going to leave home altogether.\"\n\n\"Where are you going, Ellen?\" Matthew asked gently. He knew that he had\npostponed too long telling his plans, but Ellen made everything hard.\n\n\"I'm going to live with Mrs. Sassaman at her sister's and earn my\nliving.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"I promised Father I'd go to college.\"\n\n\"It was a foolish promise involving matters over which you had no\ncontrol.\"\n\n\"I promised him, too, that I'd go away. He didn't wish me to stay here,\nso far from the world.\"\n\n\"The world!\" repeated Amos to his despairing soul. He had read \"Evelyn\nInnes\" again and still again; he understood even more clearly what had\nhappened to Evelyn.\n\n\"The world will ruin you!\" warned Grandfather.\n\nMillie meant to be exonerated. She was frightened--would she be left\nwithout Ellen's help? \"No sister-in-law was ever kinder than I to\nEllen. She has all the say about the house, about planning the work and\neverything.\"\n\n\"I'm not complaining about you, Millie. Matthew, will you give me a\npart of my money?\"\n\n\"It would be against my conscience.\"\n\n\"Grandfather?\"\n\nGrandfather shook his head.\n\n\"What is your plan?\" asked a placating Millie.\n\n\"I shall get work and save my money. I'm strong and well; it would be\nvery strange if I couldn't get along. At any rate, I'm going to try.\"\n\nMatthew rose. Beside him Ellen looked pale and worn and young. He was\ndisturbed. It was not possible that she was serious! \"You've been a\ngreat help to us--I don't deny that. It all proves that you could\nalways be a good, earnest Christian girl if you would only be sensible.\"\n\nHe laid his hand on Ellen's shoulder. The house seconded Matthew and\npleaded with her; her affection for him pleaded. She was conscious\nalso of Amos near by, and suddenly certain instincts, hitherto\nunrecognized, took advantage of her excitement. All pointed to the\neasiest way, to acquiescence. It seemed for a moment that her father\nwas a stranger who had wandered across the path laid down for her by\nmany generations. Then suddenly she lifted her head and went swiftly\nfrom the room.\n\n\"I believe she'll be all right,\" said Grandfather in a trembling voice.\n\"She has an inheritance to fight against her, but one also to fight for\nher.\"\n\nMatthew looked out the window into the darkness and after a moment he\nwiped his eyes. Ellen's spirit, he believed, was broken, and there is\nsomething terrible in the breaking of a spirit even to those who have\nbrought it about. He saw her in imagination lying upon her bed, crying\npitifully. Millie looked down at her baby. It would be dreadful to have\nto give up her brooding hours! But Ellen would stay, of course, and she\nhoped that now she was cured of her foolishness. Amos stood trembling\nby the door. He wished to speak to them all, to reprove them, to attack\nthem, to insult them, even Grandfather, but most of all Millie. But it\nwould only make matters worse. He saw with relief that Grandfather was\nrising and he stepped out and waited for him on the doorstone.\n\nMatthew was mistaken about Ellen. She was not crying; she was standing\nupright, listening at last like the prodigal in a far country to a\ncall. She went quietly about the house, bringing from the attic two\nsatchels and putting into them the few things which she owned. Each\nmotion had the deliberation of an act long planned. When she had\nfinished she undressed and lay down.\n\nIt was quite in character for Ellen next morning to wash the breakfast\ndishes. Afterwards she changed her dress and appeared in the kitchen,\nthe smaller satchel in her hand.\n\n\"Good-bye, Millie.\"\n\nMillie, sitting at ease, stared. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I'm going away; I told you so last evening. I've written Mrs.\nSassaman's address on this piece of paper so that you'll know just\nwhere I am. When I'm settled I'll write and Matthew will send my other\nsatchel. It's packed in my room.\"\n\n\"He didn't think you were going!\" Millie grew pale. Matthew was, she\nbelieved, offended with her. \"He's in the field.\"\n\n\"Tell him good-bye for me.\"\n\n\"Are you going to walk to the station?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nLike a paralyzed person Millie submitted to Ellen's kiss; then she\nlooked at the closing door and round the kitchen. The washing was to\nbe done, and the ironing and baking and cooking and sweeping. In her\ndismay she forgot even her sleeping baby; rising, she sped out past the\nbarn and across the fields to Matthew.\n\nEllen walked rapidly. She did not analyze her feeling and she did not\nknow whether she was excited or calm, glad or sorry; she knew only that\nshe was free. At the end of the second mile she paused. Before her the\nroad sloped steeply to the creek; beyond the creek the town climbed\nthe hill. To the right in the hollow, stood the steep-roofed buildings\nand Grandfather's cottage and Amos's schoolhouse. She could hear the\ndroning voices of the children; not in fact, because it was too early\nin the morning for school, but in memory. She saw the old trees and the\nlambs at play and the little cemetery so close to the road. Ah, she\nmust hurry! Invisible arms seemed to reach out for her; she felt her\nheart softening, her eyes filling with tears. Should she run in and say\ngood-bye to Grandfather? He was a very old man and she might not see\nhim again. But, no, she hastened down the hill, across the bridge and\nup the broad street to the station, scarcely able to see through tears.\n\nThere, startled, she beheld Amos whose beauty was spectral.\n\n\"I had a feeling you would go, but none of them believed it,\" he said,\nlooking back over his shoulder as though he feared detection.\n\n\"Yes, I'm going.\" Ellen was frightened. Would he try to keep her?\n\n\"Can't you change your mind?\"\n\nEllen shook her head. She heard with relief the whistle of the train.\n\n\"I shall pray for you!\"\n\n\"Thank you, Amos.\"\n\n\"I needn't say to you, 'Be good!'\"\n\n\"No,\" said Ellen soberly. \"I'll be good without that.\"\n\nFrom a receding platform she waved her hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nGOLDSTEIN'S JEWELRY STORE\n\n\nThere was this time for Ellen no interested inspection of the\nlandscape. Her gaze, directed to the back of the next seat, did not\nlift to the hat of its occupant, but remained fixed upon the dusty red\nplush. In the fields men and women were cutting corn, their blue jeans\nsuits the color of the river which reflected in a darker tone the clear\nsky. Here and there showed a red or yellow branch and there were masses\nof weeds which were already brown.\n\nDuring her journey, which seemed like the day of Matthew's wedding,\nboth long and short, Ellen made futile efforts to assemble and arrange\nher thoughts. The act which she was now executing she had dreamed of\ninnumerable times, but her rage with Matthew and Millie had driven her\nto it before she was wholly prepared for independence. Her thoughts\nrecurred bitterly to the scene of the evening before. Millie was\nevil-minded, hateful; she had bewitched Matthew into marrying her by\npretending to be better than she was; she persuaded him now to claim\neverything for himself, to prevent Ellen from going to school in order\nthat she herself might have more.\n\nShe suspected that it was Millie who had suggested felling the trees.\nBut of that sacrilege she could not think and keep her composure. She\nheard the rasping sound of the wood saw; she watched the mighty trunks\ncrash down, emitting almost human sounds of pain. Matthew should be\npunished; he should be made to suffer an equivalent for all that he had\nmade her suffer.\n\nShe understood, however, that one could not safely allow one's mind to\nbe forever occupied with one's wrongs. She now had her future in her\nown hands, and she did not doubt that work would be easily secured.\nIn the hundreds of stores there would be a place for her; where so\nmany persons were gathered all kinds of workers would be needed. She\ndid not doubt her ability to sell goods of any sort. She might find\nit necessary to take a humble position at first, but she would rise\nrapidly.\n\nWhen she reached the dark train-shed in Harrisburg, hands and knees\nwere trembling. The waiting-room was crowded with passengers for an\nexcursion train, and she felt the country-dweller's discomfort and\nirritation at being jostled. There had been no time to notify Mrs.\nSassaman, but she was like the sun, she did not move from place to\nplace. Ellen inquired the way to Hill Street and signaled the proper\ncar.\n\nBut the car did not stop. A second also sailed by, but the third was\ndriven by a motorman of friendlier spirit who motioned to the opposite\ncorner, and she climbed aboard, conscious of eyes upon her. She became\nimmediately aware that she did not look like the other women, that her\ndress and coat were a size too small, and that the style of her hat\nbore no relation to the present fashion.\n\nWhen she found at last the house of Mrs. Sassaman's sister, Mrs.\nLebber, she stood still in dismay. One of a sordid row hanging on the\nedge of a hillside above the railroad yards, even the bright September\nsunshine could not make it seem a possible abode. There must be a\nmistake! But a little marker on the house itself said \"Hill Street,\"\nand this was Number 34.\n\nDoubts were soon put to flight by the appearance of Mrs. Sassaman, a\nstouter, paler creature, but Mrs. Sassaman without question, who gazed\nat Ellen speechlessly while she held fast to the door.\n\n\"_Oh, thou dear peace!_\" she said at last. \"Ellen, is it you?\"\n\nEllen could not speak. Mrs. Sassaman cooed like a mourning dove.\n\n\"Did you come to see me once then, Ellen?\"\n\nEllen nodded, and Mrs. Sassaman opened the door wider upon an\natmosphere saturated with the steam of washing and scented with the\nodor of boiling sauerkraut, and led her into a little parlor where she\nsat down and put her satchel on the floor. Mrs. Sassaman's tears had\nbegun to flow and it was not until several moments had passed that she\ncould proceed.\n\n\"Well, Ellen!\" said she again.\n\n\"I have come to the city to work,\" explained Ellen, trying to express\nin her voice the courage which she believed she felt in her soul.\n\nMrs. Sassaman was not encouraging.\n\n\"Oh, Ellen, the city is an awful place! People, people, people, and\ndirt, dirt, dirt!\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid of it. I'm not going to stay here always. I mean to get\na place in a store, and I shall study in the evenings, until I've saved\nenough to go to college.\"\n\n\"Are you then still trying to be learned, Ellen?\"\n\n\"I'm going to college,\" said Ellen stubbornly. \"I thought perhaps I\ncould get a room where you lived.\"\n\n\"Here?\" said Mrs. Sassaman. Alas, by her desire to live on Hill Street\nEllen descended from the pedestal upon which the Levises should have\nremained exalted! \"I could ask my sister.\"\n\nMrs. Sassaman retired into a quarter nearer the source of the steam and\nthe odor, and returning brought with her a mournful replica of herself.\nMrs. Lebber had been the wife of a railroad conductor and had remained\nafter his sudden death in the house to which he had brought her as a\nbride. She had insurance and death benefits sufficient to support her\nbody and she had a grievance against the railroad company upon which\nshe fed her soul. Life had cruelly disappointed her. Like Mrs. Sassaman\nshe had expected to get married and to remain married and to be a\nclinging vine. She looked at Ellen with curiosity and disappointment.\n\n\"Is this then Ellen!\" The sentence was not interrogatory but\nexclamatory. It said, \"This the beautiful scion of a prosperous and\nfamous family of whom I have had to hear so much!\"\n\nShe sat down heavily.\n\n\"She would like if she could get a room here,\" exclaimed Mrs. Sassaman.\n\nMrs. Lebber stared in astonishment at Ellen. Mrs. Sassaman had shown no\nsisterly frankness in her recent accounts of the Levis family, but now\ntheir fallen state was plain. Mrs. Lebber had a harmless but inordinate\ncuriosity.\n\n\"Why does she leave her nice home?\" The question implied a doubt about\nthe niceness of the home.\n\n\"I wanted to come to the city to work.\"\n\n\"Her brother is married now.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you've made a mistake.\" Mrs. Lebber contemplated the faded\npicture of the railroad conductor above the mantelpiece. \"I never would\n'a' thought I would have to take any one in to live with me for money.\nI thought always that I would have it better than I do have it.\"\n\n\"And I too,\" mourned Mrs. Sassaman.\n\nEllen bent her head. This was a doleful beginning. But in her \"David\nCopperfield\" there was a picture of the hero sitting with his satchel\nbeside him, as she was sitting now. The recollection heartened her.\n\n\"I guess you could have the little room,\" said Mrs. Lebber; \"that is,\nif it is you good enough.\"\n\nEllen carried her satchel up the stairs. The room indicated contained a\nbed, a bureau, and a chair; the remaining space measured about six feet\nby four. The lifted shade revealed the railroad yards and the sky.\n\n\"Just look once!\" cried Mrs. Lebber, pointing tragically to a drift of\nblack particles on the window-sill. \"Do all you can and it don't help.\"\n\nHaving agreed to Mrs. Lebber's modest price, Ellen partook of the\nsauerkraut and descended once more to the business section. Food had\nrestored her and she felt in herself a sense of adventure. She must\nexpect unpleasant experiences, she reminded herself, and when they came\nshe must remember her goal. She was in no immediate need of money,\nfor pinned inside her dress were five ten dollar bills for which she\nhad exchanged the nickels and dimes and quarters saved through her\nchildhood, and the spending money which Matthew had given her.\n\nShe acquired between the hours of one and five a good deal of\nexperience of store-keepers and their ways. She went first to the\ndepartment store near the station where Amos bought his books and\nquestioned the clerk nearest the door. The clerk looked at her\ncuriously and directed her to an office on the second floor.\n\n\"I'd like to fix that country pippin up.\"\n\n\"She'll fix herself up,\" was the short reply from her nearest neighbor.\n\"Give her time!\"\n\nIn the office Ellen's name and age and address were recorded by a\nyoung woman who spoke to her through a brass grill. Had she had\nexperience in clerking? No. Training in business college? No. How\nmuch education--High School? Ellen thought she had had at least an\nequivalent. The clerk blotted her book with an air of finality.\n\n\"Have you a place for me?\"\n\n\"Not now, of course. We take on extras when the holiday trade begins.\nWe'll let you hear from us.\"\n\nIn a few other establishments Ellen's name and history were recorded,\nbut in most places she was answered merely by a shake of the head.\nEvery one, she realized, looked at her last summer's gingham.\n\nFinally in a little jewelry store near the entrance to the subway\nthrough which the street descended under the railroad, she was\nsuccessful. The articles in the crowded window looked very valuable,\nthough they were paste and plated ware. The customers were chiefly men,\npassengers from the trains who stopped to have their watches regulated\nand to spend a few minutes of spare time. The proprietor listened to\nEllen with interest and engaged her promptly, promising her six dollars\na week and an advance if she did well. He looked at her even more\nsharply than he listened to her, and when she had gone he nodded his\nsatisfaction.\n\nMrs. Lebber did not view this engagement with approval.\n\n\"Is he a married man, this Mr. Goldstein?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Are you there alone with him in his store?\"\n\n\"No; men repair watches in a little room at the back.\"\n\nMrs. Lebber shook her head.\n\n\"There are very bad people in the city. Most are bad.\"\n\nEllen recalled Millie's account of the experiences of her acquaintances\nwho went to the city to find work and who were set upon as though\nthey were lambs venturing into the lairs of wolves. She scorned both\nMillie's tales and Mrs. Lebber's fears.\n\nShe went to her room and unpacked her belongings; then by the dim light\nshe wrote to Matthew asking him to forward her larger satchel. Having\nwiped away a few angry tears, she opened her algebra and fixed her mind\nupon it.\n\nWhen she laid her head on her pillow she felt under her cheek the sharp\npoints of the black dust she had seen on her window-sill and had felt\nunder her hand as she touched the furniture. Sometimes a light shower\nfell upon her cheek. The trains had thundered in the abyss all the\nevening, but she had a vague notion that they would now go to bed.\nInstead their activity increased; they seemed to come in the window and\ngo out the door, to threaten the foundations of the house.\n\nFinding sleep impossible she considered the weapons with which she was\nto fight her battles. The education which was so superior to that of\nher country neighbors was, it seemed, unfortunately not correlated with\nthe requirements of department stores. But she had a mind and she would\nlearn. In the second place, she had physical strength. She did not\ncount in the least upon her curly hair, her clear skin, her dark eyes,\nand her round figure, nor realize that it was these possessions which\nhad won her her first situation.\n\nHaving exhausted herself as a subject for study, she thought of Mrs.\nSassaman, who had changed. In the light of the old days she decided\nthat Mrs. Sassaman, by turns silent and communicative and frequently on\nthe verge of tears, had \"something on her mind.\"\n\nShe went to work the next morning, having made up for sleep by a cup of\nstrong coffee. Her employer had opened his shop and was now finishing\nthe sweeping of his floor, a task which was to be hers from now on.\n\n\"I guess it won't hurt your dress,\" he said pleasantly.\n\nEllen did not catch the inner meaning of his remark.\n\n\"You might get a little something new once,\" suggested Mr. Goldstein.\n\"Just a new waist, perhaps; it would improve you.\"\n\nHe showed Ellen where she was to stand.\n\n\"There by the window. I'll look after the back of the shop. The women\nhave sure always the easy time, ain't it so?\"\n\nEllen perched upon a high stool behind the counter and looked out at\nthe passing throng of men and women from neighboring villages. She\ncaught a man's wandering glance; he entered and offered a watch which\nneeded attention. Having directed him to Mr. Goldstein, who carried\nhis watch to the workroom at the rear, Ellen looked again toward the\nstreet. A second passer-by met her eye and came in, requesting a chain\nfrom the case before her. The chains were plainly labeled, a sale was\nsoon consummated and Mr. Goldstein took the burden of making change.\nThe first customer stopped to speak to her on his way out, but was\ninterrupted by the arrival of a third.\n\n\"I'll be back when you're not so busy,\" he promised with reference--at\nleast so she thought--to the purchase of a chain for his repaired watch.\n\nThere are a good many empty-minded men who turn aside at the glance\nof a pair of dark and straightforward eyes, but the supply is\nnot inexhaustible. The middle of the morning brought a period of\ncomparative idleness, when Mr. Goldstein joined the corps of workmen\nand Ellen sat with folded hands; at noon there was another season of\nactivity followed by another period of idleness. During this period her\nheart suddenly jumped. What could she not accomplish in these hours!\nShe brought with her the next morning her General History.\n\nThe morning stream of pedestrians interested her, though she never got\na long look at it, so rapid was the entrance of customers. When trade\nslackened and Mr. Goldstein had gone to his watch-mending, she opened\nher book. She was entirely innocent of any intention to steal his time,\nand he was for a while ignorant of the theft, since he made the opening\nof the shop-door which was her signal for laying down her book, his\nsignal for a return. She studied a large and never-to-be-forgotten\nportion of General History. Her book served a minor purpose; she no\nlonger caught the eyes of passers-by.\n\nFate was not so partial that she kept Mr. Goldstein forever in\nignorance of this offense against all the laws of contract between\nemployer and employee. He found before the end of the week Ellen's\nbook under the counter; he heard with irritation the amused comments\nof his friends. If he had caught her in the beginning of her duplicity\nhe would merely have admonished her, but he realized that she had got\nthe better of him for almost a week--not an easy matter, he proudly\nboasted. He dismissed her with eloquence.\n\n\"Did you think I couldn't get no other girls that you could try to make\nsuch a fool of me, say? Did you think I run a university? The men on\nthe street say to me, 'Say, is it true that you employ a reader to sit\nin your window all the time and read a book?' They ask me do you read\nto me while I work and if it is the Scripture. You can go, and there is\nyour pay.\"\n\nA pale Ellen stared at him.\n\n\"I waited on everybody who came in!\"\n\n\"Did you think waiting on everybody who came in was what I had you\nfor?\" inquired Mr. Goldstein with scorn. \"I do the waiting.\"\n\n\"What did you engage me for?\" she asked, bewildered.\n\nMr. Goldstein believed that she was as innocent as she seemed.\n\n\"Nobody will come in here to see an old man, will they? I engaged you\nbecause you had black eyes.\"\n\nEllen's black eyes were for a moment not visible. Then she put on her\nhat and took the docked wages held out to her. She was not at first\ninsulted, she was only humiliated. But on the way up the dreary hill\nher sense of outrage grew. Her eyes filled with tears; she longed for\nher room and for a chance to cry. She felt homeless, and forlorn. She\nhad been driven from her own home and she had no other.\n\nThen in Mrs. Lebber's dismal little hall she stood still. In the parlor\nsat the last person whom she wished to see at this moment--Matthew,\nwith her satchel beside him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nA CLOCK RUNS DOWN\n\n\nMatthew had undertaken a large stint of ploughing on the Monday when\nEllen went away. The field in which he worked lay on the same ridge\nas the woodland and commanded a wide stretch of fertile land and\ncommodious barns and houses and beautiful groups of trees. The soil was\nrich and soft and turned easily, and the two horses knew their business\nso well and needed so little attention that there was time for many\npleasant thoughts.\n\nBut his thoughts were not pleasant. Millie's remark to Ellen had\noffended him; she had behaved like her rude sisters whom he detested.\nHe would admonish her gently and persuade her to apologize; she would\nbe glad, he was sure, to put herself in the right.\n\nPresently he began to meditate upon his experience at State College,\nto reconstruct the lectures of which he remembered every principle if\nnot every word, to follow again the laboratory experiments. He had not\nyet recalled his father's reminder that even if one became a farmer\nscience might be useful. He liked to think of the young men whom he had\nmet from various parts of the State, all at work to improve the soil,\nthough it was probable that he would have taken no such pleasure in\nsimilar aspirations on the part of his immediate neighbors.\n\nAs he turned his horses in the lee of the wood he remembered uneasily\nhow Ellen had always come to him in the troubles of her childhood.\nSometimes she had cried noisily so that he was ashamed of her--she had\nnever gone silently away as she did last night.\n\nAmos, as well as Ellen, Matthew thought, had a ground of offense\nagainst Millie. He believed that Amos liked to be thought immune to\nlove and did not wish to have even friendly relations with any woman.\nHe thought with faint contempt of a man so young who chose a life\nof school-teaching and preaching when he might grasp the handles of\na plough on a cool and pleasant morning. He would have no sympathy\nwith Grandfather's desire for a return to the ancient conventual\nestablishment. His own plans for the future included a very different\nimprovement of the church property; he foresaw the ultimate collapse or\nthe enforced removal of the old buildings and the erection of a small\nbright meeting-house with Amos as preacher. But no matter what the\nfuture might bring, there could be nothing between Amos and Ellen. The\nidea was odious.\n\nHe had ploughed across and back several times when he saw Millie\nadvancing along the edge of the field. Hoping she had come to say that\nshe was sorry she had teased Ellen, he left the horses standing with\ntheir noses against the fence and went to meet her. She was flushed and\nout of breath.\n\n\"She has gone!\" she called. \"She took a satchel!\"\n\nMatthew asked stupidly, \"Who has gone?\"\n\n\"Why, Ellen! Leaving me with all the work and on Monday yet!\"\n\n\"Where has she gone?\"\n\n\"To Harrisburg to Mrs. Sassaman, as she said she would. She left the\nnumber and you are to send the big satchel.\"\n\nMatthew's first coherent thought was that the neighbors would say that\nhe had driven Ellen away. Nothing could so entirely and permanently\ndisgrace him. He laid the blame for this unfortunate happening where it\nbelonged.\n\n\"It's all your fault!\"\n\nMillie stood still, flushing, like Matthew, a deep red, and then\ngrowing pale. The moment marked the end of one era in her life and the\nbeginning of another.\n\n\"My fault! When you wouldn't leave her go to school and wouldn't leave\nher have her money! I guess you couldn't get any one to agree with\nyou in that! She has nothing against me whatever; she was as pleasant\nas could be and she kissed me good-bye. Did she even walk out here to\nsay good-bye to you? No, she didn't. She told me to say good-bye.\"\nMillie's voice grew shriller and shriller. She forgot that hitherto she\nhad never \"had words\" with Matthew and that she had proudly contrasted\nherself in this respect with her father and mother.\n\n\"You had no right to speak to her the way you did.\"\n\n\"Ach, I was only teasing!\"\n\n\"We never alluded to such matters in our family. Ellen never teased me\nabout you. My father wouldn't have allowed it.\"\n\nA scornful \"Your father!\" was upon the tip of Millie's tongue and\ncrowding upon it even more disagreeable and pointed retorts. But her\nneed of help was uppermost.\n\n\"I have all the heavy work!\"\n\nHere was a new and inconvenient aspect of Ellen's departure!\n\n\"Couldn't you get along, taking it slowly?\"\n\nMillie burst into tears. She had expected Matthew to start at once to\nbring Ellen back.\n\n\"Of course I couldn't! If you can't get Ellen to come back you'll have\nto go for Esther.\"\n\nMatthew's heart sank.\n\n\"I can't go till this evening.\"\n\n\"You could if you only thought so,\" said Millie. Then she ran back to\nthe house.\n\nMatthew's dinner was poor and the final touches were put upon it by\nhimself. He asked Millie to describe Ellen's going and she did so\nsullenly. He looked at the address which Ellen had left and felt more\nat ease. He would write to her and tell her that he was sorry she\nwas offended, and he was sure that she would return. He remembered\nwith some small remorse but with a deeper pleasure her distress at\nseparation from him.\n\nIn the evening he drove to the K\u00f6nigs and brought back his\nsister-in-law, who accepted his invitation with alacrity. Esther was\na short, broad young woman who divided her time between periods of\ncyclonic activity and equally intensive idleness. She had had a busy\nsummer and had long desired to visit Millie. Her mother had described\nEllen's housekeeping admiringly and Esther anticipated a season of\nrefreshing leisure. Of course she would help when it was necessary,\nbut there would be no dreary and compulsory round of cooking and\ndish-washing. Matthew's invitation indicated that he had got over the\nhaughty feelings of superiority which she had ascribed to him. In\nshort, Esther was in capital good humor.\n\nShe had not been in the Levis kitchen a minute when she observed that\nEllen's housekeeping was not of the character which she had expected.\nThe dinner dishes waited in the sink and the soiled clothes which\nshould have been washed and dried and folded down for ironing were\nstill untouched in a basket under the table.\n\n\"Why, where's your maid?\" she asked jokingly.\n\n\"She's gone away,\" answered Millie excitedly. \"She--\"\n\n\"She's visiting Mrs. Sassaman, at 34 Hill Street in Harrisburg,\"\nexplained Matthew carefully. \"There Mrs. Sassaman lives with a sister.\"\n\n\"So!\" Esther discovered the ulterior motive in Matthew's invitation and\nMatthew, recognizing her smartness, hated her the more. Millie gave her\na glance which promised that she should know what was to be known.\n\nFor two days Matthew continued his ploughing, then a driving rain made\noutdoor work impossible. In such weather he busied himself in the barn\nor, when he had figuring to do, in the kitchen. It had been a pleasure\nto him to lift his eyes and see Millie sitting by the window or Ellen\nmoving quietly about. He often called Ellen to look over a sum which he\ncould check in no other way and she sometimes discovered mistakes.\n\nNow he found it impossible to sit in the house which was filled with\nincessant clamor of tongues. Millie's laugh rang as loud as Esther's.\nEsther had brought an accumulation of neighborhood gossip gathered\nduring the many months when Millie had been deprived of this form\nof entertainment, and the stories lost nothing by her telling. When\nMatthew and Millie were in their room at night, Millie repeated others\nwhich Esther had told in his absence. It was pleasant, she thought, to\nbe married and to have in consequence no reserves whatever.\n\n\"But I don't like to hear such things,\" Matthew interrupted her\ngravely. \"I've never been used to anything like this. My father--\"\n\nMillie turned on her side with a contemptuous \"Ach, you!\"\n\nMatthew lay very still. The cloudy night was soundless; no cock crowed\nor distant dog barked and even the oak trees did not whisper. He\npretended to be asleep, but he was kept awake by a vague, apprehensive\nunhappiness. Suddenly he heard a strange, uncanny sound, a queer sort\nof metallic death-rattle. He sat up. Millie had heard nothing; her\nbreathing was the soft, even breathing of sleep. He slipped from bed\nand went out into the hall. Everything was perfectly still and the warm\nair was scented with the comfortable odor of bread sponge. Nothing\nstirred. Yet the strange noise had been unmistakable.\n\nThen he was aware of something out of the common. The house did not\nseem natural, something was amiss. Suddenly the intense silence offered\nan explanation. The old clock whose loud tick had not failed as long\nas he could remember had run down! Since his father's death Ellen had\nwound it each morning, but he had forgotten it.\n\nHe felt himself shaken with a chill. He was not superstitious, but\nthere was something ominous about the ceasing of motion which had\nbeen continuous for so many years. He returned to his bed but could\nnot sleep. The wind was rising; he could hear its whisper among the\ndead and dying leaves. Sometimes in her little girlhood Ellen had been\nfrightened by the noise in the oak trees and had crept into his bed for\ncomfort. He had not known when she came, but he found her there, sweet\nand drowsy, when he woke.\n\nThen the voice of the wind became more importunate than the thought of\nEllen. It was, like the ticking of the clock, a part of his childhood.\nShivering though he was, he rose and looked out at the dark wall of\ntrees. If they were gone there would be a silence at night like the\nsilence in the house at this moment. He saw the bare ground with\nits ugly stumps. His intention to fell the grove became suddenly\nincredible. The tears began to run down his cheeks. Before he returned\nto bed he knelt and prayed, but his prayer did not ease his discomfort.\nLike Millie he had come to the end of an era.\n\nTo his eyes the abode of Mrs. Lebber looked more forbidding than it had\nto Ellen, who tolerated it as a merely temporary abode. Having been\nreceived with cold surprise by Mrs. Sassaman, he sat down to wait.\n\n\"You'll think I haven't bettered myself!\" said she as though Matthew\nwas to blame for her present situation. She could hardly resist\npicturing to him in plain language the unpleasantness and actual\ndanger of Ellen's life in a store with a lot of rascals--what could a\nSeventh-Dayer know about life in the city?--but it seemed disloyal to\nmention Ellen's affairs, and she withdrew, leaving him alone. He could\nhear a continual whispering from the kitchen and when Ellen arrived he\nclosed the door of the little room which with its drawn shades seemed\nlike a prison cell.\n\n\"Why, Matthew!\" said Ellen. She sat down quickly, her heart filled\nwith murderous thoughts of Mr. Goldstein. She felt a crazy temptation\nto ask Matthew to go to his store and beat him.\n\nMatthew came to the point at once. He sat squarely in his chair, his\nstrong, brown hands clasped between his knees, a handsome figure.\n\n\"Millie was wrong to speak as she did, Ellen. We know there is nothing\nbetween you and Amos, either on his part or yours. Won't you come back?\"\n\nEllen's eyes filled.\n\n\"I didn't mind that so much. I'm not here on that account.\"\n\nHe saw dark circles round her eyes. She had grown thinner. He had never\nbefore looked critically at Ellen.\n\n\"You aren't well!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am.\"\n\nHe looked still more intently; seeing for the first time the fine\nproportions of her body and the shape of her beautiful head. The\ncity-dwellers would make of her, he thought fearfully, an object of\ndesire!\n\n\"Ellen, I'll try again to make my position plain. You want to be a\ndoctor; Father gave you that idea. I don't know how it was when he was\na young man, but I know how it is now. I've been away to school and\nI know what is the attitude of the students to God and the Christian\nreligion. They are scoffers and blasphemers; immersion and Foot-washing\nand all our beliefs and customs are subjects for amusement to them.\"\nHis cheeks burned; he had believed for a while that he was an apostle\nsent to a wicked and perverse university. \"I'd as soon cut off my right\nhand as help you to such an education. I know, too, what most churches\nare like. The preachers are so educated that they can't preach the pure\ngospel. When people are educated they think they have found ways of\ngetting round God!\"\n\nEllen listened curiously. It seemed to her that he was speaking as\nthough to convince himself.\n\n\"Why do you blame those things on education? Think how different Father\nwas from Brother Reith and Brother Miller!\"\n\n\"But Father was unbelieving!\"\n\nEllen lifted heavy eyes and looked at Matthew.\n\n\"I'm unbelieving, too, then. I think it's selfish to think so much\nabout saving your soul as though that were all!\"\n\nMatthew might have answered, \"or about educating your mind,\" but he was\nnot quick like Ellen. He had determined to be patient and he answered\ngently, \"It _is_ all.\"\n\n\"I brought your satchel,\" he went on, \"but I hoped I could take it\nback.\"\n\nEllen shook her head. She thought again of Mr. Goldstein and with\ndifficulty restrained her tears.\n\n\"What kind of a place have you?\"\n\n\"I haven't any,\" she confessed.\n\n\"You said you were in a store.\"\n\n\"I have been dismissed.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I studied a little when there were no customers. The man\ndidn't like it.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do now?\"\n\n\"I'm going to find another place.\"\n\nMatthew took her hands in his.\n\n\"Ellen,\" said he in a low tone, \"come home.\"\n\nEllen bent her head upon her breast.\n\n\"I won't cut the trees, Ellen. I was mad to think of it. I don't know\nwhat got into me. I've sent word to Umbesheiden.\"\n\nShe made no answer.\n\n\"And Millie shall never speak to you that way again.\"\n\nShe seemed to be struggling in a rising sea. Matthew was fond of her;\nshe guessed by some obscure instinct that he had altered and developed,\nthat he was fonder of her than of Millie. She was tired, the journey\nbefore her seemed interminable and beyond her strength. But she shook\nher head.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"I'm not going to give up.\"\n\nWhen Matthew reached Ephrata he went to the livery stable and got his\nhorse and drove slowly to the farm. Tired and depressed, he longed to\nsit quietly and hold his son in his arms.\n\nBut his kitchen seemed to be filled with Esther, rocking at the end of\na busy day while Millie prepared supper. She held little Matthew and\nsang to him a coarse English song. In the change from one civilization\nto another she, like many other young persons, had seized upon that\nwhich was least worthy. Matthew was about to reprove her when he\nrecollected that little Matthew was still too young to be harmed.\nBefore he could be hurt, Millie would have to arrange some other way\nof running her house.\n\nAfter supper he walked to the Kloster where his eye fell upon a scene\ngrown familiar to him during long evenings. The light from the brass\nlamp shone upon Grandfather's white beard and upon the golden hair\nof Amos bent above \"The Mystic Dove.\" Sometimes Grandfather cast an\napproving look upon Amos and sometimes Amos cast a stealthy glance at\nGrandfather.\n\nMatthew sat down where his father had once sat. He crossed one knee\nover the other and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. There was in\nhis heart a new and irritating undercurrent of astonishment--how could\nhuman beings live like this?\n\n\"I've seen Ellen,\" said he.\n\nGrandfather looked at him without understanding.\n\n\"You've seen Ellen? Why not?\"\n\n\"She went to Harrisburg as she said she would. There she's living with\nMrs. Sassaman and she declares she won't come back.\"\n\nGrandfather clasped and unclasped his hands.\n\n\"We must pray.\"\n\nMatthew caught Amos's burning gaze and believed it to be one of anger\nat this mention of Ellen.\n\n\"She's living in a miserable neighborhood in a house hanging over the\nrailroad. She had a place in a store, but she's been dismissed. Now\nshe's going to hunt for another place. She looks sick.\" He delivered\nhis short sentences as though they were so many missiles hurled at\nGrandfather. It seemed to Grandfather that they were missiles hurled at\nEllen. The right to judge Ellen belonged, he believed, to him.\n\n\"Matthew,\" he said, white and trembling, \"you mustn't be too hard on\nthe little one.\"\n\nNow Matthew trembled. Nerves were on edge, peace had gone from his\nhouse and heart with Ellen. It was not only that he missed her,\nbut that there had appeared, as though revealed by her departure,\ncharacteristics in Millie to which he had hitherto been blind. It was\nnot that Millie had degenerated; it was merely that he saw her suddenly\nas she was. Her habits of life were those of the K\u00f6nig family. His\ntable was no longer neatly set; bread was softened by being dipped\ninto coffee; his house was untidy; the necessities of little Matthew\nwere attended to unblushingly before every one. He had discovered with\namazement that a man's mind is not at rest even when he is converted\nand is a husband and father. He had in the last week had moments of\nsick regret when he stood for many minutes with his hands on the\nhandles of his plough, preoccupied with wicked desires for freedom. He\nhad, as Ellen surmised, changed radically. A late-born activity of mind\ntortured him--it was as though his Milhausen inheritance had had its\nway with him, had led him into a trap and there had abandoned him.\n\n\"I was perhaps hard on Ellen,\" he said hotly. \"But where did I learn to\nbe hard on her?\"\n\n\"Not from me,\" protested Grandfather. \"She is the object of my constant\nprayers.\"\n\nMatthew felt his skin tingle. He drew a deep breath as though he would\ninhale more air than the little cottage could furnish. He seemed to\nshake his shoulders free of some burden, and he began to talk like a\nmadman.\n\n\"You frightened her! You threatened her with hell! She was afraid. You\nfrightened me. You didn't let me think for myself. I wish I too had run\naway!\"\n\nThen like a petulant boy he departed, slamming the door. The quiver\nwhich shook the cottage seemed to transmit itself to the outer air and\nthence to the Saal and Saron. Leaning heavily on his chair Grandfather\nlowered himself to his knees.\n\nMatthew strode through the gate into the graveyard, catching his breath\nonce more. He knew that he had acted the fool, but he didn't care, he\nwas so desperately unhappy and confused. As he drew near the farm he\nheard the wind in the trees. He stood still; the sound seemed to carry\nsome message, but he could not interpret it.\n\nWhen he opened the door he saw at first only the faint glow of the\nfire in the stove, a pleasant sight on a cool evening. But he heard\nsmothered laughter and saw that on the old settle Esther sat with a\nbeau. She hailed him with gay and hateful familiarity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nFETZER ENGAGES A NEW MAID\n\n\nEllen spent a dreary Sunday within doors and from time to time shed\ntears. She had not minded rain in the country, but this day was\nintolerable. All the afternoon Mrs. Lebber and Mrs. Sassaman sat at the\nparlor windows looking out into the dingy street and alternating sigh\nwith sigh. She went with them to evening service in a little church,\nwhere the singing was wretched and the sermon grim. The scanty and\nspiritless congregation dispersed silently and she bit her lips to keep\nfrom crying.\n\nThe following morning she started out once more to find a position.\nIn the sordid district behind the Capitol she saw, next to a Jewish\nsynagogue with strange lettering above its door, a laundry whose sign\nannounced \"Girl Wanted,\" and there applied. The second of her assets,\nphysical strength, was to serve her now. In a few minutes she found\nherself engaged and being instructed in the art of running wet towels\nthrough a hot mangle. She put into her work a fierce, triumphant\nrepudiation of Mr. Goldstein.\n\nSteam laundries are run like jewelry stores for the benefit of their\nowners, and steady work is required. At the end of the second day\nEllen, aching from head to foot, walked home in a cold wind. The third\nevening she cried with pain, but she went back, believing that if she\nfailed now she would fail altogether.\n\nMrs. Sassaman wept over her, brought her hot herb tea, and finally in\nan excess of emotion told what was on her mind.\n\n\"That one toward Lancaster, he has been here.\"\n\nEllen was puzzled.\n\n\"You knew there was a man there, Ellen.\" Mrs. Sassaman blushed as she\ntried to explain the extent of her suitor's devotion. \"I used to know\nhim, he is a lame man, but kind. He will have me, it seems.\"\n\n\"You mean a lover?\" said Ellen.\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\n\"Are you going to take him?\" A humorous glance made Ellen's eyes look\nlike her father's.\n\n\"I don't know.\" Mrs. Sassaman now wept outright.\n\n\"Of course you are!\"\n\n\"He isn't like your father.\"\n\nEllen did not understand the implication--no one was like her father.\nAt the thought of him she was overcome. She had been here for two\nmonths and had learned nothing; the exhausting work at the laundry took\nall one's time, and even Sundays had been profitless, spent as they\nwere in weariness and idleness. Her life was narrower than it had been\nat home and Mrs. Sassaman and Mrs. Lebber were even less congenial\nthan the companions she had left behind. The amount of her savings was\ngrowing, but very slowly.\n\nShe wished Mrs. Sassaman well, bought her a wedding present which she\ncould ill afford, and on Thanksgiving Day accompanied her and her\nfarmer to the preacher's. Mrs. Lebber provided a heavy and bountiful\ndinner which she felt to be a waste.\n\n\"She will be back,\" she prophesied. \"I don't mean that anything will go\nwrong between them; that is not what I mean at all. I mean that she and\nI do not have good luck with husbands. Between us we have already lost\nthree. I think this one is so yellow. It is not that I cannot marry\nthat I sit here.\"\n\nOn the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving Ellen went to walk. The\nair was mild, and the holiday on Thursday had saved her from Sunday's\nusual exhaustion. She walked down to the railroad station, intending,\nnone too cheerfully, to go over the course which she and her father had\nfollowed on a happy day. In the Capitol she walked from room to room\nreconsecrating herself to the divinity which she worshiped.\n\nThen she sought the river street. It was not yet twilight and she\nwalked slowly as she and her father had walked. She crossed a bridge\nand looked back at the domes and spires. The city, nestling against a\nbackground of blue hills, took on in the afternoon sunshine the rich\ncolors of a much older settlement. She returned slowly, conscious of\nthe beauty and of her own misery and went northward as she and her\nfather had gone.\n\nHere in the park, opposite the gray house which she had admired, they\nhad stood. The house remained exactly as it was. She sat down, no\nsuspicion of its ownership, no premonition of a strange future stirring\nher, and looked now out across the quiet river and now at the house.\nOnly a few of the shades were raised--had the occupants died also?\nPresently she believed that she saw at a window in the third story a\nface with a black mark upon it, but she did not regard it curiously\nor wonder whether it was in some way disfigured, or whether a shadow\nfell upon it; it was a face dull to her and her miseries. She dried her\neyes at first gently and then with an angry pressure, fearing that she\nwas going to cry hysterically as she had done several times after her\nfather's death.\n\nThe gathering twilight made her the more conspicuous and a man\npresently took a place on the other end of the bench and asked her her\ntrouble. His motive was simple friendliness, but he reminded her of the\ncreatures who had come at the stupid beckoning of her eyes into the\njewelry store, and rising quickly she crossed the street, blind to a\nrapidly approaching automobile. She escaped all but a glancing blow of\nthe fender, but that threw her against the curb.\n\nPicking herself up, bruised and angry and tremulous, she found herself\nsurrounded by the driver of the automobile, the stranger from whom she\nhad flown, and Fetzer, the owner of the shadowy face which she had\nseen at the upper window. Fetzer was alone and lonely and she had been\nwatching Ellen. She had a passion to which all else was subservient,\nthe finding of persons as trustworthy as herself to serve Stephen, and\nshe had been looking at Ellen critically from across the street as she\noften looked at strong, plainly dressed young women. Ellen assured them\nthat she was not hurt.\n\n\"It was my own fault. I was in a hurry and I didn't watch.\"\n\nThe stranger came forward.\n\n\"I saw you were in some trouble and I thought I might help you. I\ndidn't mean to frighten you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I understand,\" said Ellen earnestly.\n\nThe chauffeur protested his innocence to Fetzer.\n\n\"You saw her run across, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Fetzer laid her hand on Ellen's arm and spoke in an idiom\nfamiliar to her. \"Come in here once a little where I live.\"\n\nThe chauffeur was still disturbed.\n\n\"I don't want to put the blame on any one else and run off.\"\n\nFetzer saw three boys approaching rapidly.\n\n\"I saw how it happened--it'll be all right. Now you come with me.\"\n\nWith authority she led Ellen through a little door at the back of the\nhouse, and there in a small room Ellen saw a sofa and sank down upon it.\n\nWhen she opened her eyes again it seemed to her that she was at home\nand that Mrs. Sassaman was attending to some childish injury. Gradually\nthe articles of furniture appeared, and presently she realized that the\nwoman bending over her was not Mrs. Sassaman, but a stranger.\n\n\"You just lay still,\" Fetzer insisted with authority. \"I watched you\nand I said to myself, 'There's one in trouble'; and I know what trouble\nis. I was coming to speak to you when you ran across the street. Did\nyou eat already?\"\n\nEllen shook her head.\n\n\"I'll bet that's what ails you. Is any one expecting you?\"\n\nAgain Ellen shook her head.\n\n\"Then stay where you are.\"\n\nFetzer moved about a small adjoining dining-room. Presently she\nappeared in Ellen's field of vision wearing a white apron.\n\n\"Can you walk into the other room?\"\n\nWith the help of a firm arm Ellen made the journey. Now she saw Fetzer\nplainly, her neat little figure, her dreadfully scarred cheek, the\nblack patch across her eye, and the quick, queer motions of her little\nhead.\n\nShe ate slowly and with appetite. Tears threatened to interfere with\nthe process of swallowing, but she choked down food and tears together.\nThe little room with its white cloth and a few pictures and blooming\ngeraniums was, after Mrs. Lebber's grimy dining-room, like paradise.\nShe had heard from Millie enough stories about the luring of girls into\nmagnificent and evil resorts to have been very uneasy, but she was not\nuneasy in the least.\n\nAfter a while she ventured a pleasantry.\n\n\"My father used to tell about a man who said there were three things he\nwould never give up, the Democratic party, his hope of salvation, and\nhis good cup of coffee.\"\n\n\"That's me,\" said Fetzer, swallowing a long draught, \"except I'm no\nDemocrat.\"\n\nWhen the dishes were disposed of, she sat down by Ellen, an invitation\nto confidence in her one-sided glance. She believed in special\ndispensations of Providence, and she was sure that Providence had\nbrought Ellen here.\n\n\"Do you live in Harrisburg?\" she asked.\n\n\"I do now,\" answered Ellen after a tearful pause. \"I was born near\nEphrata. My parents are dead. I lived with Mrs. Sassaman and Mrs.\nLebber, but now Mrs. Sassaman is married. I worked in a store at first,\nbut now I work in a laundry.\"\n\n\"What is your name?\"\n\n\"Ellen Levis.\"\n\nThere was a brightening sparkle in Fetzer's eye. She liked Ellen and\nshe leaned forward and gazed at her more earnestly.\n\n\"Would you consider other work, perhaps?\"\n\n\"If I could better myself.\"\n\nFetzer's eye gleamed still more brightly.\n\n\"I'm housekeeper here. The family is away now, but they will soon\nbe back. The cook and the downstairs girl are colored and they live\noutside. We need an upstairs girl who will live here. The pay is eight\ndollars a week and you would have a good deal of time to yourself,\nespecially since you come from Lancaster County and know how to work. I\nsaw you sitting out there and you looked like a reliable girl.\"\n\nEight dollars a week! Mrs. Sassaman had received three. And she could\nsave it all! Other considerations were forgotten.\n\n\"Do you think I could fill the place?\"\n\n\"You can try. When can you come?\"\n\n\"I could come to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Could you walk upstairs to see your room?\"\n\nEllen believed the journey was possible, and Fetzer led the way into\nthe narrow hall through which they had entered and up two flights of\nstairs. There she pointed to a large bedroom.\n\n\"That is mine, and yours is here.\"\n\nEllen saw a small room with a narrow bed, a white bureau and a chair.\nShe saw also the river with its reflected lights.\n\n\"Oh, I believe I should like it!\" she said earnestly.\n\nAs they went downstairs Fetzer announced her intention of calling\nfor an automobile and accompanying her guest home. Ellen was not able\nto go alone--that was one reason. In the second place now that Ellen\nstood erect and lifted her head Fetzer felt her contract to be a little\nprecipitate.\n\nBut Fetzer found nothing amiss--indeed, she discovered that she had\nknown Mrs. Lebber's husband. From a place so dreary she was glad to\nescape. She trusted Mrs. Lebber because of the dinginess of her house\nand Mrs. Lebber trusted her because of her homeliness. She told Mrs.\nLebber the name of her employer, but neither to her nor to Ellen did\n\"Lanfair\" carry any significance.\n\nEllen lay uncomfortably on her hard bed. She was bruised and sore, but\nshe was excited and happy. No one else would have contemplated the\nchange in her fortunes with satisfaction. From being the center of the\nworld, she had become merely an unmarried sister-in-law, then a clerk\nin a store, then a mangler in a laundry, and now a housemaid, written\ndown in Mrs. Fetzer's housekeeping book as \"Ellen Lewis.\"\n\nBut she believed that the tide of fortune had turned. She counted on\nher fingers the black and white employees whom Fetzer had mentioned.\nFetzer had also said that extra women came to do the hardest cleaning.\nSurely there would be time to study!\n\nKept awake by her aching bones she saw a smoothly flowing river and a\nlittle table with books and tablets and neatly sharpened pencils.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nMASTER AND MISTRESS\n\n\nFetzer, though small of stature and retiring of mien, had no misgivings\nabout her ability to manage the Lanfair house. Her instructions to\nEllen were given with as much positiveness and intimacy of detail as\nthough human destinies waited upon the tying of an apron string.\n\nShe stood with Ellen at the head of the broad main stairway leading\nfrom the lower hall to the second floor, on every hand closed\nmysterious doors, and there admonished her. The early morning was\nbright and the river sparkled in the sun. Ellen's body was sore, but\nher spirit marched bravely.\n\n\"Now, what you don't need of this you don't have to take to yourself.\"\nFetzer cocked her smooth head upon one side and looked at Ellen, her\neye expressing increasing satisfaction with her acolyte. \"I give\nalways this instruction; some don't like it, but they do it; others\ndon't like it and they leave, and I'm glad they're gone--what _lumps_\nI had already--oh, my! Well, a bath every day, morning, afternoon, or\nnight, it makes no difference, but a bath.\" Mrs. Fetzer liked to say\n\"bath\"; the _th_ was an achievement, _v_ she had not conquered. \"In the\nmorning a blue dress and white apron--every day a clean one, you don't\nhave to do the washing nor yet the ironing. In the afternoon a black\ndress and a little apron and cap. I have some you can borrow. Rubber\nheels on your shoes and always a low woice. It should be our object\nin such a position to be as little seen and heard as possible with\nfaithfulness to our duty.\" The last sentence had been memorized from\n\"The Expert Maid and How to Train Her.\" \"We speak when we are spoken to\nand we hear nothing that is not meant for us to hear. The mistress in a\nwell-conducted home respects the independence of her maid and the maid\nrespects the independence of her mistress. The two spheres are on the\nsame plane, but they do not commingle.\n\n\"Now we go through the house.\" She spoke more briskly, glad that the\ntheoretical portion of her address was safely delivered. \"This is her\nsitting-room.\"\n\nEllen looked with awe at the large bay-windowed room with its shrouded\nfurniture.\n\n\"This is her bedroom and bath. Further back are guest-rooms and baths.\nNow on this other side are his bedroom and dressing-room, and from\nthere a stairway goes down to his office. Now the other rooms on that\nside are guest-rooms, too, except this small one which is for sewing\nand this one where brushes and brooms and such things are kept.\" She\npointed with pride to the shelves. \"Soap, towels, ammonia, cloths.\n\n\"Upstairs, beside our bedrooms are other rooms for company and\nstorage-rooms. These two floors are your care, and sometimes she may\nask you to button a dress or something. Mostly she don't like people\nround her.\"\n\nThis comment upon her future mistress confirmed Ellen in a vague\nsuspicion that Mrs. Lanfair was an old woman. It was like an old woman\nto need help and at the same time to resent it. She had the kindliest\nof intentions toward her.\n\nTaken downstairs she was presented to the cook; then she and Mrs.\nFetzer had their breakfast together in the little dining-room.\n\n\"They\" were coming home, Fetzer said, in three weeks, and after\nbreakfast preparations to receive them were begun. Windows were washed,\ncurtains were unpacked and hung, and rugs were unrolled from moth-proof\nwrappings. After the first few days Fetzer left Ellen to proceed alone\nwhile she directed other operations in distant parts of the house. So\npleased was she with her silent, capable assistant that, as she walked\nabout, even her gait a little sidewise, she sang her favorite revival\nsongs.\n\nHarrisburg seen from the river front was a different place from\nHarrisburg seen from above the railroad yards. One found refreshment\nfor one's eye at every glance, in fine old trees, beautiful against the\nwinter sky, in the broad river and in the distant movement of trains\non the other bank which suggested, not showers of grime, but romantic\njourneys. Heard at this distance their roar did not disturb sleep, but\ninduced pleasant dreams.\n\nOne had at hand food for one's soul. Fetzer exhibited with pride the\nlong parlors and the library with its many cases of books, its deep\nchairs, its blackened fireplace, and its shaded lamps. She saw the\nhunger in Ellen's eyes.\n\n\"You dare read them,\" she offered. \"I take the responsibility.\"\n\nEllen went with Fetzer to a Methodist church and there was presented as\n\"Miss Lewis.\" She felt for the first time the anomalous character of\nher position which was uncomfortable even though it was only temporary.\n\nFetzer corrected her but once. At her suggestion Ellen bought a winter\ndress and hat and coat, and when the new dress came home, she put it on\nand inspected herself in the glass. The view did not satisfy her. She\nstudied her profile, then she unbraided her thick hair and coiled it\nloosely on the top of her head. Ringlets escaped and curled back on her\nneck and over her forehead, low and broad and white, without wrinkle,\nlike the favorite forehead of medi\u00e6val romance. She put on her dress\nagain and smiled and flushed as she did long ago when she studied the\neffect of her red necktie.\n\nFetzer flushed, but she did not smile. She laced and interlaced her\nfingers and exhibited an uneasiness apparently inappropriate to the\noccasion. Like Stephen, she misunderstood entirely the vagaries of\nHilda's mind.\n\n\"I hardly knew you! It's all right for you and me when we're by\nourselves, but not for about your work. It's too fancy.\"\n\nEllen smiled and braided her hair in the old fashion at the back of her\nhead.\n\nIn mid-January Fetzer received the cablegram for which she had been\nwatching, and immediately the machinery of the establishment, so\ncarefully oiled and inspected, began to revolve. She remained cool,\nthough great matters waited upon her word.\n\nThe doors were opened into the beautiful rooms and were left open,\nshades were lifted, sunshine streamed in where it had been long\nexcluded, potted plants were set in jardini\u00e8res, magazines were\narranged in orderly rows on the library table, fires were laid and\nbells were tested. Even the odor of the house changed; the faint\nmustiness vanished, and a sensitive Ellen sniffed with delight the\nfragrance of flowers and the scents of fine soaps placed by her in\ntiled bathrooms.\n\nThrough a door under the stairway drifted a new odor, the faint,\npleasant smell of drugs. Sent to the offices she trembled with a sad\nand reminiscent delight. There were three large rooms in line--a\nwaiting-room with comfortable chairs and books and plants and a canary\nin a sunny window, an office with three desks and tall filing-cabinets,\nand beyond an examining-room from which opened a little laboratory. In\nthe second room a short, middle-aged woman in a blue serge dress stood\nbefore a filing-cabinet; in the third a tall nurse in a white uniform\nwas in the act of mounting a stepladder before one of many cupboards.\n\n\"Are you Ellen?\" the nurse called from the ladder. \"I'm Miss Knowlton\nand that is Miss MacVane. Fetzer says you work quietly and you don't\ndrop things. Those are fine compliments from her.\"\n\nEllen smiled. Miss MacVane lifted her head and glanced in her\ndirection, then bent closer to her work. Ellen went into the inner room\nand held out her hands for the bottles.\n\n\"Put them on the table, each shelf together.\"\n\nWhen the bottles were placed, she washed the shelves while Miss\nKnowlton examined the drugs, pouring some away and making frequent\nnotes on a tablet.\n\nThe next afternoon Ellen helped to complete the task. At five o'clock\neverything was in order, even to a little stand on Miss Knowlton's desk\nwhich held flasks of dilating fluids and droppers. Miss MacVane was\nfrequently called to the telephone.\n\n\"To-morrow, yes.\" The telephone rang again. \"To-morrow, yes. Nine\no'clock. I'll give you the first appointment. I'm sorry to hear that.\"\n\nMany persons, it seemed, awaited the return of Dr. Lanfair.\n\nFetzer went to the little side door, through which Ellen had learned\nall the employees went and came, to speak to silent Fickes, who brought\nround in succession three cars of different styles and who said that\ndoubtless the car which the boss brought home would be fit only for the\njunk-heap.\n\nEllen felt a growing excitement and a fear that she would not know her\npart. She depended upon Fetzer to support her, and Fetzer, as though\nshe understood her anxiety, patted her arm encouragingly.\n\nAt ten o'clock Fickes brought his master and mistress home. Ellen,\nbidden to open the door, saw Fetzer stand with one arm upon the other\nlike a feudal retainer while there entered a short, slender woman and a\ntall man.\n\nIt was the relation of one to the other in height which first\nstartled her--she had seen those figures before! For a moment she\nwas incredulous, then dumfounded; a moment more and she realized her\nstupidity. No wonder that her father had stared at this house! No\nwonder that he had come close to read the doctor's name! Her knees\ntrembled and excited thrills ran up and down her body.\n\nBoth the newcomers shook hands with Fetzer.\n\n\"I'm glad to see you back!\"\n\nThere was a light, slightly scornful laugh.\n\n\"Glad to see me too, Fetzer?\"\n\n\"I mean you too, Mrs. Lanfair.\"\n\nEllen trembled. They had not looked at her, but what would they\nsay when they did? Would not Mrs. Fetzer be astounded? How were\nexplanations to be begun? Should she take a step forward or wait for\ntheir eyes to find her? She hoped that she would not cry!\n\nBut her anxiety was wasted. Neither Stephen nor Hilda greeted her,\nunless Hilda's careless \"A new housemaid, Fetzer?\" could be called a\ngreeting. She spoke as though the matter of a new housemaid was one\nwhich concerned her only slightly.\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Lanfair. Ellen Lewis is her name.\"\n\nAt last Stephen nodded absently in her direction. He wore a gray suit\nlike the one he had worn at Ephrata. He moved and spoke more quickly\nand nervously, and his lower lip twitched occasionally.\n\n\"Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane here?\"\n\n\"Yes, and everything is in order.\" Fetzer looked at Ellen, thinking\nsympathetically that she seemed afraid. The ways of the Lanfairs had\nonce paralyzed her, too.\n\nHilda paused on the second step. She was more slender and there was a\nqueer change in her aspect; her dress was tawdry and ill-fitting. Dr.\nGood would have detected from her appearance and from her moroseness\nand indifference a marked advance in her malady.\n\n\"You can't wait till morning!\" she said lightly.\n\nFetzer lifted one of the bags.\n\n\"Take this, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen followed Fetzer who followed Hilda to her bedroom. Ellen did not\nlook back; there would be no immediate and dramatic presentation of\nherself. In the bedroom she set down the bag where she was told.\n\n\"You may go, Ellen.\"\n\nObeying with relief she heard a question.\n\n\"A little stupid is she, Fetzer? She looks stupid.\"\n\nEllen went out into the hall and back to the door which led to the\nservice stairs. In her room she opened her books and finished her\nevening's task. She had power of concentration equal to her strength\nof purpose; besides, the event was too startling and complex to be\napproached at once.\n\nAn hour later, sitting up in bed with her hands clasped round her\nknees, she heard the door open.\n\n\"Are you awake yet?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nFetzer sat down on the foot of the bed. The pale moonlight was not\nbright enough to show the flush on her cheek, but the trembling of her\nbody shook the bed.\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Fetzer, what ails you?\" Asking the question Ellen believed\nthat she understood. Mrs. Lanfair had spoken unkindly.\n\nBut Fetzer's thoughts were not upon Hilda.\n\n\"I'd do anything in the world for him!\" she declared.\n\n\"For Dr. Lanfair?\"\n\n\"There are some that are just like beasts and some that are all the\nwhile angels,\" wept Fetzer.\n\nEllen waited. Neither description seemed to fit Lanfair.\n\n\"If it weren't for him I'd be blind. I was shot once. My husband shot\nme when he was drunk. He was good-for-nothing. They gave up my eyes in\nthe hospital, doctors and doctors examined me and gave me up, both my\neyes, but he wouldn't have it. He watched me day after day, sitting\nsometimes for hours by me. They told me, when they took the bandage\noff, to look at the beautiful river.\" There was scorn in Fetzer's\nvoice. \"I looked at him. He was more to me than any river.\"\n\nThe multitude of her emotions kept Ellen silent.\n\n\"Jim's in jail for another year. He got a long term. I've often prayed\nthat God would convert him and take him home. That's the only thing for\nhim.\"\n\nEllen knew no consolatory word which seemed adequate.\n\n\"She thought I was stupid!\" said she at last.\n\nFetzer answered coldly.\n\n\"I hope you won't be spited at that!\"\n\n\"I'm not spited. Perhaps I am stupid.\"\n\nFetzer rose from the bed.\n\n\"I'm so tired I could drop. And nervous! Lay down and go to sleep,\nEllen.\"\n\nBut sleep was not to be so easily commanded. Ellen sat long with\nher hands clasped round her knees. The strange impressions of that\nJuly afternoon came back to her; then in a wave grief wiped out all\nrecollection of Hilda's behavior. She had never ceased to hope that\nshe would find her father's friend, that he would in some fashion help\nher; but now she had seen him and he had not known her, had not even\nlooked at her. She had no eyes for his disquiet. She felt alone in the\ngreat house. Presently her cheeks burned. She made no allowance for the\ntransforming years which had changed her into a woman. She resented\ntheir failure to recognize her. When she was learned and famous and not\nuntil then she would tell them who she was! Now she hated them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nA LOST SHEEP\n\n\nGrandfather Milhausen, having heard the echoes of the slamming door die\naway and the gate close with a loud click after angry Matthew, began to\npray. The traditional language of petition was on his lips a powerful\nvehicle; noble periods poured forth eloquently. He prayed as though\nthe safety of the universe depended upon his entreaties. He asked for\nthe blessing of God upon them all, and especially upon Matthew and\nEllen, and he asked specifically that Ellen be led to return with an\ninclination to take up the great work which might be hers.\n\nHe did not observe that he failed to lift his companion's spirit with\nhis own, and that along the treasured and brittle pages of \"The Mystic\nDove\" a desecrating pencil made angry strokes. Matthew's account of\nEllen's situation appalled Amos; the evil influences of the world must\nalready have been at work upon her.\n\nThrough a sleepless night Grandfather's anxiety deepened. He reproached\nhimself because since Levis's death he had trusted too much to the\nsoftening influence of grief upon Ellen's heart. He should have\nimportuned her, he should have laid her responsibility before her. The\ndeep regret for his marriage and his own consequent forfeiting of power\nreturned. God had given him another chance in his grandchildren--had\nhe also forfeited that? The consciousness of the immanence of God was\nstrong within him, but it was the immanence of a reproachful God. He\nhad slept when he should have watched and idled when he should have\ntoiled.\n\nToward morning he began to pray, and at last, when he had made a\npromise to God, he fell asleep. He would go to find Ellen and would\nbring her back.\n\nThe inertia of seventy-five was not overcome by a mere intention.\nEmotion had exhausted him and in the morning he could not rise. As he\nlooked out day after day from his bed upon the towering walls of the\nold buildings, he had blessed dreams which he did not deserve. He saw\nagain the white-robed processions, heard the matin songs, and sometimes\nhe lifted his hand and tolled an imaginary bell.\n\nWhen at last he was able to go, he declined the offer of Amos's\ncompany. Amos had waited upon him with devotion; he was his only anchor\nto windward; upon him alone he could wholly depend; and therefore, as\nis natural to human nature, he valued him a little the less.\n\nHe did not begin his journey in the trolley car as did younger, braver\nspirits--steam was sufficiently dangerous as a motive power. Before\nhe reached the railroad station he was the object of interested\nobservation by the villagers, who did not often see him. It was one of\nthe clear, bright mornings of Ellen's early life at the Lanfairs', and\nthe invigorating winter air acted as a tonic to the old man. He looked\nabout him with pleasure. In his youth he had dreamed of adventure, of\njourneying to the ocean which was not far away, but which he had never\nseen, and of visiting the West toward which many Pennsylvania Germans\nwere then setting their faces.\n\nBut his light-heartedness did not long continue. The sky showed signs\nof change; fleecy clouds gathered, and the brightness of the river was\nsoon dimmed. With the shadow there fell a cloud upon his spirit; he\ncould not long hold any mood of youth.\n\nThe miles of furnaces and mills astonished and troubled him, signifying\na great force which he felt was not of God, and when he arrived in\nHarrisburg he was bewildered by the crowd. The continual motion\nseemed to him to be in a circle, though in reality the only circular\nmotion was that about himself as he stood, though bent, yet towering,\nprophet-like, gathering his faculties together for the plunge into the\nstreet.\n\nHe walked up the steep hill, pausing often to rest and passing each\nmoment into a deeper bewilderment. There were moments when he could not\nrecall, try as he might, the object of his journey. Then he stood quite\nstill looking about him with dim, puzzled eyes.\n\nAt the end of an hour, when he had at last reached Hill Street, there\nhad settled upon the city a thick mist in which black particles were\nsuspended. He found Number 34 without difficulty and stood waiting\nuntil the rapid beating of his heart should subside. Ellen's face and\nfigure were before him; he longed for their reality as a lover longs\nfor a sight of his mistress. She was young and strong and she was a\nwoman. Old as he was Grandfather missed that complementary association\nof which he had long been deprived. But he would not have accepted this\nanalysis of his feelings; he was a shepherd and Ellen was his lost\nsheep; it was in that spirit that he sought her.\n\nMrs. Lebber's house still hung over the hill, it still sheltered a sad\nspirit, and it still exuded when its door was opened the same heavy\nodor. Mrs. Lebber appearing, blinked at Grandfather as though she were\nnot sure whether he was real or whether he was a thickening of the mist\ninto a human shape. But the shape gave forth human speech.\n\n\"Is my granddaughter, Ellen Levis, here?\" he asked in his thin old\nvoice.\n\nMrs. Lebber looked blankly upon the patriarchal figure. Nothing\nwould ever happen to her; she was as stationary as her house and as\ngray as the mist, and the stories of other lives furnished her only\nentertainment. She now scented mystery.\n\n\"You'd better come in, then we can talk,\" she invited.\n\nGrandfather peered at her uncertainly.\n\n\"You are Manda Sassaman's sister?\"\n\n\"Yes, her younger sister.\"\n\nThus assured, Grandfather walked into the small parlor and sat down\nupon the first chair. He did not perceive the dreariness of the room;\nhe perceived only the pleasant odor of food.\n\n\"What time does my granddaughter come from her work?\"\n\n\"She's not here, she's gone this long time,\" announced Mrs. Lebber.\n\"First Manda went to get married. She is trying it for the third time,\nbut I don't believe she will have luck. She--\"\n\n\"Where is Ellen?\"\n\n\"Well\"--Mrs. Lebber folded her hands and began to rock slowly. \"One\nSunday Ellen she said she would go for a walk, and she didn't come\nand didn't come, and after dark she came driving in an automobile,\nand I didn't know what to make of it. She was down along the river\nwhere the rich ones live and she got in front of an automobile,\nanother automobile, that is. It's very dangerous down there. Then I\nknow a woman that lives down there and she got a place for Ellen.\"\nMrs. Lebber gave the impression that she had been the chief agency\nin Ellen's finding a place and thus unintentionally counteracted the\nmysterious insinuations of the first part of her speech. \"It's on Front\nStreet, a very grand place.\"\n\nA grand place was to Grandfather an unsafe place.\n\n\"I was married and my husband was killed through an open switch which\nwasn't his fault and I never got enough for it. Then Manda, she came to\nlive with me, but it wasn't long till she must go away and get married.\nI still say to her, 'Manda, why did you come if you were not going to\nstay?' Then Ellen came and now she is gone. There is no peace but in\nthe grave.\" Mrs. Lebber wiped away her tears.\n\nGrandfather did not dispute this opinion; he rose feebly, animated by\nalarm. He must find Ellen quickly.\n\n\"You needn't go,\" said Mrs. Lebber as though he too might as well have\nstayed away as go so soon. \"I have sauerkraut for dinner.\" She quoted\nsadly a proverb meant to be cheerful, \"Sauerkraut und Speck treibt alle\nSorge weg.\"\n\nA powerful temptation assailed Grandfather, but he resisted it bravely.\nHe must see his lamb.\n\nHe found that descending the hill was more difficult than ascending.\nHis knees seemed to have grown too weak to bear him up, and when he\nreached the station he could go no farther. Snow had begun to fall,\nand he had no umbrella. He must get home; he prayed God that he might\nsucceed in getting home. He saw the little cottage under the shelter of\nthe old buildings--oh, to be there, to lay his head upon his pillow!\n\nAmos met him at the train, his face full of hungry desire. He knew that\nit was mad to hope that Grandfather would succeed in persuading Ellen\nto live at the Kloster, but perhaps she would bring him home. He had\nhad a day of unusual freedom, but he had read none of his books, making\nof his abstinence a sort of petitionary offering. In the intervals of\nhis teaching he had put the cottage into thorough order. He saw, as he\nworked, Ellen sitting under the lamplight, Ellen moving about. Perhaps\nshe would help to get the supper as she did in her childhood.\n\nWhen Grandfather got feebly down from the train, Amos saw for the\nfirst time that this was an old, old man. Ellen did not follow, and\nhe guessed as he took his uncle's arm that there was no good news.\nGrandfather did not speak, and even when they had reached the cottage\nhe sat for a while silently as though waiting for his strength to\nreturn.\n\n\"I couldn't find her,\" he said at last.\n\n\"Why not? Isn't she with Manda Sassaman's sister?\"\n\n\"No. She's living with rich people on the main street. I couldn't\nunderstand the woman exactly, but I have the name and the number of the\nhouse. It's a very worldly place. I've heard how such people occupy\ntheir time.\"\n\nAmos looked at Grandfather curiously. Grandfather knew nothing of the\nworld!\n\n\"What do they do?\" he asked.\n\n\"They play cards,\" said Grandfather in a frightened tone. \"And read\nidle books, and their days are spent in pleasure-seeking. They never\nthink of God. They drink spirituous liquors. There is no health of soul\nwith such.\"\n\nAmos smiled a bitter smile. Grandfather did not know the worst of them!\nWhat sort of pleasures did they seek?--ah, Amos knew! He longed to be\nof them--he acknowledged it to himself shamelessly.\n\n\"What are you going to do next?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm going to send a messenger to Ellen. You are to be my messenger,\nAmos. It will not be pleasant to you, but you will do your duty.\"\n\nThen Grandfather retired to his bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nA CRISIS AT HAND\n\n\nDuring the winter Ellen's attitude toward the house in which she lived\nand toward all the occupants save one was that of an observant pupil.\nShe liked the house not alone for its slight association with her\nfather, but for its size, brightness, and beauty and its ordered and\nelaborate life. She heard for a long time no word or sound to make her\nsuspect that the relation of its master and mistress was not exactly as\nit appeared on the smooth surface. She learned from Fetzer, an expert\nhousekeeper; she admired from afar Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane.\n\nShe soon ceased to feel resentment toward Stephen--it was after all not\nto be expected that so brilliant and important a man should recall a\nyoung girl seen but once! She was not tempted to disclose to him her\nidentity. She put his room in order; she heard the slamming door of his\ncar; and sometimes she caught a glimpse of his tall figure or received\nhis \"Good-morning.\" She was glad that she had not called upon him\nfor help, but that she had made her own way. As the weeks passed her\nposition seemed less and less comfortable, and she longed to be gone.\n\nShe was conscious of the contrast between Hilda's butterfly existence\nand the sober industry of all others in the house, but she felt toward\nHilda as Stephen had once felt, that she was by nature different. She\nwas astonished at her scant and diaphanous clothing, at her lying in\nbed a large part of the day and at her habit of smoking cigarettes,\nbut her association with her was limited. Her lowly position saved her\nfrom observation, and in any case Hilda had no fear of youth or bodily\nattraction for Stephen.\n\nHilda's jealousy grew daily stronger. She heard one day for a long time\nthe sound of Stephen's voice, and at last she stole into the passageway\nleading to his office. She could see him as he sat on the end of Miss\nMacVane's desk, his arms folded, holding forth steadily and earnestly\nand sometimes gayly. Miss Knowlton sat in her informal fashion on the\nedge of her desk, her attitude much like Stephen's.\n\nHilda could not understand Stephen's medical discourse and her\ninability maddened her and quickened her suspicions, which, though they\nwere insane, were yet terribly real. Why did these women stay on year\nafter year? Why did Stephen prefer to work incessantly, to be with\nthem, rather than with her? Why had he given up friends and recreation?\nWhy was he unwilling to go away?\n\nShe turned at this moment a new corner; she determined somehow to\npunish these women, to get rid of them. Toward Miss MacVane especially\nshe developed suddenly a clearly defined intention, unalterable, though\nnot yet developed in its cunning perfection.\n\nIn the spring Ellen made a friend. Seeing in the paper the announcement\nof an evening lecture on astronomy at the High School, she went,\nrecalling the rides with her father when he had taught her the names of\nthe constellations. Next to her sat a familiar figure, Miss MacVane,\nwho turned her thick glasses upon her. For the first time in her\nacquaintance she really saw Ellen.\n\n\"Why, Ellen! Is it Ellen?\"\n\n\"Yes, Miss MacVane.\"\n\n\"Are you interested in astronomy?\"\n\n\"I like to learn all I can.\"\n\n\"How much schooling have you had?\"\n\n\"I'm ready for college.\"\n\nMiss MacVane turned all the way round in her chair.\n\n\"Are you going to college?\" she demanded. Her voice expressed not so\nmuch surprise as defiance; she seemed to dare Ellen to go to college.\n\n\"I hope to.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"In the fall.\"\n\n\"Well, of all things!\" The weak eyes sparkled. \"Now if you want any\nadvice, you come to me. I know all the ropes. No registrar can tell me\nwhat course I want or don't want, nor can any boarding-house creature\ncharge me three prices.\"\n\nEllen described the extent of her preparation and Miss MacVane grew\nexcited.\n\n\"How foolish to think of staying for four years! Get it in three! You\ncan. You're no chicken--I mean you're old enough to use your time and\nnot to run after the men and dramatics. Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I thought I'd go to a girls' college.\"\n\n\"Oh, why don't you go to Cornell?\" Miss MacVane spoke with missionary\nzeal. \"Don't shut yourself up with a lot of little girls--you'll never\nstand it. Go where you may have some independence. Cornell is--\"\n\nBut what Cornell was its admirer was prevented, by the arrival of the\nlecturer, from explaining.\n\n\"We'll continue this,\" she whispered, pressing Ellen's responsive hand.\n\nWhen the lecture was over they walked together to the corner and\nthere let a half-dozen cars pass. Miss MacVane proved to be an ardent\nadvocate of education.\n\n\"I was a cash girl--I didn't know any other name than C-a-a-sh\"--a\npasser-by turned a startled head--\"I hadn't any money. Have you money?\nBecause if you haven't there's a fund.\"\n\n\"If I could borrow just a little, then I could be sure of going in the\nfall,\" said Ellen excitedly.\n\n\"Of course you can borrow! To-morrow Doctor'll be away and you bring\nyour catalogues into the office. I'll help you.\"\n\n\"You won't tell!\"\n\n\"Not a word,\" promised Miss MacVane.\n\nEllen went home and sat by her window. It was late, but she was wide\nawake. A gentle breeze fanned her cheek; trains rolled far away to\ndistant cities and mountains; a thousand lights gleamed and happy\nvoices rose from the park. She saw almost within her grasp that\nfor which she sighed. She was intensely happy with almost her last\nunclouded happiness. One could mould one's life if one had only\ndetermination enough, if one would only sacrifice that which was not\nessential for that which was. She thought with affectionate pity of\nGrandfather, of Matthew, of Amos, even of Millie to whom she owed\ngratitude because Millie had driven her away. She pitied every one who\nwas not Ellen Levis.\n\nThe next afternoon she took her books into the office, where Miss\nMacVane sat with her back to the light and with a dark shade over her\neyes.\n\n\"Ellen, I have to have drops in my eyes, and I told Miss Knowlton that\nI believed you'd put them in after her hours so that she won't have to\nstay. You will, won't you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton brought a bottle of eye-wash.\n\n\"It always stands right there in the corner and it's marked 'MacVane.'\nYou can't miss it. The other bottle in the stand is distilled water.\"\n\nEllen watched the operation attentively. Miss MacVane's blinking eyes\nwere red-rimmed and her face was pale. When Miss Knowlton had closed\nthe door she burst out:\n\n\"He actually keeps me seeing, Ellen. If he didn't watch, I'd be\nblind--think of it! I'd do anything in the world for him--anything!\"\nShe touched her eyes with her handkerchief and winced. \"I sewed my\nway through college--that's the trouble. You'll have to read your\ncatalogues to me; I can't see.\"\n\nBoth women heard suddenly a light, clear laugh. Hilda was coming in,\naccompanied by a gay companion. In the heart of Miss MacVane burned\na bitter resentment; she thought of the millions of stitches she had\ntaken with dim and aching eyes, and of the price of one of Hilda's\ndresses which would have saved her sight.\n\nA faint odor of cigarette smoke drifted along the hall and through\nthe door. Hilda was doubtless sitting in her favorite corner of the\nlibrary sofa, smoking. Miss MacVane's lips curved downward. Sounds\nmore distressing than the thin laugh had penetrated through doors and\ntraveled along passageways to her ears, but she said nothing even to\nMiss Knowlton, though she was aware that the ears of Miss Knowlton were\nas keen as her own. Both women knew, as Fetzer sometimes suspected, all\nthat was to be known, at least all that Fetzer knew.\n\nFor a few days Miss MacVane's eyes improved slowly. Each afternoon\nEllen escorted her to her car, and one day as she walked back she\nsaw standing and gazing at the river a tall figure. She noted with\namusement its immobility in contrast with the ludicrous excitement of a\nflock of blackbirds that inflated their bodies and hopped about near\nby; then, recognizing the tall figure, she ran across the street.\n\n\"Why, Amos!\"\n\nAmos looked down at her. Grandfather had been ill, and this was his\nfirst opportunity to execute the commission with which he had been\ncharged. He had meant to ring the bell, and to enter the great and\nbeautiful house, but his courage had failed and he stood wondering what\nhe should do. He was startled by the change in Ellen.\n\n\"Were you looking for me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, trembling.\n\n\"Would you like to walk?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How is Grandfather?\"\n\n\"He was sick, but he's better.\"\n\n\"And Matthew?\"\n\n\"I don't often see him.\"\n\n\"And how are you?\"\n\nAmos shifted his eyes uneasily. Nothing was well with him. He had\nbecome a prey to melancholy and he was losing his faith in God. His\nterror became at times physical as well as mental; he feared that the\nSaal and Saron might fall upon him and crush him; the whole universe\nwas sinister, existence was torturing.\n\n\"Everything is with me as it was,\" he said. \"Uncle is greatly worried\nabout you. He's afraid you have come to a place where there is\nworldliness.\"\n\n\"What does he think I do?\"\n\n\"He thinks in such places they play cards and perhaps drink, and are\nlight-minded.\"\n\n\"I dust and sweep and make beds, Amos, and when I'm through I study.\nThere are good women in the house and the office and when I have spare\ntime I spend it with them.\" She accounted in detail for her presence\nhere. \"I wrote Matthew all about it. I'm only here to earn money and in\nthe fall I'm going to college. There's nothing wrong with these people.\"\n\nThen Ellen flushed--remembering Hilda's bare shoulders, the turn of her\nwrist as she flicked the ash of her cigarette--what would Amos say to\nthat?\n\nAmos saw the flush and felt his torturing suspicions return. Were\nthere any young men in the house? Did the doctor have a son? Did they\nlook upon Ellen with desire?\n\n\"Oh, Ellen!\" he said wildly. \"I haven't anything in the world but you!\"\n\nEllen saw the hungry eyes; hitherto they had roused only pity--now they\nrepelled.\n\n\"What you want can't be, Amos.\"\n\nAmos plunged into fear that he had frightened her.\n\n\"I'll never say anything more, Ellen!\"\n\nThey walked a few squares silently; then Amos said sadly, \"I won't go\nany farther; I'll go down the other street.\" He was certain that he\ncould trust her. There was no reason to be jealous of ambition.\n\nWhen Ellen reached home she went upstairs and opening the door at the\nback of the second story went to the linen closet. The hall was bright\nwith the light of the level sun and sweet with the odors of spring\nflowers. She believed herself to be quite alone and, Amos forgotten,\nstood still in intense enjoyment.\n\nBut she was not alone; a shrill voice from Hilda's room announced her\npresence.\n\n\"I'm going to Aiken, I tell you!\"\n\nStephen's voice in answer expressed an eager desire to placate.\n\n\"There's no reason why you shouldn't.\"\n\n\"Are you going with me?\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"You can!\" Uncontradicted Hilda went on more loudly, \"It's on account\nof the woman in your office!\"\n\n\"That's one of the reasons. I certainly can't let her go blind.\"\n\n\"You are shameless--shameless!\"\n\nEllen closed the door softly. When her knees would carry her, she went\nslowly to the third story. Fetzer sat behind her closed door; she kept\nStephen's worst troubles a secret from herself when that was possible.\nShe surmised with distress that they had recently grown more acute. Now\nshe opened the door quickly.\n\n\"Did you just come in, Ellen?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Ellen, her face in shadow.\n\n\"Well, you needn't do anything more downstairs.\"\n\nEllen closed the door of her own room and stood against it.\n\n\"How dreadful!\" she said to herself. \"It is she who is shameless.\"\n\nWhen she had had her supper she walked a little distance along the\nriver-bank to a favorite bench. She looked back at the gray house and\nsaw the moon shining on its irregular roof. There were trees between it\nand her and it seemed to stand isolated, a grim and solemn habitation.\n\nSo Mrs. Lanfair was like that! How troubled Dr. Lanfair must be!\nResentment had now faded wholly, she was filled with pity. Then\nsuddenly in her dark eyes appeared the emotion expressed by Fetzer's\nsingle eye, by Miss Knowlton's pale blue orbs and by Miss MacVane's\ndim vision, the tenderness with which most women regard a man who for\nsome reason is reduced from the superior position which should be his.\nShe longed, as they did, with her whole heart, to be of some supreme\nservice to him. Her wish was soon to be granted.\n\nWhen she went into the office the next afternoon to put drops into\nMiss MacVane's eyes, she looked at her with curiosity. She had not\nthe remotest claim to beauty; she was short of speech and sometimes\nirritable, and her thick glasses, without which she could see nothing,\ndisfigured her. It was not possible that Mrs. Lanfair feared good Miss\nMacVane!\n\nMiss MacVane removed her green shade and her thick glasses, and\nEllen lifted the little rack and took from the bottle the attached\nmedicine-dropper. A penetrating odor frightened her.\n\n\"I'm ready,\" said Miss MacVane patiently. \"I'm better, thank God!\" The\nexpletive was heartfelt--she did thank God.\n\nEllen's hand poised motionless above the little vials.\n\n\"What's the matter, Ellen?\"\n\n\"Why--\" began Ellen.\n\n\"What is it?\" Miss MacVane blinked unseeing.\n\nStill Ellen made no motion. There was something wrong. Ammonia was not\na medicament for the eye, but the lotion seemed to be pure ammonia!\n\n\"What is it, Ellen?\"\n\nEllen believed suddenly that she understood what had happened--Dr.\nLanfair had made a mistake. Her next act, quickly conceived and\nexecuted, was like a protecting gesture. Into her eyes came again\nthe expression with which Fetzer and Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane\nregarded their master. No wonder that he had made a mistake! She put\ndeliberately into Miss MacVane's eyes two drops of distilled water.\n\nWhen Miss MacVane had gone, Ellen stood holding the bottle and looking\nat it. What should she do now? Had she behaved with unwarrantable\nofficiousness? She stood in the same spot holding the bottle in her\nhand when Stephen entered and stared at her in surprise and then in\namazement. For an instant they regarded each other, for the first time\nstraightforwardly. A vaguely disturbing recollection troubled Stephen's\nmind and then was immediately lost in a sharper emotion.\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\nEllen grew pale and her knees weakened. But it was better to have been\nunwarrantably officious than to have used the wrong medicine!\n\n\"I've been putting drops into Miss MacVane's eyes in the afternoon, so\nthat Miss Knowlton wouldn't have to stay, and to-day there's something\nwrong with it.\"\n\nStephen took the flask roughly.\n\n\"It's different from yesterday,\" said Ellen, \"there's a great deal more\nof it, and there's an odor.\"\n\nStephen held the little bottle with both hands.\n\n\"If I did wrong, I'm sorry. I can go to Miss MacVane's house if you\nwant me to.\"\n\nAt last Stephen looked up.\n\n\"Couldn't you smell this stuff?\" he demanded. \"Couldn't she? Where is\nshe?\"\n\n\"I didn't use it!\" cried Ellen.\n\n\"Oh, you didn't!\"\n\n\"I used distilled water. I didn't say anything to her.\"\n\nStephen looked at his housemaid, bewildered.\n\n\"Why didn't you?\"\n\n\"I thought it was your mistake and that I'd better tell you.\"\n\n\"You say the solution was all right yesterday?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"It didn't burn?\"\n\n\"No; I'm sure it didn't.\"\n\nHis gaze held Ellen's eyes helplessly. He tried vainly to remember her\nname, but at any rate her name didn't matter.\n\n\"Was this bottle in its usual place?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nStephen grew white; his hand trembled and he set the rack with the\nlittle vials down quickly.\n\n\"Tell Fetzer to come here, please.\"\n\nEllen climbed to the third story and found Fetzer in her room. Hilda\nhad gone motoring and the house was soundless.\n\n\"What ails you, Ellen?\" asked Fetzer. \"You look so queer.\"\n\n\"Dr. Lanfair wants you to come to the office.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" answered Ellen honestly.\n\nShe went into her room and stood looking out the window. He had not\neven thanked her! Could the mistake have been Miss Knowlton's? What\nhad Fetzer to do with it? Perhaps he had called for Fetzer on other\nbusiness. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and she stood looking down\nupon the river.\n\nWhen her bell rang she went to the office, and was there bidden to\nclose the door, whether by Stephen or Fetzer she did not know. She\nsaw only two white faces. Fetzer had sat down because she could not\nstand. Ammonia in eye-wash--she knew how that would madden and perhaps\ndestroy! Her hand covered her scarred cheek. Vividly recollected\nsensations paralyzed her mind; she sought as yet no solution of this\nstrange event, but dwelt only on the imagined agony.\n\n\"Fetzer tells me that you use ammonia for household purposes,\" said\nStephen. \"Where do you keep it?\"\n\nEllen's eyes sought Fetzer's for confirmation.\n\n\"In the cupboard in the hall.\"\n\n\"Have you ever missed any?\"\n\n\"Why, no!\"\n\n\"Does any one but yourself go to the cupboard?\"\n\n\"No\"--then Ellen corrected herself. She still spoke straightforwardly\nand innocently. \"Mrs. Lanfair got some there yesterday; she filled one\nof the engraved bottles from her bathroom; at least I think so.\"\n\n\"What makes you think so?\"\n\nEllen flushed.\n\n\"Because I saw that a new bottle had been opened, and when I cleaned\nMrs. Lanfair's bathroom I saw there was ammonia in her violet water\nbottle. I think she probably wanted to clean a chain or something.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Stephen.\n\nWhen Ellen had gone he looked down at the floor and Fetzer looked at\nhim. Her lips had parted; she pressed her hand against them as though\nto close them. She had always known that Hilda was a wicked woman, but\nnot that she was as wicked as this!\n\nEllen climbed the steps slowly. She heard presently Hilda's motor stop\nat the door, and Hilda come upstairs. Then quiet fell once more. After\nan hour the door of the motor slammed again--Stephen and Hilda had gone\nout to dinner. She heard late at night the sound of their return. She\nhad remembered now suddenly and clearly a forgotten detail of their\nvisit to the farmhouse.\n\n\"Dementia, Father!\" she heard herself say. \"Who has dementia?\"\n\nShe looked at her open door. Did she hear the sound of a creeping\napproach? She sat upright. If she closed and locked her door she would\nleave Fetzer to the mercy of she knew not what. But she would lock\nthe door at the head of the stairs; then they would both be safe. But\nshe might shut out a call for help! Did she hear now a half-smothered\nvoice? She rose and slipped barefooted into the passage. There she saw\na small dark figure.\n\n\"Is that you, Ellen?\" asked a sharp voice.\n\n\"I thought I heard a noise.\"\n\n\"You were dreaming. It was nothing. Go back to bed and shut your door.\"\n\nEllen obeyed, and Fetzer sat down on the upper step from which she had\nrisen, and suddenly the clock struck two. The sound of voices was not\nimaginary.\n\n\"Can't you sleep, Hilda?\"\n\n\"No, I can't sleep.\"\n\n\"Is there anything I can do for you?\"\n\n\"You can attend to your own affairs.\"\n\nFetzer's eyes sought longingly the window at the end of the hall. If\nmorning would only come! She guessed now what ailed her mistress, and\nher kind heart ached with remorse and terror. Madness--she knew what\nmadness was!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nA STRANGE JOURNEY\n\n\nMayne answered Stephen's telephone call with his usual abounding\ncordiality. He was glad to hear Stephen's voice and he had been\nthinking about running up to spend the night. Yes he could come very\nsoon--and bring Dr. Good?\n\n\"And bring Dr. Good,\" he repeated. \"Did I understand you correctly?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You wish Good to come professionally?\"\n\n\"Yes, as soon as possible.\"\n\nMayne understood the significance of the invitation. He was not\nprepared to meet this emergency, forewarned though he had always been.\nHe mopped his brow. His hair was now entirely gray, but he was still\nruddy of complexion and possessed a boy's vigor of body. A chill fear\npassed over him, not only for Hilda, but for himself.\n\n\"Lanfair has requested me to bring you to Harrisburg,\" he explained\nto Dr. Good. \"I anticipate some serious development. I had begun to\nbelieve my fears to be groundless.\" He mopped his forehead again. \"It\nis distressing. I judge there has been some acute crisis, but when I\ncalled her to announce our prospective visit--I suggested to Lanfair\nthat I do that--her voice sounded natural.\"\n\nHe had a moment with Stephen upon their arrival and reported the result\nof his interview to Dr. Good--whispered it, though they were alone in\nGood's bedroom with the door closed. His alarm grew hourly stronger.\nOne of his aunts had become violent, had lived for several years in an\nasylum, and had at last put an end to her life.\n\n\"It seems that Hilda has taken an intense dislike to a half-blind,\nmiddle-aged woman in Lanfair's office and resented the fact that he\nfelt it professionally necessary to remain here to watch this woman's\neyes when she wished him to accompany her away. She is known to have\ntaken ammonia from the household supplies the day before ammonia was\nput into this Miss MacVane's eye-wash. The woman is a harmless lonely\nsoul whom Lanfair saved from blindness.\"\n\nDr. Good shook his head. He was a small man remarkable for his bright\neyes, his large steel-rimmed spectacles, and a strong Pennsylvania\nGerman accent which he would never lose.\n\n\"If a homicidal mania is developing, as frequently happens in such\ncases,\" he said, \"she should be confined at once. Lanfair should be\npersuaded of the necessity for it. She should be got quietly to the\nKing Sanatorium.\"\n\nDr. Good was secretly glad that the problem of transportation was not\nhis. He remembered that Lanfair had been comparatively a poor man--he\nhad paid dearly for his riches!\n\nThe problem of transportation proved to be, however, quite simple.\nHilda greeted her guests at dinner. It was a season when dress patterns\nwere scant and she wore little, but her slender body appeared to be\ninadequate to sustain even her bright, filmy dress and her string of\npearls. She seemed to be becoming as ethereal as the smoke of the\ncigarettes which she so constantly used. Dr. Good was quick to observe\nthat she was suspicious and uneasy, that she seemed to be under great\ntension. It was by no means improbable that a crisis was at hand.\n\nPoor Hilda welcomed her uncle. She was miserably conscious of the\nturmoil within, and she felt that his presence would steady her.\nSeveral times she put out her hand toward him across the corner of the\ntable and he covered it with his own.\n\n\"But your hand is cold!\" cried Hilda. \"What is the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing is the matter,\" answered Mayne with a nervous cough. He felt\nthat they surrounded her, three great men, like enemies, a fluttering,\nhelpless creature in her own house. She should not be confined unless\nthere were no other way. She was, as far as he could see, wholly\nnormal. While Good talked to Stephen about a problem with which both\nophthalmists and psychiatrists were concerned, he clasped Hilda's hand\na little more closely.\n\nIt may have been that his ill-concealed anxiety and alarm roused her\nsuspicions, or that the cunning plan which she believed that she was\ncarrying out excited her beyond the point of safety; it may have\nbeen merely that her disease advanced rapidly to a climax. Suddenly\nshe felt that he--that they all--were against her. It was no longer\npossible for her to restrain herself. She began to stammer and to point\nher forefinger at Stephen. Hers was the dreadful gaze of a bird at a\nsnake or a prisoner at a hated jailer.\n\n\"Uncle,\" she said earnestly in her clear, high voice, \"he's not true to\nme.\" The three men heard; so did Ellen, impressed into service by the\nabsence of the waitress, and so did Fetzer in the pantry. \"I can tell\nyou about the many, many women. I can--\"\n\n\"As I was saying, ...\" went on Dr. Good.\n\n\"Hilda, I have something to tell you,\" said Mayne, desperately.\n\nBut Hilda would not be silenced. She rose, pushing away from her the\nsilver tray with its coffee service and its delicate cups. A flask of\ncognac which was not well balanced fell with a light crash upon a piece\nof fragile china; then her hands, spread suddenly apart in a frantic\ngesture, sent her pearls in all directions.\n\n\"You'll listen while I tell you everything! You'll--\"\n\nA terrified, watchful Fetzer came a little beyond the screen which\nstood before the pantry door. She knew the purpose of their coming--did\nthey understand that Hilda was really mad, and did they know that\nmadness was cunning and quick and dangerous?\n\nHilda turned her head and looked at Fetzer, her hatred leaping to her\neyes.\n\n\"There is one of them, Uncle!\" As Mayne rose she threw herself into his\narms. \"I want to go home with you!\"\n\nMayne's eyes filled with tears.\n\n\"Now?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Can you prepare to go at once?\"\n\nHilda fixed her eyes upon Ellen who had neither pretensions to learning\nnor connection with Stephen's hated work.\n\n\"She'll help me.\" She looked about wildly and Mayne and Ellen guided\nher up the stairs.\n\n\"I'll give you some medicine to make you feel better, then this girl\nwill assist you.\" Mayne was trembling. It was, alas, not to his house\nthat they would take poor Hilda!\n\nEllen helped the shivering figure into a street dress. The medicine\nbegan to have its effect; Hilda grew drowsy and lost control of her\ntongue. When Mayne returned she pointed to Ellen.\n\n\"What is it, Hilda? Are you afraid of her?\"\n\nHilda shook her head.\n\n\"Do you wish her to accompany you?\" Even in moments like this Mayne\nchose his words.\n\nHilda nodded and Mayne went to speak to Stephen. When he returned they\nhelped Hilda down the stairs. She became more drowsy and had difficulty\nin finding the step of the throbbing motor. She laid her head on\nEllen's shoulder and Ellen steadied her with her arm. The car gave a\npremonitory whirr, then it seemed to spring ahead. It did not move as\nthough guided by the expert hand of Fickes and Ellen realized that\nStephen was at the wheel and that Dr. Good sat beside him.\n\nOnce in the long journey Mayne asked a question.\n\n\"Isn't Mrs. Lanfair heavy against your shoulder?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Ellen.\n\nMayne's voice was thick and Ellen herself had shed tears.\n\nAt eleven o'clock the car stopped beneath a _porte-coch\u00e8re_ and a\nnurse and two orderlies came down the steps. They received poor Hilda\ntenderly and with businesslike hopefulness. The three men followed the\nlittle procession into the lighted doorway.\n\nUntil they reappeared, a space of time which seemed long, but which was\nin reality short, Ellen looked up at the beautiful doorway and at the\ndimly outlined ornamental shrubbery. A stranger had now joined Lanfair\nand his companions and together they approached the car.\n\n\"She'll sleep till morning, Stephen, then I'll be here, and Good also.\nWe'll go into the city for the night.\"\n\nEllen heard a new voice, smooth, a little hesitating, and very kind.\nDr. King had new theories and indestructible enthusiasm, and his\nexperiments were being eagerly watched.\n\n\"I should advise against the patient seeing you at once, Dr. Lanfair.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" answered Stephen. He looked frowning at the car.\n\n\"That girl's got to be taken back. I may as well go home.\"\n\n\"She has comported herself admirably.\" Mayne raised his voice so that\nEllen might hear.\n\nStephen stepped into the car as one who feels his way. He looked at\nEllen as though her outline were dim.\n\n\"You'd better sit beside me. It will be rough riding there on the back\nseat.\"\n\nHe did not speak again until the journey was almost over, when, in the\ncity limits, he slackened his speed.\n\n\"You've been of great service--\" again he tried vainly to remember\nEllen's name.\n\nEllen wiped her eyes.\n\n\"I'm very sorry for her,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Stephen heavily. His own eyes smarted, though he had never\nexpected to shed tears for Hilda.\n\nFetzer, hearing the motor, opened the door. She felt, it must be\nconfessed, a little jealousy--it was she who should have helped\nStephen! She climbed with Ellen the narrow stairway at the back of the\nhouse, and Stephen went up the broader stairway to his dressing-room.\nShe sat with Ellen while she got ready for bed.\n\n\"It was God's will that the colored girl was out,\" she said devoutly.\n\"Nobody will know anything. Even those women in the office don't need\nto know, ain't it so, Ellen?\"\n\n\"I shan't tell them.\"\n\nFetzer rose and laid her hand across her cheek.\n\n\"Most people think he laid all this time on a bed of roses. But we\nknow.\"\n\nEllen lay down and pushed the pillow away and turned over on her face,\nher cheek on her arm. Her heart throbbed, her cheek was flushed. The\nstrange journey, Stephen's eyes, his long, slim hand, the touch of his\narm against hers as she stepped to her place beside him, the darkness,\nthe swift, unbroken pace, once a deep breath--all passed through her\nmind. She did not think coherently; she merely recalled each detail\nwith nervous excitement.\n\nStephen wheeled his bed to the bay-window from which he could look out\nupon the river. Sleep was far from him. It was many years since he\nhad thought of Hilda with tenderness, but he thought of her tenderly\nnow. After a while he rose and went across to her rooms and sat down.\nThe low moon illuminated some of the luxurious furnishings and cast\nothers into shadow. He sat motionless, recalling the early days of his\ndevotion, the hours of dreaming before Edward Levis's meager fire,\nHilda's advances, his shy response, his rapture.\n\nThen other recollections thronged, and face and heart burned. He rose\nquickly. He would not think of her unkindly in this house, nor in this\nhour, now that she was gone. No blame could be imputed to her; she was\na creature unfinished, spoiled, ill. He wished that he had been as\npatient in his heart as he had been unfailingly kind in his behavior.\nNow she was gone, she could trouble him no more, harass him no more,\nembarrass, shame, terrify him no more. He went to his bed and to sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nAN UNHAPPY SCHOLAR\n\n\nNo sooner had Amos let Ellen go away from him than he regretted his\nfoolishness. He might as well have walked back with her to the house\nwhere she lived and thus have been much longer in the half-paradise,\nhalf-purgatory of her company. He did not cross to the next street as\nhe had intended, but walked rapidly after her.\n\nThe sun was setting and the river was bathed in golden light. Over all\nlay a spell broken only by bird-songs. Men and women walked slowly; a\nsuccession of lovers wandered arm-in-arm; automobiles moved quietly;\nand occasionally a pair of horses trotted briskly by, drawing a\nmistress who clung, for this hour at least, to the vehicle of an older\ntime. But Amos saw neither the river nor the pedestrians nor heard the\nbird-songs; his eyes were fixed ahead searching for a figure which had\nalready vanished.\n\nWhen he reached Ellen's habitation a sheltering twilight had fallen\nand he sat down on a bench in the park. He saw lights shine here and\nthere and he thought that she might be lighting them, though his idea\nof her duties was still vague. After a while he hid his face in his\nhands. The ways of the world, the quickening of the pulse as night drew\non, the intercourse of delicate, silken-clad women and predatory men,\nthe prospect of fond assignations, the eluding of watchful wives and\nguardians--it was the world of Evelyn Innes and Anna Karenina in which\nEllen was moving, though only a narrow space of street and wall divided\nher from him. He felt that he should go mad.\n\nPresently he saw that a car had glided into place before the Lanfair\nhouse. The door opened and let out a soft glow and at once a tall man\nand a short woman came down the steps and drove away. The man helped\nhis companion into the car with careful solicitude--it was, except for\none, the last drive which Stephen and Hilda were to have together. Amos\nsaw himself and Ellen going thus happily.\n\nWhen it was quite dark he rose and went on his way, past other handsome\nhouses to a cross-street by which he approached the square. There again\nhe stood still as though his powers of locomotion were sufficient to\ncarry him only a short distance. The large, open space wore an air\nof festivity. In the center, as from the center of a spider's web,\nstreet-cars started to suburban districts, and round this center\ncircled perpetually the gleaming lights of automobiles. In a still\nwider circle coincident with the pavement moved the human throng. At\nthe curb stood more or less permanent groups held by the eloquence of a\ntraveling quack or soap-vender.\n\nThe largest group listened to the loud singing and tambourine-playing\nof the Salvation Army, and Amos, hearing their music, moved idly\ntoward them. The company was made up of two men and three women to\nwhom religion was not a dull habit, but a burning passion, and on\nwhose faces were recorded struggles as fierce as his own. Their leader\nwas a short man with immensely broad shoulders and a countenance\nwhich expressed an almost savage earnestness. He had mounted a box in\norder to be seen and he was speaking rapidly, reminding his audience\nthat they were sinners who needed a Saviour. He gesticulated with\ndisproportionately large hands, hardened by work in the steel mill. He\ndid not hold work to be a curse but a means of salvation.\n\nAmos gazed without seeing and heard without understanding. Presently he\nmoved on down the street, looking absently at jewels and boxes of candy\nand delicate slippers. In the window of the department store he saw a\nsign, \"New Titles in the Thinker's Library.\" Alas, the store was closed!\n\nWhen he reached the Kloster it was almost midnight, but Grandfather was\nawake and spoke feebly as soon as the door opened.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nThe vague question was startling. For an instant Amos could not\nremember the object of his journey.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he cried catching his breath, \"I saw her; she's all right;\nshe works hard.\"\n\n\"Will she come home?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Amos. He stood with bent head, looking at the floor. He felt\na sharp envy of Ellen. After a while a slight movement startled him.\nHe saw Grandfather standing in the doorway. He had wrapped the sheet\nabout him and might have passed for the importunate ghost of the King\nof Denmark. It seemed to Amos that Grandfather had been looking at him\nfor a long time.\n\n\"Did you try to persuade her to come home?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Amos vaguely.\n\n\"And she wouldn't listen?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nGrandfather went slowly back into his room and lay down. After a while\nhe uttered a sigh which seemed unending.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nA PROJECTED ATONEMENT\n\n\nStephen's forty-second birthday fell upon the day on which he made the\nfinal arrangements for Hilda's residence at the King Sanatorium. He had\nnot seen her because she was obsessed by fear of him, and he sat in the\noffice until the superintendent returned with Mayne and Dr. Good. Even\nDr. King, sanguine as his temperament was, was in this case not hopeful.\n\n\"The family history is not encouraging,\" he explained, with deepest\ncommiseration for Stephen, deprived before middle life of an attractive\ncompanion. \"But you must not despair.\"\n\n\"Is her physical condition also likely to grow worse?\" asked Mayne.\nHe did not mop his brow upon this occasion; he felt, not without\nself-reproach, a deep relief.\n\n\"We can't prophesy about that. We have had patients of her type who\nhave lived for a long time and others who lived only a few months.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by a long time?\"\n\n\"Well, for some years,\" said Dr. King in his kind voice.\n\nStephen rose and took his hat from the table. He was depressed and\nintensely nervous. Mayne's large body and the superintendent's sympathy\nand Dr. Good's bright, observant eyes irritated him.\n\n\"She's to have, of course, every possible attention. You have Professor\nMayne's address and mine.\"\n\n\"We make weekly reports unless we are directed otherwise. In case of\nan unusual development we should telephone you. You understand, Dr.\nLanfair, that Mrs. Lanfair's attitude toward you is a part of her\nmalady?\"\n\n\"I understand perfectly.\"\n\nAt the door Mayne and Stephen bade one another good-bye. Both\nremembered a thin, eager boy with a black band on his gray sleeve and a\nshort, slender, black-eyed girl.\n\n\"It's hard on you, Stephen.\"\n\n\"And on you.\"\n\nStephen stepped into his car beside Fickes. For a while he stared at\nthe floor, his arms folded, his mind a blank. Gradually the expression\nof his eyes changed, the pupils darkened. There waited for him at\nthe hospital a woman who had hastened a slow fire with coal oil; the\nproblem was even more difficult than that of Mrs. Fetzer, but he had\ndetermined to solve it. He planned a course of treatment. He would\noffer to take the next twenty burned cases at the hospital.\n\nPresently he lifted his head and glanced about at a landscape which\nrecalled his visit to Edward Levis--was it two years or ten since he\nhad made his sudden descent upon him? Here was a friend! He believed\nthat he could even tell Levis his troubles; it would do him good. He\nsat a little more erectly.\n\nThen suddenly an electric thrill passed through his body. He was free!\nTears pressed upon his eyelids--he turned his head so that Fickes might\nnot see them--tears of profound relief. What anxiety and torment had\nbeen his! And it was past, decently past, and he had played the part of\na man throughout. Moreover, no public shame, no irremediable disaster\nhad terminated the nightmare. Hilda's valedictory was heard by only a\nfew persons,--her uncle, Dr. Good, Fetzer, upon whose devotion he could\nstake all that he had in the world, and this unknown but apparently\ntrustworthy creature through whose quickness a serious calamity had\nbeen avoided. He would tell Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane where Hilda\nwas, and he would inform a few of the older friends whom she had\ninherited from her parents, and to whom she had paid an indifferent\nattention; then all would be concluded except the pitiful end of her\npoor life.\n\nThey had begun to descend the hill toward the Kloster, and Stephen\nlooked at it curiously. When he visited Levis they would come over\nhere and prowl about. Ah, there were a thousand things to do in the\nworld, a thousand places to visit! Hilda had liked only main-traveled\nroads on which there were theaters and shops; they had never seen the\ninteresting countries, the Far North, the tropics, Ceylon, Carcassone,\nthe church of Brou, the Far East. He was able to smile at the old\nwhite-bearded man pottering about among the graves in the cemetery of\nthe Kloster, as though he smiled at Time himself.\n\nOpening the door of his office he found Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane\nand went at once to work. There were a dozen patients waiting, and\nas many to be informed that he had returned. Miss Knowlton smiled at\nMiss MacVane when he began to prescribe for a patient whose treatment\nwould be extended. He meant evidently to stay. But at other times he\nhad meant to stay and had been persuaded to go away. When he said that\nHilda was in the King Sanatorium they expressed their regret and went\non with their work. They were conscientious souls and both felt a vague\nself-reproach.\n\nWhen he had had his dinner he returned to his office. But he was tired;\nhe would go for a walk. The night was clear, the air soft, and the\nriver reflected the stars. He ran up to his room, where he found his\nhousemaid engaged in laying back the covers of his bed. Ellen expected\nto go out and she had coiled her hair on top of her head in the\ntransforming fashion condemned by Fetzer. She looked up and answered\nStephen's \"Good-evening\" with a bright flush. Her heart beat quickly;\nit seemed to her now that it was never quiet. Stephen looked at her,\nconfused, as though she were a stranger.\n\n\"It's a warm night, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen, \"but there'll be a breeze from the river.\"\n\n\"Are you fond of the river?\"\n\n\"It gets to seem like a friend.\"\n\nShe smiled and moved toward the door. She had learned her lesson well;\nwhile she was a housemaid she would do as housemaids did--or should.\nShe carried with her now a pleasant anticipation--she had changed her\nmind, some day she would tell Stephen who she was. But the time was not\nyet ripe. In the doorway she paused.\n\n\"Would you like me to move your bed to the bay-window each evening?\"\n\nStephen was watching her free walk and her straight shoulders and\nwishing for some young creature to walk and talk with, some boy or girl\nlike this.\n\n\"Did you speak to me?\"\n\nShe repeated her question.\n\n\"O, thank you; I'll do that when I want to sleep there.\"\n\nHe decided not to walk; he would call on Dr. and Mrs. Salter and tell\nthem about Hilda and ask them to tell certain other persons. It was a\nduty which seemed suddenly pressing.\n\nHe continued through the spring to work all day and a part of the\nnight. He had never felt more alert; after a while he attributed his\nalertness to freedom from anxiety. What might a man not accomplish\nunder circumstances which were entirely favorable--with health and\nfortune and domestic happiness?\n\nIt was with a sense of amusement that he found himself thinking\npresently of the one creature in his house who was young. It was\npleasant to meet her once or twice a day and see the color deepen in\nher cheeks. He did not realize that it was meeting him which made her\nflush; it was simply that she had color which came and went easily. She\nwas always quiet, always unobtrusive, always low-voiced. She smiled,\nbut he had never heard her laugh.\n\nHe began to be curious about her, but he asked no questions either of\nher or of Fetzer. He would learn, of course, that she was merely a\ndull country girl and the impression of intelligence given by a single\ninstance of quick-wittedness would vanish when she began to talk. She\nseemed to have within her some spring of interest or satisfaction, but\nhe could not guess what it was. But dull or not, she was very lovely.\n\nThen one warm, bright night when sleeping seemed a waste of time,\nStephen found his narrow bed pushed to the window. He smiled; then\nsuddenly he grew pale and turned on his heel and began to walk up\nand down the room. He folded his arms across his breast as though to\nhold by force some leaping savage, unrighteous, thing. He was not so\nmuch appalled as astounded. He went down to his office and brought up\nFarmingham on the Muscles of the Eye. At three o'clock he laid the book\ndown and turned out his light, smiling a little weakly at himself. He\nrefused to connect this absurdity with any individual; he believed it\nwas an effect of too close application to work.\n\nIn a third-story room neatly arranged was the overflow of his\nprofessional library, pamphlets and magazines which waited binding,\nand books which had passed their usefulness, but which he might still\nneed for reference. On the day after his vigil, going thither to find a\npamphlet, he passed Fetzer's room and came to the door of Ellen's room.\nThere he saw Ellen's little bed, her table with its books, its neatly\nsharpened pencils, its vase of flowers. All was sweet and virginal and\nchildlike. He remembered that Fetzer had said long ago that the girl\nstudied; he was curious about her studies. He stepped in and lifted\nthe three books from the table. The first was a geometry, the second a\ngeneral history, the third a copy of \"Vanity Fair\" from his library. In\nthe geometry lay several sheets of paper covered with neat triangles\nand circles.\n\nHe found his pamphlet and went downstairs slowly. He was indebted\nto this girl who had helped him in a hard place. Did she wish more\neducation?--if so there was no reason why her ambition should not be\ngratified. He was positive now that she was superior to her present\nsituation. His savings were large and his income constantly increasing;\nit would be pleasant to help an ambitious student. A comfortable\nphilanthropic glow quite banished his lingering disgust at last night's\nunpleasant experience.\n\nAfter dinner he rang for Ellen, who came to his study a little\nfrightened. She had changed her black uniform for a white dress.\nStephen knew her straight shoulders and her free step, but he had\nnever realized quite the depth of her gaze when her eyes were squarely\nencountered.\n\n\"Sit down, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen took the chair indicated to her. The light shone full on her dark\nhair and her round chin and white neck. Something stirred again in\nStephen's breast.\n\n\"Fetzer tells me you're a student.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Ellen, blushing.\n\n\"What do you study?\"\n\n\"Geometry and history and English and other subjects.\"\n\n\"Why do you study?\"\n\n\"I'm going to college.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are! When?\"\n\n\"In September--that is, if I can make certain arrangements.\"\n\n\"What arrangements?\"\n\n\"If I can pass the examinations. Miss MacVane thinks I can enter the\nSophomore class. I'm arranging to borrow a little from a fund for\nstudents who need help.\"\n\n\"Why are you going to college?\" Stephen leaned forward in his chair.\nHis interest in her quickened. To borrow from a fund, was she?\n\n\"I mean to be a doctor.\"\n\n\"A doctor!\" Had Fetzer announced her intention of being an aviator, he\nwould have been no more surprised. \"Why a doctor?\"\n\n\"My father meant to educate me to be a doctor as he was.\" Then Ellen\nleaned forward, her lips trembling. She could keep her secret no\nlonger--her heart seemed to burst with it. \"Don't you remember me at\nall?\"\n\nStephen looked curiously into Ellen's face and thought of the hundreds\nof patients in hospital and office. But even though there had been\nhundreds he seldom forgot the eyes which he treated--certainly not such\neyes as these!\n\n\"Were you ever a patient of mine?\"\n\nEllen shook her head; he could see her lips tremble. She seemed to\nbe unhappy because he did not remember her! What an extraordinary\nexperience! He had never been more puzzled or more charmed.\n\n\"Ellen Lewis is your name, Fetzer said. Is that right?\"\n\n\"Ellen Levis is my name. They call me Lewis when they can't say 'v.'\"\n\nStill he stared without comprehension. Ellen grew pale with distress.\nWas she the victim of an hallucination?\n\n\"Don't you remember _now_?\"\n\n\"No.\" It was Stephen's turn to believe that some form of aphasia had\nblotted out a part of his past.\n\n\"You came to see my father the day he died, you and Mrs. Lanfair.\"\n\nStephen frowned; his lifted hand covered his lips; then he leaned\nbackward into the shadow. He was shocked beyond expression.\n\n\"Not Edward Levis!\" said he, at last quietly.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You were the young girl who begged us to stay to supper? You were\nstudying with your father and you had a little table by the window?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Your father isn't _dead_!\"\n\n\"He died that evening of heart trouble.\"\n\n\"How do you happen to be here?\" asked Stephen sharply.\n\n\"I wanted to earn my living.\"\n\n\"Had your father no property?\"\n\n\"I'm not of age.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you go on to college?\"\n\n\"My grandfather and my brother thought I had enough education, and\nthe farm was run down and my brother thought the income should go to\nimproving it.\"\n\n\"Did they drive you away?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I came of my free will. They thought what they did was right.\nIt happened to suit Matthew's plans for the farm, but he would have\ndone right even if it had inconvenienced him.\"\n\n\"Did you expect to earn enough to go to college in a housemaid's\nposition?\"\n\n\"No; but I earned something and I had a little. Then Miss MacVane\nencouraged me--she had nothing, and yet she went to college.\"\n\n\"How did you happen to come here? Did Fetzer advertise?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Ellen with difficulty. \"My father and I passed here\nand he stopped and looked at your house. I came to look at it one day\nbecause it reminded me of him. I was very forlorn. I think I was crying\nand I crossed the street in front of an automobile and was struck and\nMrs. Fetzer befriended me.\"\n\n\"When did you recognize me?\"\n\n\"When you came home.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you speak?\"\n\n\"I couldn't.\"\n\n\"Did your father ever speak of me?\"\n\n\"He wanted to make you executor of his will, but he couldn't complete\nit.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you find me?\"\n\n\"I couldn't remember your name.\"\n\nStephen leaned his chin upon his hand. He looked through Ellen at some\nobject far beyond her. He saw a bare room in a dingy old house in\nPhiladelphia, an old desk and his own head bent in remorse above it. He\nhad been grateful, Heaven bore witness, for a while.\n\n\"So you have everything arranged?\" he said at last.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you are happy?\"\n\n\"Yes. I've quite forgotten how unhappy and forlorn I used to be.\"\n\n\"The prospect of studying delights you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Ellen lifted her eyes to his. \"I used to think that learning was\neverything, but I've found that it isn't. One needs satisfaction for\nthe mind, but one needs satisfaction for the heart also. It seemed to\nme that I had nobody.\"\n\nStephen rose and went to the side of his desk and stood leaning upon it\nand looking down at Ellen.\n\n\"And you feel that now you have somebody?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm older and more sensible and I realize that Grandfather and\nMatthew are fond of me even though we think differently.\"\n\n\"And is this understanding of their affection sufficient food for the\nheart?\"\n\nEllen's look was still straightforward, but her cheeks crimsoned.\nFetzer would wonder where she stayed. She rose and stood before him.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What else have you?\"\n\n\"I have you,\" answered Ellen simply.\n\nAt that Stephen put his hand under Ellen's soft chin and lifted\nher head. She smiled at him, and when Ellen smiled she invited\nunconsciously more of a caress than a mere touch of hand. But he did\nnot move and she turned her cheek a little against the warm palm, then\nwent away. Her cup of happiness was full. Her father's desires had\nhitherto been her law; she had now another law.\n\nFor a moment Stephen stood motionless beside his desk, then he began to\nwalk up and down. What an extraordinary chance! He began to lay plans.\nShe must come down out of her attic; she must wait no more upon him.\nFetzer and Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton must be told at once who she\nwas, and there must be no slighting of her because she had done this\nlowly work. One of his favorite occupations in periods of enforced\nidleness in trains or on steamers had been the construction of various\nschemes of education based upon what he felt were the deficiencies of\nhis own. He would see what could be done with this girl.\n\nPresently he paused and stood for a long time motionless by his desk.\nLevis dead! There had been hunger in Levis's eyes, hunger which he\nmight have satisfied. But no reproach should rest upon him henceforth;\nhe would do all for this girl that Levis could have done, perhaps he\nmight do more. He would atone. It was a moment of pure philanthropy,\nunalloyed by any less exalted impulse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nA VISIT TO EPHRATA\n\n\nIn late September Matthew began to cut the corn in the field which\nhe had ploughed a year ago when Ellen went away. He began early in\nthe morning and worked doggedly and alone. The next day he would have\nhelp, but to-day he rejoiced--if so bright a word could describe his\nstate of mind--in his loneliness. He breathed heavily; he was angry and\nmortified. His life had not turned out as he had expected; he had made,\nit was now perfectly clear, a basic error from the effect of which\nhe should never escape. He had always believed that one could direct\none's life and that so intelligent a person as himself could direct it\nsuccessfully, but he had been mistaken.\n\nHe had chosen his wife with impeccable judgment--she was pretty\nand quiet and domestic and religious and troubled by no unbecoming\nambition. She was still all of these, but each quality had been\nmodified in some unexpected way. Her prettiness was spoiled by\nuntidiness; her quietness was only quietness in comparison with the\nclatter of her family; her housewifely accomplishments proved slighter\nthan he had expected; and her religion was, though he did not realize\nit, a good deal like his own, a possession for eternity, but of little\npractical use in this life.\n\nShe had slipped back quickly into the idioms which she had once tried\nto weed from her speech in order to please him, and little Matthew who\nwas learning to talk copied her. About this subject she had already\nquarreled with her husband whom she accused of being ashamed of her.\n\nHe had not reckoned upon the physical depression which accompanies the\nbearing of children of whom there were now two. Millie was preoccupied\nwith her sensations; she was constantly on the watch for fresh symptoms\nwhich she retailed to whoever would listen. The description of her\nmorning miseries greeted Matthew's opening eyes; the account of her\nevening faintness kept him awake at the end of a weary day. She implied\nthat for all her troubles he was to blame; a bride married by capture\ncould have uttered a no more triumphant \"Whose fault is it?\"\n\nFrom the pressure of unpleasant conditions Matthew was free only when\nhe was in the fields. Domestic activities were now carried on, except\nfor sleep, in the kitchen, and there on cold evenings even preparations\nfor sleep were made. The fashion in which he had been brought up\ncame to possess for him a moral and religious significance. When he\nremembered his youth--and he remembered it more and more often--he\nsaw his father working at his desk, a mouselike Ellen by the window,\nMrs. Sassaman busy with her tasks in a distant kitchen, and himself in\nhis own room. Each might have if he wished the privacy which was an\ninalienable right, the solitude in which mind and soul could grow.\n\nThough Esther was at present away, she had become a fixture in the\nhouse. She liked the freedom and the wages and she preferred Millie's\ncompany to that of her other sisters. She was certain that Matthew\nwished her gone, but his dislike did not trouble her; she knew that\nhe feared her departure while he desired it. She had left once, and\nMatthew, with harvesting waiting, had done the washing.\n\nHe had repented his insolence to his grandfather and had been forgiven\nby him, but he was not at peace, though he went regularly to church.\nHe had confidently expected that God would smooth his path when he so\nearnestly besought Him, and instead his path seemed to be growing each\nday rougher.\n\nWhen in the middle of the afternoon Ellen came up the sloping road\noutside the field, he did not recognize her. She wore a changed aspect,\nthe appearance of one intensely preoccupied with pleasant thoughts. He\nsaw her wave her hand, and in the light of Millie's prejudices believed\nthat she was some bold creature beckoning to him. When she slipped\nbetween two fence posts he knew her with a pang. He did not go to meet\nher, but stood bending forward a little until she reached to her full\nheight to kiss his cheek. He had often accepted her kisses as though\nthey were an infliction; now they brought tears.\n\n\"Well, Matthew!\"\n\nHe looked down at her, recognizing the change in her state of mind; she\nfelt herself to be, it was plain, fortunate and happy. He had made\nup his mind that when she returned she should not be received like a\nprodigal but now her expression made clear that she was not a prodigal\nin any sense.\n\n\"You've surprised me!\" he said, astonished at his own delight.\n\n\"Are you glad to see me?\" Ellen looked at him almost coquettishly.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered with a deep breath. Then in the midst of his\npleasure he was discomfited. She might stay to supper, and a welcome\nwas doubtful. The secondary cause of all Millie's woes was Ellen.\n\n\"Can't you stop work a little while and sit down in the woods and talk\nto me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Matthew.\n\nThe oak trees, whose foliage was now a dark red, were but a step away\nand the two sat side by side on the old log. There was between them the\nmost astonishing contrast. Matthew's youthful beauty was gone; his skin\nwas tanned to a darker shade than his light hair; he did not sit erect\nand he was unshaven; but more startling was his air of weariness and\ndullness. He looked ten years older than Ellen and seemed to belong to\na different race. She laid her hand on his knee.\n\n\"I have a long story to tell you.\"\n\n\"Well?\" Matthew's eyes devoured her. He was bewildered and made uneasy\nby his delight. He wished to gather her into his arms and lean his head\non her shoulder.\n\n\"Do you remember the day that Father died?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"That afternoon I was sitting here reading and I looked up and saw an\nautomobile standing before the door. When I went down an old friend of\nFather's was in the office, Dr. Lanfair, with his wife. They stayed\nonly a little while, and soon after they went away Father became ill.\nHe wanted me to give a message to Dr. Lanfair. Do you remember that,\nMatthew?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Matthew uneasily.\n\n\"But I couldn't remember his name. Last fall I got a place accidentally\nat his house. I wrote you how I had been struck by an automobile. But\nI didn't know then who he was. I had all arrangements made to go to\ncollege, but now he wishes to help me because of his old friendship\nfor Father. I'm all ready and I wanted to see you before I left.\"\n\nMatthew received this announcement in silence. She cherished no\nresentment; that was one of her notable characteristics.\n\nEllen read his thoughts.\n\n\"I understand everything, Matthew. You did what you thought was right,\nand you have certainly improved the farm. Isn't it lovely here?\"\n\nMatthew made no answer. A dull red crept up under the unpleasant growth\nof beard.\n\n\"I heard you had another little boy.\"\n\nThus recalled to his domestic ties he rose stiffly and hastily. A late\nguest would be unpardonable. \"We'd better walk down to the house.\"\n\nSometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously, Ellen smoothed the\npaths of others.\n\n\"You needn't go down now; I'll go alone. After supper, can you come\nwith me to see Grandfather?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe walked with her to the opening between the two posts; then he did\nnot return to his work, but went back to the log and sat down. She\nwas but a few years younger than he, but she was youthful, free,\nunburdened, her life was just beginning. Education had not hurt her.\nFor the first time a serious doubt of his own wisdom troubled him. He\nalso for the first time experienced jealousy--he did not wish any one\nbut himself to help Ellen.\n\nHis thoughts followed her down the hill. He hoped that Millie would be\npolite. He saw Millie through the eyes of an outsider such as Ellen had\nbecome, her ignorance, her dullness, her stubbornness. He was at this\nmoment all Levis.\n\nLike Matthew, Millie did not at first recognize Ellen. She always\nthought of her as a forlorn person, but this was no forlorn person who\nstood at the door. She believed at first that Ellen was some sort of\nagent, but after a moment's curious contemplation she said, \"Well, is\nit you!\"\n\nThen she was silent. She saw the beautiful suit and hat and compared\nEllen's appearance with her own, her straggling hair and her dark\ncalico dress, open at the throat since she had last nursed her baby.\n\n\"You would never have caught me like this before I was married!\" she\ncried, expressing in her tone all her weariness and bitterness.\n\nEllen's cheek lost its bright color. She was not an analyst of\ncharacter and she had never looked forward to Millie's future and\nprophesied, \"Thus she will become.\"\n\n\"Come in,\" said Millie as though in defiance of a critical eye.\n\nEllen saw a solemn little Matthew sitting on the floor and a\nmuch smaller John in a cradle which was none too tidy. She saw,\nalso, without looking at them directly, a littered sink, a soiled\ntable-cover, an unblacked stove, and windows unwashed for weeks.\nLooking at little Matthew she began to tremble, remembering how her\narms had once ached to hold him.\n\n\"Matthew is a big boy. And what a lovely baby!\"\n\nMillie's maternal ecstasy had burned itself to a dull flame.\n\n\"Perhaps you wouldn't think so if you had to take care of him day and\nnight!\"\n\nShe accepted Ellen's offer of help with an air which said that since\nshe was going to stay it was no more than right that she should lend a\nhand, and Ellen bravely put on a soiled apron. Millie had had no one\nto talk to in the week of Esther's absence, and now the failings of\nBrother Reith were commented upon and much neighborhood gossip retailed.\n\n\"It's the women who run after him. They are partly to blame!\" explained\nMillie.\n\nWhen Matthew arrived he breathed a sigh of relief. He was sure that\nhe had heard Millie laugh, though at sight of him she lost her good\nnature. She began to ask questions about Ellen's affairs and pried\ndeeper than Matthew.\n\n\"How old is this man who is helping you, Ellen? Is he an old man?\"\n\n\"He was a schoolmate of Father's, but he is younger than Father was.\"\n\n\"Is his wife living?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ellen. \"But she's not well; she's in a sanatorium.\"\n\n\"What ails her?\"\n\n\"She has lost her mind.\"\n\nA look of significant amusement passed from Millie to Matthew, who\nstared back furiously and pulled his chair to the table. He had\nthought of driving in the double carriage and taking the whole family\nto visit Grandfather, but now he changed his mind. He would no more\nhave Millie share his ride with Ellen than he would three years ago\nhave had Ellen share his ride with Millie. When he had finished eating\nhe immediately hitched his horse to the buggy and drove to the door,\nand Ellen climbed in beside him. She did not kiss Millie nor did Millie\noffer to kiss her.\n\nFor the first half-mile brother and sister were silent and busy with\nrecollection. Suddenly Matthew breathed a long sigh.\n\n\"I could help you with money before you get your inheritance,\" he said\nin a low tone.\n\n\"Oh, thank you!\" Ellen did not remember the long postponing, she saw\nonly the yielding. \"It isn't necessary now, everything is arranged.\nNext summer, though, when I'm twenty-one--\"\n\n\"Then of course everything will be fixed properly.\"\n\nClose together she and Matthew went through the graveyard. She slipped\nher hand into his and he did not thrust it away. The sun had set and\nthe cottage was in shadow.\n\n\"Here is Ellen, Grandfather,\" said Matthew as he opened the door.\n\nEllen stepped into the little room. The moment of reunion had come\nunexpectedly. Grandfather raised his beautiful aged head and looked at\nher, and Amos got to his feet. Tears began to run down Grandfather's\ncheeks; Amos said nothing, but a crimson flush burned his face. All\nwere conscious of her youth and her vitality and all realized that she\nwas not theirs.\n\n\"She's here to say good-bye,\" explained Matthew. \"She's going to\ncollege.\"\n\nGrandfather saw his castle at last flat upon the ground. Amos leaped to\nswift, jealous inquiry. How was Ellen going to college? Who was helping\nher? How did she get her fine clothes? But neither Grandfather nor Amos\nasked any questions.\n\nWhen Matthew had seen the dim red light at the end of the train grow\ntinier and then vanish into the darkness, he returned to the Kloster.\nHe did not wish to go home; his rage with Millie frightened him; he\nwould hear only complaints against Ellen and if he defended her the\neffect would be disastrous. He regretted now the whole course of\nhis life since he had risen in meeting and announced his intentions,\nand he blamed all on the influence of his grandfather. He remembered\nGrandfather's ridiculous charge that he had been hard on Ellen. He\nremembered also Amos's burning eyes. He opened the door of the cottage\nand sat down.\n\n\"I expect there was something more in Ellen's going than appeared on\nthe surface,\" he said without any preface. \"I expect that you annoyed\nher, Amos.\"\n\n\"Annoyed her? In what way?\"\n\n\"I expect that Millie was more than half right,\" said Matthew\ndistinctly. \"I expect that you annoyed her with offers of love.\"\n\nAmos rose, his face deathly pale.\n\n\"I'm older than you, Matthew, and I've been your teacher and your\nadviser, but I shall answer this insult for Ellen's sake. I told her\nlong before she went away that if marrying would help her escape from\nyou, I would--\"\n\n\"Escape!\" repeated Matthew.\n\n\"That's the word I used--escape. I said if it would help her to escape\nI would marry her. It was months ago. I talked to her only once when\nI met her by chance. I had nothing to do with her going away. It was\nI who tried to keep her here!\" Amos's voice rose. \"Levis was right in\na sense--you know nothing about the world, you nor Uncle. But I know\nwhat the world is like that you have driven her into. I was the only\none that tried to save her, remember that, please! Your affection for\nher is selfish. You would have liked to keep her so that all would\nrun smoothly in your house, and when you can't have your way with her\nyou drive her off--out you go, Ellen! I love her unselfishly, I don't\nexpect to get anything out of her, I--\"\n\n\"Nor did I expect to get anything out of Ellen,\" protested Grandfather.\n\nMatthew began to shout.\n\n\"You did! You wanted her to start a sisterhood and to stay in this\nworn-out place. You wanted her to come here and live with bats and mice\nand dress in strange clothes and cut off her hair and whistle through\nher teeth as they used to do\"--now the devil surely had possession of\nMatthew!--\"I never wanted her to do anything like that. You talk as\nthough she belonged to you. I am closest to her.\"\n\n\"Matthew!\" warned Grandfather.\n\n\"It's true.\" Matthew rose. \"You've ruined me with your religion, ruined\nme, ruined me!\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Grandfather, aghast.\n\n\"You think you have God here. I don't believe in God!\" Matthew slammed\nthe door.\n\nIn his buggy he was tempted to lash his horse, but that would bring\nhim home the sooner. It was out at last, the dreadful conclusion he\nhad been approaching for a long time. It was said aloud and he was not\nstruck dead. He laughed like a drunken man.\n\nThen, at the top of the hill, he heard a sound and paused. A great\nwind had begun to blow and the oak trees were roaring like the sea.\nIt seemed to him that there was a message for him, but he could not\ninterpret it. He felt suddenly weak and leaned against the side of the\nbuggy.\n\nIn the cottage Grandfather lifted his hands toward heaven. The hope of\nhis sisterhood was definitely ended, and now the prop of his secular\ncongregation was gone.\n\n\"They are their father's children,\" he said in a whisper. \"You are all\nI have left, Amos.\" He looked suddenly at Amos with new appraisement.\nIn the loud confusion of Matthew's and Amos's speech he had lost Amos's\nconfession. \"You're all I have; you are trustworthy. I am not left\ndesolate.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nELLEN'S DREAMS COME TRUE\n\n\nWhen Ellen reached Harrisburg, Fickes awaited her. To him Fetzer had\nmade a brief statement of Ellen's changed prospects and he said, as he\nguided the car over the smooth streets, that he wished her well and\nthat he would miss her. He drew up at the front door, as was suitable\nto her altered fortune. She had inspired only friendliness; there was\nno one in the house who, thus far, did not wish her well.\n\nShe saw Stephen reading in the library whither he had often summoned\nher and where he had heard of Grandfather and the dim Saal and the\nlambs at play and the singing oaks. He had been made acquainted with\nMrs. Sassaman and Mrs. Lebber and had drawn from Ellen's reluctant lips\nthe unpleasant story of Mr. Goldstein. He understood now Edward Levis's\nlife and its disappointments and frustrations, and saw clearly all\nthat he would have been able to do for him. He understood also Levis's\ndaughter and her possibilities, which he believed to be unlimited. Now,\nalas! his philanthropic impulse was strengthened by other impulses,\neven more potent, though as yet unacknowledged to himself.\n\nEllen had begun to view her past history with detachment, and she had\ndescribed for him the vagaries of her early associates not only with\nhumor, but with tenderness.\n\n\"I wouldn't give up any of it, even to have been educated from the\nbeginning. It used to seem dreadfully dull to sit there in the old Saal\nand watch the brethren and sisters, but I can see now that it was all\nbeautiful. It was like the Rembrandt pictures in one of Father's books,\nall different shades of brown with sometimes a soft, golden light. I\nbelieve it was a good place for a child to be for a while.\"\n\nNow, when Ellen entered, Stephen put aside his book and called her.\n\n\"Come here, Ellen.\"\n\nEllen sat down. Her cheeks glowed; her dark blue suit fitted closely\nher round figure; the eyes of Beatrix Esmond were no more shining, the\nhead of Anna Karenina no more beautiful in shape. Stephen feasted his\neyes, picturing her in dresses such as Hilda had worn, her smooth young\nflesh emerging flower-like from a gleaming sheath of delicate satin.\nShe pushed her curls back from her forehead.\n\n\"How were the relatives?\"\n\n\"All well.\"\n\n\"Are you ready to go?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Trunk packed?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Have you said good-bye to Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane?\"\n\n\"Yes. Each of them gave me a present.\"\n\n\"Are you sorry to go?\"\n\n\"I'm coming back,\" said Ellen, smiling. \"This seems like a dream.\nFetzer thinks I've made a mistake; she meant to train me into her\nposition.\" Bright tears came into her eyes. \"I think of my Father.\"\n\nStephen rose and crossed to his desk. He did not at that moment wish to\nthink of Ellen's father. Ellen rose also.\n\n\"These are your tickets and here is your money. Your tuition is in the\nform of a check to the University. I thought it would be simplest that\nway.\"\n\n\"It's all to be paid back,\" Ellen reminded him.\n\nStephen smiled. He had begun to expect her to pay it back, but not\nexactly as she understood. She took the checks and the tickets,\nstruggling meanwhile against tears. Then she lifted her head and stood\nlike a young Victory, breasting the winds. She pictured no specific\nhappiness, but only a general brightness. Every experience in the world\nwhich was worth while awaited her.\n\nWhen her eyes met his, her heart began to beat heavily. She did not\nrealize that life with its strange chances had dealt with her hardly;\nthat she should have been bound not to middle age, but to free youth.\nShe wished above everything in the world that he would again lay his\nhand under her chin and that she might turn her cheek against it.\n\nBut Stephen did not move. He knew that he might touch Ellen, knew that\nshe half expected to be kissed, and he believed that a sense of honor\nrestrained him. In reality prevision governed him; he knew that the\npresent must sometimes be sacrificed to the future.\n\n\"You'll write once a week,\" he said more as a command than as a\nrequest. \"You'd better put your letter into the form of a report of\nwhat you've been doing.\"\n\n\"I promise,\" said Ellen.\n\nFetzer escorted her to the train and bade her farewell with regret for\nthe loss of a congenial companion. For the loss of Ellen's help she\nwas not at all concerned, though she had no intention of engaging any\none to take her place. She would do all Ellen's work herself. Life in\nthe Lanfair house would henceforth be very simple. Keener than her one\nconsuming passion was now a consuming dread. Her husband's term was\nalmost out and the Lord to Whom she prayed had but one more year to\nconvert him and take him home; otherwise there was only one course for\nher.\n\nEllen took the seat indicated by the porter, with an air which declared\nthat travel in parlor cars was not a new experience. She was determined\nnot to seem puzzled or frightened or even over-pleased by the fortunes\nwhich dazzled her.\n\nHaving no knowledge upon which to base dreams of the immediate future,\nshe turned after some vague speculations to the past. Her early life,\nshe realized, was now behind her; she could not but feel, though she\nreproached herself, a deep relief. Her relatives were all troubled and\nshe would have been glad to help them, but she knew no way. To live at\nMatthew's--how impossible! To become the leader of a band of religious\nwomen--how unthinkable! To her, religion was Grandfather's religion. To\nmarry Amos!--most impossible of all! She would never marry; she would\ndevote herself to her profession; she would apply herself with the most\nintense diligence, and would make Dr. Lanfair proud of her. She leaned\nback and closed her eyes, determined to become indispensable to him\nin a far greater degree than Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane together.\nHer admiration for his keenness of mind, his learning, his goodness of\nheart was unbounded.\n\nWhen she was shown into her room in the third story of an old\ndormitory, her pathway seemed to be literally of gold. Flooded with\nlate sunlight, the room faced west and north and looked out over the\nbeautiful campus and the lake. She set down her satchel and walked to\nthe window and stood looking out, comparing this scene with the scene\nof her first adventure, Mrs. Lebber's house overhanging the deep chasm\nof the railroad yards, its grime and the shower of sharp particles\nwhich fell upon her cheek at night. Here were roofs and towers showing\nabove broad tree-tops; yonder was a stretch of heavenly blue water.\n\nPresently she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Was it all a\ndream? The thick beating of her heart frightened her. She forgot her\nfather's urging, her own unabated effort, Miss MacVane's assistance; it\nseemed to her that this happiness was Lanfair's gift. She began to put\nher small properties in their places, to examine wardrobes and bureau\nand desk.\n\nAs the weeks passed, she made friends slowly. She was not frightened\nby the complex life of the University, though at first it confused,\nnor by the long task before her; but she was shy in the company of\nyouthful feminine creatures of all varieties of appearance, natures and\nhistories. She had been associated with comparatively few persons and\nshe was not accustomed to sharing her thoughts. The men students were\nentirely negligible; she knew that she was the object of their friendly\ncuriosity, but she made no response to overtures for acquaintance.\n\nShe did not try to overcome her indifference, but devoted herself to\none purpose and one alone. She had, as her father had realized, the\nstudent's mind. Her work had been planned for her by Stephen and Miss\nMacVane, and she gave herself wholly to acquirement. Her schedule did\nnot point, except for one course in elementary biology, to medicine;\nshe was to study English literature and composition, American history,\nFrench, Latin, and the history of art, and she became promptly what\nstudents called a \"grind.\"\n\nNowhere else in the world is it easier to live the life of a hermit\nthan in a university. To each student is offered a certain amount of\nsocial attention, but he is under no obligation to accept, and is soon\nleft to himself if he indicates that isolation is his preference.\nEllen made one friend, Miss Grammer, a quiet graduate student from\na Western State who helped her with the arrangement of her programme\nand with whom, when the first adjustment was over, she went about\nwith a tourist's eagerness. They listened enchanted to the chimes;\nthey climbed the tower to watch them played; they gazed at mortuary\nmarbles in the chapel and explored the deep, beautiful gorges which on\ntwo sides bounded the campus. As a graduate student, Miss Grammer had\naccess to a Seminar room in the library, and thither she took Ellen to\nspend the long evenings. There on a window-seat, with the twinkling\nlights of the town below her and the lake hiding in the darkness\nbeyond, Ellen learned her lessons, studying sometimes with a strong\neffort of the will because a dreamy contemplation of her good fortune\ntempted her. An elderly professor of history, adored by Miss Grammer,\nexhibited to them the hidden treasures of the library. He was a man of\neager intellectual life to whom most young persons seemed dull, and he\nsmiled at Ellen's profound attentiveness to all that he said until he\nobserved that she followed up each uncomprehended allusion. The first\nmention of Benvenuto Cellini was answered by a puzzled flash of eye,\nthe second by a nod of understanding. Ellen had meanwhile consulted an\nencyclop\u00e6dia.\n\nMiss Grammer had a small fortune and it was her dream to settle in some\ncollege town for life, buying a little house and taking in with her a\ncongenial friend. She had found, she believed, her congenial friend.\nEvery one formed, sooner or later, plans for Ellen.\n\nNeither Professor Anderson nor Miss Grammer realized that what they did\nwas each week minutely recounted. Ellen had written few letters, and\nnone had been in the least like those in which she now found delightful\noccupation. She described her room and the campus and the color of the\nlake and the foam on the waterfalls and the red oak foliage against\nthe pine trees. She described all her teachers and some of her fellow\nstudents and the chimes and the mortuary chapel, with its stiff marble\neffigies, and the chapel service and the sound of music across the open\nspaces of the campus. She wrote on Sunday, carried her letters with her\nto vespers, and mailed them afterwards.\n\nStephen received the letters on Monday evenings, and read them with\ndelight. His own youthful response to music and art and poetry came\nback to him; it had been less articulate, but it had been no less keen.\nEllen's descriptions reconstructed for him not only her own pleasure,\nbut his, and he kept them in a drawer of his desk in the library and\nreread them often. It was possible then to see life again, freshly,\neven more intensely, through the eyes of youth!\n\nHe wrote briefly in reply. He was busy and so were Miss Knowlton and\nMiss MacVane and Fetzer. Miss MacVane's eyes were better and all the\nwomen-folk sent their love. He was glad to hear that her theme had been\napproved and that her history mark was A.\n\nIn December his letters carried a more definite message. He said that\nboth he and Fetzer would be away for Christmas and that the house would\ntherefore be closed. He would be in New York and Fetzer would pay her\nannual visit to the penitentiary, where on account of his good behavior\nher husband would be allowed to see her. How would Ellen like to stay\nat school for the first part of the holidays and then come to New York\nto meet Fetzer, the excursion to be his Christmas gift?\n\nThe letter read as though it had been uttered in Stephen's quiet voice,\nbut there had been nothing quiet about the hand which penned it or\nthe mind which planned each detail of the visit. To observe youth's\nreactions to New York--how rejuvenating that would be!\n\nEllen traveled by night, according to directions. The journey might\nhave been made by day, but Stephen had told her to start on a certain\ntrain. He had done so with deliberation--he wished her to learn\nindependence. With hot cheeks he pictured Ellen traveling across seas\nand continents to meet him.\n\nFetzer had taken, the evening before, the luxurious quarters engaged\nfor her and in the morning she went with Stephen to the train. She\nalways did exactly as he bade her, but this was the first time she had\nput herself in danger of life and limb at his command, and she made\nof her alarm, as her taxicab threaded its way through the streets, an\noffering of affection.\n\nStephen brought a pale Ellen from the train and put the two women into\na car.\n\n\"See that she gets a rest. I'll be up to lunch at one.\"\n\nIn the Belvoir Fetzer felt at ease--here was one spot which she\nhad made hers and here she exhibited an air of proprietorship which\nimpressed even the porters. Her own kingdom--she would like them to\nrealize--was no less grand than theirs!\n\nStephen, coming to the door to escort his guests to the dining-room,\nlooked not the least like pedant in charge of pupil, which character\nhe bore in the mind of Fetzer. Freedom from anxiety and a new interest\nin life changed him visibly, straightened his shoulders and quickened\na little his deliberate voice. He had read \"Conrad in Quest of His\nYouth,\" he knew exactly what had revived him. He had talked all\nthe morning with a rising young surgeon about an operative form of\ninflammation of the cornea, and had observed that the young man had\ncome far less directly than himself to his conclusions.\n\nHe looked with delight at a refreshed Ellen who moved without\nembarrassment through the lobby where a hundred pairs of eyes watched\nher, and who walked, still unperturbed, the length of the dining-room.\nWhen his order was given, he told his guests his programme for the\nafternoon.\n\n\"We're going to the Metropolitan Gallery. Fetzer, did you bring your\ncrocheting?\"\n\nFetzer said, \"Now, Doctor!\"\n\n\"Good! You won't want to listen to all the preaching I mean to do and\nwe'll leave you in a snug corner.\"\n\n\"Well,\" assented Fetzer, \"I have a little rheumatism in the knees. I\nguess it will be better to sit still.\"\n\nHaving climbed the main stairway of the museum, with a supporting hand\non each side, Fetzer was escorted to a comfortable seat in a warm room.\nShe still looked with approval upon this man of important affairs who\ninterrupted the course of his busy life to be kind.\n\n\"There are a few pictures I want you to look at closely to-day,\" said\nStephen. \"The others we'll pass by for the present. I want to give you\na general view of the whole thing. Nothing wrong with your knees, I\nhope?\"\n\n\"She's young,\" said Fetzer. \"She'll get there yet!\"\n\nStephen looked at the glowing creature beside him.\n\n\"Ever been sick in your life?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\nHe continued to regard her--youth!--ah, nothing else was worth while.\nA light shiver passed over him. Then he laid his hand on Ellen's arm.\n\n\"In this room is a collection of primitives. They are enormously\nvaluable in showing the development of art. I want to show you a\nMadonna and a single portrait of the period. See the grace and the\nlovely tenderness and then the flatness of the whole thing. Here is a\nreal portrait--see the shrewd eyes and the kindly expression. But in\nthe main they're valuable only because they're first.\"\n\n\"Professor Lamb wouldn't agree with you,\" answered Ellen, amazed. \"He\nthinks that in some details they've never been surpassed.\"\n\nStephen listened with attentive, smiling eyes to illustrative allusions\nto Giotto and Cimabue. She should some day see Giotto and Cimabue!\nThere was in Florence a dim church whither he had once gone alone;\nthither he would sometime go with a companion. He pointed out a few\nlandscapes, a portrait of Walt Whitman, a Salome in yellow, a little\nwoman in a white head-covering opening a casement window, three boys\nswimming in a green sea. Ellen's cheeks grew a deeper red--she had now\nno opinions. Her blood was quickened by Stephen's touch. Did she feel\nweariness? She would have walked till to-morrow.\n\nAt the end of an hour the two returned to Fetzer.\n\n\"I haven't heard one single word of English since we came, and it isn't\nPennsylvania Dutch either. Nothing but outlanders. Where do they come\nfrom?\"\n\nStephen explained the appreciative foreign population; then again he\ntook Ellen by the arm. The museum had been his refuge a score of times\nwhile Hilda selected beautiful clothes or lay abed. He had made it a\npoint of pride to know it thoroughly.\n\n\"I want you to get the impression of a voyage through the world.\nYou must come often and stay all the time of your visit in just one\nsection--here, for instance, and think of the pyramids and the palms\nand the yellow sand and the Sphinx and the Egyptian girl who wore that\njewel in her brown ear, and of the jealous lover who stabbed her to the\nheart with that dagger, and of the tents of the Arabs on the yellow\nsand.\n\n\"And here you may think of ladies in voluminous skirts and tight waists\nand high-heeled slippers, who made love to gay gentlemen under this\nrococo ceiling and prinked before these mirrors.\" Stephen stopped\nbefore a mirror and looked into the dark eyes reflected there. In\nimagination he kissed Ellen's red lips. For him as well as for her it\nwas a golden hour.\n\n\"Do you suppose I'll ever see it again?\" asked Ellen sadly.\n\n\"Certainly!\"\n\n\"With you?\"\n\nThere was a savage defiance in Stephen's \"Why not, pray?\"\n\nEllen sighed; she had expected her father to show her the world, and\nshe had been disappointed. Then Stephen's closer touch restored her\ncontent.\n\n\"Le Proph\u00e8te\" is not the greatest of operas, but the greatest tenor\nand one of the greatest sopranos were to sing and there were new and\ngorgeous stage-settings--it would serve as a good primer for Ellen.\nStephen was amused when he thought of Fetzer and the display of women's\nbodies in the boxes, pitiful, thin bodies, and unpleasant fat bodies,\nand watching, he read her thoughts. Fetzer had, however, an advantage,\nshe needed to look with but one eye, and that she fixed upon the stage\nwhere she found plenty to occupy and amaze her.\n\nOn Sunday he took his guests to service in an unfinished cathedral,\nso that Ellen might comprehend medi\u00e6val deliberation and understand\nhow Chartres and Amiens were built--he expected to show her Chartres\nand Amiens--and in the afternoon he took her alone to hear a Russian\npianist. She sat quietly and for a while he forgot even her. When he\nturned toward her at the end of a number, she was looking at him.\n\n\"This is best of all,\" said she, to his supreme content.\n\nThey walked down Fifth Avenue in the late sunshine. It seemed to Ellen\nthat every one was happy, but none so happy as she.\n\n\"But it seems wicked!\" she declared suddenly.\n\n\"What seems wicked?\"\n\n\"To be so happy and so gay.\"\n\nStephen recognized a lingering impression of early teachings. None of\nthat, he was determined, should be left in Ellen! He needed no narrow\ncreed, either for himself or for her.\n\n\"That is nonsense. That feeling is wicked!\"\n\nThen Ellen asked a question which was prompted by a hunger to share\nhis interests, and which might have been invented by the deliberate and\ncunning art of a much older woman.\n\n\"You said you were going to talk to a young surgeon yesterday morning.\nDid you?\"\n\nStephen plunged into an explanation. To be conducted back to the\npassion of his life was all that was needed to complete his happiness.\nHe spoke rapidly, his hand still clasping her arm. He was old enough to\nappreciate the value of a companion moulded by one's self. His thoughts\nwere clear; he saw even farther into the subject than he did yesterday.\nShe was not only companionable, she was inspiring, she was essential to\nhis well-being--he would never, he said to himself, give her up. Youth,\nah, he could win it back!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nFETZER'S EYE IS OPENED\n\n\nDuring the short spring vacation Ellen went with Miss Grammer to visit\nNiagara Falls. Stephen thought with satisfaction of Miss Grammer,\nplacing her in the same class with Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane, whom\nhe admired and pitied and with whom he liked to work.\n\nHe suggested that Ellen should spend the summer with Fetzer in his\nabsence. He had begun to believe, by a strange and childish variety of\nlogic, that if he did not attempt to see her he would receive a reward,\nthe nature of which was clearly defined in his thoughts. It would\nhave been the height of cruelty to wish that Hilda should survive; it\nwould be the height of absurdity to pretend that her death could bring\nanything but relief. He had pretended even to himself for many years,\nand for a still longer term to others; now he would be frank with\nhimself at least. If Hilda died, he could marry Ellen Levis; rather,\nwhen Hilda died, he would marry Ellen. He did not believe that Hilda's\nlife could be prolonged beyond a few years.\n\nIn May he went abroad to a meeting of ophthalmists. He was to be one of\nmany speakers, and he became, with the first paragraph of his address,\nthe chief speaker. Conscious of his triumph, he believed that he had\nsucceeded because he was intensely happy, or, rather, because he\nanticipated intense happiness.\n\nAfterwards, sitting in a caf\u00e9, he watched the passers-by. There was but\none real happiness in the world and that was to be his. To have Ellen\nwith him, vivifying his days and filling his nights with peace--no man\ncould ask for more.\n\nWhen he reached his hotel he found a cablegram awaiting him. He\nconnected it foolishly with the mood from whose influence he had not\nyet passed; he believed that his happiness was premonitory and he tore\nopen the envelope with a shaking hand. It could bring but one message;\nhe experienced in anticipation as he unfolded the sheet the inevitable\nshock which the announcement of death brings, even a death long\nexpected and desired.\n\nBut Mayne's cablegram did not announce Hilda's death; it urged Stephen\nto wait in Paris and go with him on a motor trip.\n\nIn August at last he came home. The house went through its usual\ntransformation; it seemed to Ellen now not that a machine had begun\nto run, but that a heart had begun to beat. She had studied and had\nsewed and had visited Ephrata. The half of her father's property had\nbeen delivered to her and Matthew would henceforth pay her an income\nfrom the farm. Stephen had explained her presence to the same few\nfriends whom he had told directly of Hilda's condition, and she had\nbeen invited to ride with them and had a few times been asked to\ntheir houses. Fetzer grew pale; her year of grace was approaching its\nend and she lifted more and more ardently her justifiable prayer for\ndeliverance.\n\nStephen's arrival, unlike his arrivals with Hilda, was heralded only by\nthe sound of his key in the latch. The time was late afternoon of an\nintensely warm day. Still feeling the motion of the ship, and oppressed\nby the heat, he walked from the station through the almost deserted\nbusiness section, across the burning square to the cool shade of Front\nStreet, beyond which the quiet river studded with islands appeared to\nbe a lake. His pace slackened. He thought of the dimness of his shaded\nhouse, of his own bed, of his offices where everything lay ready to his\nhand, of one-eyed Fetzer and homely Miss Knowlton and poor Miss MacVane\nand Fickes. They would be there, too, as well as Ellen. Ellen did not\ncome into his mind as did the comforts of his house and those who made\nit comfortable; she was already there.\n\nAs he went up the steps he experienced a moment of fright lest his\nhome-coming should not be complete. She might have gone to visit her\nkin; she might merely have stepped out for a half-hour. In either case\nhis satisfaction would be imperfect.\n\nBut Ellen was at home. She heard the turning of a key in the latch and\nlooked up from her book. She did not move, but fixed her eyes on the\ndoor which opened from the library into the hall. If it was he, he\nwould in a moment appear there. The breath seemed to leave her body;\nshe was conscious of a feeling of constriction in her heart. Then she\nbent a little forward and saw him looking at her. He seemed to speak,\nbut she did not hear.\n\nStephen did not come forward, but leaned his shoulder against the door\nand looked down at her, his attitude one of deliberate contemplation,\nhis hand thrust lightly into his pocket. His eyes were keen; he saw\nclearly and with gloating joy what had befallen her. He would have\npatience now!\n\nThe sound of his key in the latch had not been heard by Ellen alone,\nbut by another pair of ears as keen as hers. Fetzer's heart leaped. She\nrose from her chair in the second-story hall, letting the curtain which\nshe was mending slide to the floor together with thimble and scissors,\nand started downstairs. Even in her joyful confusion she remembered the\nproprieties and sought the service stairs and so came into the library\nfrom a rear door. She saw Stephen standing in the doorway and wondered\nwhether he was ill; she hurried forward and saw Ellen. Though she was\nblind in one eye, the other was perfectly sound, and her perceptions\nwere all the keener for the blindness of her eye. She did not see\nStephen's face, she saw only Ellen, and Stephen recognized no more\nclearly than she what had befallen Ellen.\n\nAt once she withdrew backward to the open door and through it to the\npassageway, still walking backward, until a wall stopped her.\n\n\"Oh, the poor, poor girl!\" she whispered, aghast, lifting her gaze\ntoward the ceiling. \"I can't understand how things are as they are,\"\nshe said, for the first time in her life with solemn reproach.\n\nWithout realizing the origin of the gentle sound of her departure,\nEllen and Stephen were disturbed.\n\n\"I'm glad to see you home again,\" said Ellen.\n\nHe came forward and took her hand in both of his. Fetzer advancing for\na second time heard him ask, \"Where's Fetzer?\" and moved forward. It\nwas for her he inquired! Surely he had not seen in poor Ellen's eyes\nthat betraying look which she had seen!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nGRANDFATHER AND AMOS MAKE DISCOVERIES\n\n\nAmos had acquired during the past winter a considerable addition to\nhis library. The publishers added the famous tales of \"P\u00e8re Goriot\"\nand \"Madame Bovary\" to their lists, and in accordance with the\nsuggestions of the clerk in the department store he was advised of\ntheir publication. He read no more at lightning speed, but allowed\nhimself only a small portion each day. To teach school, to keep house,\nto cultivate a garden, to read in the evenings--it was a life common to\nthousands of prosaic citizens, but to him it was a life of wicked and\nsurreptitious adventure. In April he received a copy of \"Tess of the\nD'Urbervilles,\" and with it, by a packer's error, a recently published\nand enormously popular story advocating an unremitting optimism in all\nthe circumstances of life, a gladness which nothing could disturb,\nall-pervading as the air. He read it, sitting on a bench in the grove\nabove Cocalico Creek.\n\n\"'I'm so happy that I sing for joy,' said little Mary. 'I just make up\nmy mind to be glad, that's all that's necessary. I make everybody round\nme glad.'\"\n\nHe looked with astonishment at the printed word. Was he to pay good\nmoney for this? A succession of strange expressions appeared upon his\nhandsome face and finally a grin, all-embracing, malicious. In this\nfashion a lion might mock an unstockaded village.\n\nSuddenly he rose and hurled the book with good aim exactly into the\nmiddle of the creek where it sank heavily; then he laughed a silly\nlaugh. Life was not like that; life was orgiastic, sinister, monstrous!\n\nIn June he went to look after his supply of books. The Thinker's\nLibrary was not growing with sufficient rapidity for him, and now that\nhis school was closed and he had so many long, idle hours he needed\noccupation. The day was rainy and cool and dismally unseasonable,\nand Grandfather looked at him in astonishment. The translation of\n\"The Mystic Dove\" was long, long overdue, but Grandfather still had\nimplicit faith in its completion; Amos was slow, but spiritual tasks\nwere not to be hurried.\n\nWhen Amos had gone the old man felt lonely. He made his way after a\nwhile in the cool rain to the Saal and Saron, and walked through the\nbuildings, peopling them with figures. The stairs leading to the second\nfloor of Saron, were narrow and steep and he took them slowly, trying\nto find a hold for his cane and not daring to cling to the ancient rope\nwhich served as a rail, for fear that he might pull down the whole\nstructure upon his head.\n\nIn the second story his mood brightened. Here the sisters had sat with\ntheir spinning-wheels and looms; here they had sung their ethereal\nmatins, and had prayed for their beloved Father Friedsam; here they\nhad talked of the mystical love of the Lord for his Sweet Flowers. An\nunsympathetic person would have shivered at the damp, gravelike air,\nat the narrowness of the tiny rooms, and at the ancient odors which\nsuggested decay and dreariness; and an imaginative person would have\nremembered all the inevitable physical and mental abnormalities of\nconventual life.\n\nBut Grandfather was cheered and not depressed. In a sudden increase\nof mental vigor he began to plan once more the rehabilitation of the\nKloster. Here should be placed a supporting beam; here fresh plaster,\nwhere the old plaster of clay and grass had crumbled away, leaving\nexposed the slanting rafters held together by wooden pegs. Here was a\nlarge space, newly opened like the hollow in which Amos had found \"The\nMystic Dove,\" and he began to explore the depths with his stick. He\nhad gone over the old buildings many times, but never without hope of\nfinding some writing which had been overlooked, and had even stared\nat the graves of Father Friedsam and Brother Jabez wondering whether\nthey might not contain a written message for the present backsliding\ngeneration.\n\nWhen his cane touched a small movable object, he forgot that he had\noften prayed for exactly such an experience, and he was amazed and\nexcited. He knelt down and thrust his hand into the opening. A book!\nMany books! His old cheeks quivered and his beard trembled upon his\naged breast. He pressed his body against the crumbling plaster so as to\nreach in still farther, reproaching himself because he was surprised\nat a blessing for which he had so ardently prayed. A library of\nbooks--other \"Mystic Doves\" and \"Sweet Lilies!\"\n\nHe drew them out, one by one. But the binding was not of musty leather,\nbut of cheap modern cloth; the language was neither German nor Latin,\nand there was no musty odor of sanctity--what could they be? Still\nkneeling painfully, he opened the uppermost of the pile which he had\nmade and began to read.\n\n\"Hitherto he had never compromised himself in his relations with women.\nAs he had often said of himself, he had inspired no great passion, but\na multitude of caprices. But now he had begun to feel that it is one\nlove and not twenty that makes life memorable; he wished to redeem his\nlife from intrigues, and here was the very chance he was waiting for.\nBut habit had rendered him cowardly, and this affair frightened him\nalmost as much as marriage had done. To go away with her, he felt, was\nequivalent to marrying her. His life would never be the same again. The\nlist would be lost to him forever; no more lists for him. He would be\nknown as the man who lived with--lived with whom? A girl picked up in\nthe suburbs who sang rather prettily.\"\n\nGrandfather turned fifty pages or so.\n\n\"He was the young poet whom all Paris fell in love with. He came up to\nParis with a married woman; I think they came from Angoul\u00eame. I haven't\nread Lost Illusions for twenty years. She and he were the stars in the\nsociety of some provincial town, but when they arrived in Paris each\nthought the other very common and countrified. He compares her with\nMadame d'Espard; she compares him with Rastignac; Balzac completes the\npicture with a touch of pure genius--they forgot that six months would\ntransform them both into exquisite Parisians!\"\n\nGrandfather turned another hundred pages.\n\n\"'Dearest, we cannot spend the night driving about London.'\n\n\"He sighed on his mistress's shoulder. She threw his black hair from\nhis forehead.\"\n\nThe book dropped to the floor.\n\n\"Ach, Gott im Himmel!\" cried Grandfather. \"What is then this?\"\n\nHe explored deeply and still more deeply, till he had at last all\nthe library before him on the floor. Who had carried these books to\nthis spot? To whom did they belong? Together with the agony of which\nhis cramped body suddenly became conscious, there rushed upon him a\nsickening suspicion of the truth. Only one person beside himself had\naccess to the old buildings.\n\nFor a long time he stood staring at the odious books. He did not wish\nto touch them; he would have liked to press them into a closer heap\nwith his cane and to set fire to them. But they were not his. Nor did\nhe wish to leave them in this clean and holy place. He would carry\nthem down, and when Amos returned he would confront him with them. The\ndream of his old age was not yet quite destroyed; there would be no\nrestoration of the Kloster; but a repentant sinner might still serve a\nsecular congregation. With him Grandfather would wrestle day and night.\n\nHe carried the books to the cottage in five long journeys. Baskets\nwoven by the sisters were at hand, but he did not remember them and a\nheavily laden basket would have made a perilous burden. Up and down\nthe two flights of stairs which were scarcely more than ladders he\njourneyed, his knees shaking. Then in his kitchen he placed the books\nin a row on the table.\n\nConfounded, he sat with his hands clasped on his cane, waiting. The\nrain continued to fall; the monotonous drip from the eaves changed to\nthe plunge of a miniature waterfall; the shadows of the Saal and Saron\nand finally the shadows of night fell upon the little house, and still\nhe sat alone.\n\nAmos meanwhile had journeyed through a landscape shrouded in rain and\nmist. Fields and farmhouses and noble groups of trees were hidden or\nshowed only in ghostly outlines. In the neighborhood of the long line\nof furnaces and mills the mist produced many strange phenomena. Above\nthe ground was a succession of dull masses, black freight trains, the\nlower floors of vast and shapeless buildings, and mammoth truncated\npyramids of dim red or black or yellow ore. Once, above the layer of\nmist which enshrouded the upper portion of a towering blast-house, he\nsaw a titanic figure, a man elevated apparently upon the mist itself,\nraising against heaven a defiant hammer. He felt in his own muscles a\nsudden tightening--he believed that he could swing a hammer like that\nand swing it hard.\n\nThe city was wrapped in the same dismal blanket. He wandered about the\nstreets; he visited the Capitol and patrolled miles of the muddy river.\nHe could not see the distant bank, and even the islands in midstream\nhad vanished. He walked out beyond the city limits, and there from a\nlittle stone pier looked down into a deep, swirling pool. There was\nnothing in life, he believed, and nothing in death either. The men and\nwomen who wrote the books he read made very little allowance for the\nfuture; to them he believed the very conception was ludicrous.\n\nThen Amos realized suddenly to what point he had come. He recoiled in\nhorror from the deep pool and from his own wicked thoughts and rapidly\nretraced his steps. When he reached the city limits, he left the river\nroad in fear and took to the first parallel street.\n\nIt had begun to rain heavily and he had no umbrella. He remembered\nthe cathedral into which he had gone by mistake, and wondering at his\nearlier feeling of wickedness, he decided to take refuge there from the\nrain. He felt an intense curiosity; Roman Catholic beliefs were often\nmentioned in the books which he read. He hurried his steps, and when he\nreached the church he went in and sat down panting.\n\nAt first he experienced only a dull peace. His body was tired, his mind\nceased to operate and the mere freedom from thought was comfortable.\nGradually a deeper quiet came upon him, induced by the silence and\nthe dim conception of ageless traditions which he had unconsciously\ngathered. Here as in the Kloster men had found peace; they had crept\naway and had taken vows and hidden themselves forever from the\ntemptations of the mad world.\n\nHe saw a slender youth in a long, loose garment enter the church from\nbehind the altar and kneel down. As he knelt he read from a little\nbook, and sometimes he made a graceful, rapid motion with his hand\nacross forehead and breast. Amos watched hungrily and knelt also,\ncrouching almost to the floor. The young man had a happy face--would\nthat he had courage to ask the nature and the effect of his orisons! He\nwould do anything, follow any one.\n\nBut the young priest, having finished his devotions, rose, crossed\nhimself, and went the way he had come. He had to Amos's eyes suddenly\na complacent air which produced a reaction. The fierce hunger for\nlife came back; he rose and went out, letting the door slam. He would\nbuy more books. And--poor Amos!--he would do worse than that; he would\nlearn something of the world at first hand. There were theaters and\nmoving-picture houses--to him nothing human was hereafter to be foreign.\n\nThe rain had ceased, and again for a brief space the mist descended,\nnot now in a thick blanket, but in ragged masses, and a wind blew\nfrom the river. The deeper chill of evening cooled the air, and as\npedestrians took on a livelier pace, he moved more briskly with them.\nAt the corner of the square he stood still and watched the street-cars\nmoving on the weblike tracks, and the bright lights of the automobiles\nweaving a pattern round them, and the larger circles of human beings\nperpetually revolving. The group of Salvation Army workers stood where\nthey had stood months before, singing shrilly, with an accompaniment\nof tambourine music, an old and sentimental religious song set to a\npopular secular air. Their leader looked about with the same solemnity,\nthe same canine determination to snatch as many souls as possible from\neternal death. Amos looked and listened unmoved.\n\nThen suddenly, as though by this dullness he had opened finally\na gateway for the powers of darkness, there rose beside him a\nrepresentative of that evil which he believed to be the chief evil of\nthe world. A short, heavy woman whose black eyes sparkled behind a\nfigured veil came up to him, so close that her shoulder touched his\narm. He took an involuntary step, then he looked down.\n\n\"You're all alone?\" asked a flat voice.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So am I, but I'm always glad for company. Perhaps you would come with\nme?\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\nThe woman answered by turning back toward the dark street and Amos\nfollowed her. He walked lightly as though he walked without shoes,\nas an Arab might follow his master down a ghostly street. His folded\narms might have held together a shrouding burnous, his air was secret.\nHe turned like a soldier on parade into a dark hallway and climbed\na flight of stairs and another and yet another, going as though he\nunderstood perfectly the object of his journey.\n\nThe last stairway opened into a room from which he could see an\nilluminated sky, and he realized that he was above the square. He could\nhear faintly against the sound of grinding brakes and automobile horns\na confident declaration:\n\n    \"I'm the child of a King,\n    The child of a King,\n    With Jesus my Saviour,\n    I'm the child of a King.\"\n\nA cold sweat broke out upon him.\n\nHis companion moved quietly about the back of the deep, dim room,\nher motions imagined and not seen. As she moved, it seemed to Amos\nas though some monstrous and evil thing was bearing down upon him,\nan enormous, indescribable instrument of woe. His terror was not\nonly mental, but physical; he lifted his hands as if to ward off the\ncrushing weight. At the same time he felt the whole situation to be\nunreal; and so keen was this impression that he expressed it aloud.\n\n\"I'm not like this!\"\n\n\"What did you say?\" asked the flat voice.\n\nAmos answered in deeds, not words. He rose to his feet and moving like\na cat approached the door. Then he flung himself down the stairs, one\nflight, two, three, and out into the street. He believed that he heard\nfootsteps behind him, felt dim arms outstretched for him. He saw, ten\ntimes magnified, the face of the captain of the Army. His face was all\nthat he could see. He flung himself upon the little band, now almost\nwithout an audience, and pushed his way into the center.\n\nThe astonished captain laid a hand upon his arm.\n\n\"You're not fleeing from arrest, are you?\"\n\n\"No,\" panted Amos. \"I'm fleeing from evil.\"\n\n\"Then stand right where you are.\"\n\nThe tambourines began to beat furiously. A lassie started to sing with\na volume of sweet sound which came uncannily from her tiny throat. She\nfixed upon Amos concerned and pitying eyes. The woman with the dark\nveil did not appear from her fastness.\n\nAmos stood close to the captain, who, after another song had been\nsung, invited all who wished to be saved to come with him to the rooms\nof the Army. Apparently Amos was the only one interested in this\nimportant matter and him he led away, leaving the others to conduct\nthe meeting. In a bare little room furnished with benches, a portable\norgan, and a few printed Scripture texts, he bade Amos sit down.\n\n\"Now, Brother, what's your trouble?\"\n\nAmos was for the moment speechless, the joys of confidence being new\nto him, but when he began to speak, he could not stop. He told of his\nyouth and his uncle and Ellen and of his buying books and of the old\nKloster.\n\n\"It was intended that I should found a conventual order.\"\n\nThe captain did not understand.\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"A conventual order. We were to gather in others to live a life of\nmeditation.\"\n\nThe captain knitted his heavy brows. \"What were you going to meditate\nabout?\"\n\n\"The goodness of God and the sin of the world,\" said Amos faintly; and\ndrew forth an amazing reply:\n\n\"I don't wonder you got nutty.\"\n\n\"Got what?\" repeated Amos, puzzled. \"Nutty?\"\n\n\"You've understood me, Brother.\" The captain tapped his forehead\nsignificantly with his gnarled hand whose deep-laid grime no washing\ncould altogether remove. \"Then what?\"\n\nAmos described his despair, his contemplation of the dark pool, and his\nlast and most terrible experience.\n\n\"I'm utterly vile,\" said he at last.\n\n\"You're worse than that,\" said the captain.\n\n\"Won't you advise me?\" asked Amos timidly.\n\nThe little man stared at him. He asked again for a second description\nof Amos's long days, he looked at the mighty frame, and was filled with\nan impatience which was almost disgust. He rose as though he were going\nto turn Amos out. Instead he addressed him fiercely.\n\n\"Will you do exactly as I tell you for a month?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" promised Amos weakly.\n\nThe captain opened a closet door and pointed to several sets of\nworkingman's overalls.\n\n\"You pick out the longest of those and roll them into a bundle and come\nalong.\"\n\nAmos obeyed. He could not explain this strange course, unless he was to\nbe conducted on a journey to see depths of misery and wickedness more\nabysmal than his own.\n\nWhistling, the little man led the way out into the street, and\nreturning to the square bade his companions good-bye. Of the wide,\ninterested eyes of the leader of the singing he took special note, and\nsmiled inwardly and said to himself with the air of a prophet, \"Sally's\ngot her eye on him.\" Then he climbed into a street-car, Amos close\nbehind him. When they had traveled several miles he got out and led\nthe way through an opening in a high fence into the yard of a blast\nfurnace. The blast was in progress and the air was filled with rosy\nlight.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said.\n\n\"What are we going to do?\" Did some hideous immolation threaten? The\nplace seemed like the lower regions.\n\n\"We're going to work,\" said the strange guide. \"What ails you is not\nsin, but idleness; you've got too much time on your hands. I bet you\nain't ever worked a whole day in your life! I'm the boss of the night\nshift and you're under me. Get me?\"\n\nWith a gasp of astonishment Amos \"got\" him. But the captain, however\nefficacious his cure, was mistaken in his diagnosis. He believed Amos\nto be lazy as well as idle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nFETZER DELIVERS A SERMON\n\n\nFetzer did not sleep well the night before Ellen returned to college,\nnor had she slept well for several preceding nights. More than once\nduring the past ten days she had been astonished, not by Ellen, but by\nher admired Dr. Lanfair, who on warm evenings took Ellen riding in his\nsmall car.\n\nThey rode along the pleasant river or on smooth country roads. On the\noutward journey, companioned by the setting sun, they talked. What\nEllen had not told about her past, she told now. All that Stephen could\nremember of his European journeys, of France, of Italy, of the Alps,\nhe recalled; new countries which he expected to see--with Ellen--he\npictured from imagination.\n\nEllen opened her heart; his remained closed. He said nothing about his\nyouth, his father, his marriage, his inner self, knowing that with\nreticence foregone, other inhibitions would be difficult. He still\nbelieved that some day he could honorably tell Ellen everything.\n\nThey drove home silently, their eyes upon the illuminated road and the\nbordering trees. Once, returning from Gettysburg, they saw a deer,\nblinded by the light, motionless, terror-stricken. The stopping of the\ncar roused him from his paralysis and he sped into the woods. Their\nthoughts followed him to some deep refuge.\n\nWholly unsophisticated, Fetzer would have discerned nothing unwise\nin these excursions if she had not espied Ellen's look on the day of\nStephen's return. She believed that Stephen was too modest to suspect\nthat he was enshrined in this susceptible young breast.\n\nShe laid the last articles in Ellen's trunk, and when she went to bed\nshe continued to mourn. The world was, take it as one might, a queer\nplace. Then she turned on her side to sleep. Ellen was young; she would\n\"get over it.\" After a while she realized that she had forgotten to say\nher prayers and she crept out of bed and knelt for a long time praying\nfor many persons, but especially for Ellen.\n\nStill she could not sleep. She reviewed Ellen's residence in the house.\nThis last summer she had watched eagerly for the mail. Fetzer had\nbelieved that the letters which she looked for were from some college\nacquaintance; she realized now that they were Stephen's letters.\n\n\"He's not old.\" Fetzer was about Stephen's age. \"And he's very\ngood-looking.\"\n\nAgain she composed herself to sleep.\n\n\"He's perhaps a little too kind to people,\" she said after another\nhalf-hour, in her nearest approach to disapproval of her master.\n\nIn the middle of the night she began to think of her own troubles. The\nLord had not answered her prayer; Jim was not converted, neither was he\ntranslated. His term ended on the first of February, and by that time\nshe expected to await him in the Pennsylvania German village where they\nhad been born and married and where everybody knew their history and\nhis shame. She was not afraid; she believed that if he could be kept\nfrom drink and entertained he would be endurable, at least he would\nnot be dangerous. If he did not do well--it was all the same, she was\nbound to him. It was as yet impossible for her to imagine herself in\nthe little house with him, but she had no other thought than to go. She\nwould still have Christmas, and then would come the inevitable misery.\nTo her Duty was the \"stern daughter of the Voice of God,\" indeed.\n\nAfter Ellen had gone she began to put the house in order for her own\ndeparture, spending hours over each room, making lists in neat little\nbooks, and packing carefully Hilda's belongings so that if Stephen\ndecided to give them away they could be shipped without repacking.\n\n\"If I get everything done, I'll then have a free Christmas.\"\n\nSometimes she walked from room to room adoring and sometimes for an\nhour she forgot that she was to go away. Then, as if in punishment for\nher forgetfulness, she found her husband walking with her or sitting\nclose beside her at the table and on the doorstep in the evenings, his\narm, his arm--Fetzer needed her prayers for herself!\n\nThrough the autumn Stephen was constantly occupied and constantly\ncheerful. He attended his patients with promises of improvement which\ndid much to bring about improvement. Miss MacVane stood between him and\noverwork, and Miss Knowlton took upon herself a heavier burden than\nbefore. The period was one of supreme happiness for both women; they\nlived in a dream, each perfectly aware of her own state of mind and of\nthat of her companion. Miss Knowlton, at least, was relieved by Ellen's\nabsence; Ellen was to her like a fifth wheel. Stephen often sat on the\nedge of Miss MacVane's desk when the day's work was done and discussed\ncases with them. \"We've had a good day, haven't we?\" he would say, and\nMiss MacVane and Miss Knowlton would scarcely be able to speak for\nsatisfaction. They both believed that it was unlimited opportunity to\nwork and freedom from anxiety about Hilda's behavior which made him\nhappy.\n\nFetzer had formed the habit of returning promptly from church each\nSunday evening and after carrying Stephen his late supper, of sitting\nwith him for half an hour. She always told about the sermon, to which\nshe paid the closest attention for this purpose. He seldom went to\nchurch, but with this failing she was lenient so long as she could\ncarry religion to him.\n\nWhen she finished her sermon outline she invariably inquired for Hilda,\nand then asked for directions for the coming week. She was happiest\nwhen he set her tasks, a complete change in the position of the office\nor library furniture or the planning of a menu for a dinner party of\nmedical men. This fall he gave her few directions; he was satisfied\nwith everything.\n\n\"And now I must go away!\" mourned Fetzer.\n\nOne Sunday evening early in December, she carried him his supper and\nsat down near him in the only straight chair, a more comfortable seat\nbeing according to her code unsuitable. When she entered she saw him\nfold a letter and put it into his pocket, and recognized the size and\nshape. Poor Ellen--Fetzer hoped that she did not write as she had\nlooked! Though she understood Ellen's earlier history, it seemed to\nher, all else aside, that Ellen had lifted her eyes to an unattainable\nstar.\n\nAs Stephen praised her sandwiches and tea, and asked her about the\npreacher and the choir and the attendance, she quite forgot all her\nworries, forgot poor Ellen, forgot her wicked husband with whom she\nwould soon have to live, forgot everything but her adoration. But she\nwas soon recalled from her dreams. Stephen put aside his cup and began\nto walk up and down the room.\n\n\"Stay and gossip a while, Fetzer. We must plan a nice Christmas for\nEllen.\"\n\nFetzer looked up startled.\n\n\"Is she coming for Christmas?\"\n\n\"Surely!\"\n\n\"But she didn't last year!\"\n\n\"No, but we went to see her. This year she's to come home.\"\n\nFetzer began to smooth the seams of her black silk dress. It was a\npresent from Stephen and she felt like a queen in it. She passed over\nthe astonishing word \"home.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by a nice Christmas?\"\n\n\"Oh, wreaths and holly and flowers and a turkey and presents--such\na Christmas as young people like. I don't suppose she's had a real\nChristmas for a long time. She was here two years ago, wasn't she? What\ndid you give her then?\"\n\n\"A white apron.\"\n\nStephen laughed and Fetzer began to tremble. It was her feminine duty\nto protect Ellen.\n\n\"Do you suppose it is best for her to come? On account of her lessons?\"\n\n\"She won't have any lessons. Of course she's coming! Wasn't she here\nall summer?\"\n\nFetzer said in her heart, \"But you weren't here!\" Aloud she said, \"Does\nshe know she is to come?\"\n\n\"Know it? Why, this is her home, Fetzer--surely you understand that!\"\nHe stopped in his walk and looked down. Fetzer was not one to make\ndifficulties. \"I should think you'd be glad to have her. She's young,\nand youth is everything.\"\n\nWith a great effort Fetzer raised her eyes. She was not thinking of\nStephen or of herself, but with deep unselfish concern of Ellen. It was\nhideous to want what one could not have!\n\n\"I should think she'd like to be with young people,\" she said with a\nlittle gasp.\n\nStephen had taken up his long stride; he stopped again and looked\ndown. Rarely, and very rarely, jealousy of Ellen's young companions\ntroubled him.\n\n\"She likes to be here!\" he said sharply. \"She--\" Then he stopped\nshort. Fetzer was still smoothing the seam of her dress. He was glad\nthat he had not met her glance--he did not wish to betray himself.\nFor an instant and only an instant he hated her, then he blushed for\nhimself--good, devoted, innocent, unsuspicious Fetzer could have no\ndoubts of him! \"I may not be here all the vacation, but that makes no\ndifference in her coming.\"\n\nFetzer lifted her tray and bade him good-night, and when she had put\nall the things neatly away, went up the stairs to her room and sat down\nat the window. She had not met his eye, but for the first time she had\nheard his voice speaking to her sharply. It had the effect of light\nas well as sound; dark corners were suddenly illuminated. There were\nhis frequent letters, there were the automobile rides, there was his\npresent eagerness. She had not seen his face when he greeted Ellen; who\nknew what his look had expressed?\n\n\"He's all alone,\" she said in an awed voice after a long time. \"It's\nvery, very hard to be alone.... He's had all along from the beginning\na hard time.... It was a wonder that he stood it.... He deserved\nbetter in this world.... But this cannot be!\" She spoke with childish\nsimplicity. \"This would be wrong!\"\n\nThe next Sunday evening she carried Stephen his supper and sat down and\ngave him the outline of the sermon.\n\n\"It was on the subject of always having enough light to live by and\nit not making anything out if we have nothing else but that,\" she\nexplained in her native idiom. The sermon, if one could judge by her\npale cheeks, had moved her.\n\nShe inquired about Hilda.\n\n\"I so often think of her sitting down there when there is all this\nhere.\"\n\nThen she took her future happiness in her hands. Her husband could\nnot live always and she had expected some day to come back; now she\nimperiled that prospect.\n\n\"I'm sorry that I cannot be here over Christmas,\" she said soberly.\n\n\"Not be here at Christmas! Why not?\"\n\n\"He comes out the last of January.\"\n\nStephen looked up quickly. The absurdity of preparing for a month when\na week would suffice did not at first occur to him. He had seen Jim\nFetzer at the trial--he was a mad brute.\n\n\"You're not really going back to him!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am.\"\n\n\"To live with him?\"\n\n\"Who else has he?\"\n\n\"Let him take care of himself!\"\n\n\"But he's my husband\"--Fetzer pronounced it \"husbant.\"\n\n\"He'll shoot you again.\"\n\n\"No, I think not. He knows now what the jail is like.\"\n\n\"It seems an odious proceeding.\"\n\nFetzer returned his gaze. She was a human being and so was he, there\nwas at this moment no distinction of rank between them.\n\n\"You would not leave her stick,\" she said.\n\nStephen swallowed the last mouthful of tea. There was something behind\nFetzer's strangeness; it was ridiculous for her to leave before she\nmust. If she went Ellen could not come! It was not possible that she\nwas trying to spoil his plan! He rose and stood quite close to her.\n\n\"Why do you go before Christmas, Fetzer?\"\n\nA deep red flooded Fetzer's cheeks. On the left side the white scar lay\nlike a hand.\n\n\"I must get my place ready for him. It is everything all run down. The\nfence must be fixed and I'm going to take water into the kitchen. I'm\nused to the conveniences here. I--\"\n\nStephen too flushed crimson. He laid his hand on Fetzer's shoulder.\n\n\"Look up and tell me what you're driving at!\"\n\n\"I mean that I must go.\"\n\n\"You mean that you're taking pleasure in deliberately spoiling my\nlittle plan for Ellen's Christmas!\"\n\nFetzer looked at him appalled. Oh, that Ellen had never come to make\nlife hard!\n\n\"You're making some sort of foolish pretense,\" he continued. \"Don't you\nwant Ellen to come here?\"\n\nAfter a long time Fetzer said, \"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I think it isn't for the best.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It's hard on her.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\nFetzer looked down at her folded hands.\n\n\"It's hard to want all the time what you cannot have, especially when\nyou see it before you.\"\n\n\"What is there Ellen wants which she can't have?\"\n\nFetzer rose, pushing back the light chair upon which she had been\nsitting.\n\n\"You know,\" she said quietly. \"It is hard even for me to live here\nfor some reasons, though I'm a little older than you and I'm a very\nignorant Pennsylvania Dutch woman and I have this.\" She laid her hand\nacross her cheek. \"Sometimes I think how different everything might\nhave been if I had been born different. Miss MacVane--I expect it is so\nwith her and with Miss Knowlton too. But we are older and we can resign\nourselves. But I'm sorry for this young girl, that everything should be\nspoiled for her.\"\n\n\"How spoiled?\" Stephen asked the question as quietly as Fetzer\nhad spoken, but his heart was not quiet. He was not, like her,\nunsophisticated, and he saw, not for the first time, his attentions to\nEllen through the exaggerating medium of his own desire. He suspected\nwith alarm that Fetzer had been prompted by some worldly-wise,\ndiscerning person. There were these other women in the house, there\nwere Hilda's friends. Could some fool have meddled?\n\nBut Fetzer's prompting had sprung from her own heart, and it did not\ntake into account any reputations before the world.\n\n\"Because nothing can come of it for her but trouble,\" she said, and\nwent out of the room with dignity, not forgetting to say good-night or\nto lift her tray.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nELLEN REMEMBERS BROTHER REITH\n\n\nIn the fading light of a December afternoon Miss Grammer and Ellen went\ntogether to an organ recital in the chapel. Only the lamps at the organ\nwere lighted and they found their way to a pew in the twilight and sat\nvery still, seeing dimly the mosaics picked out in gold, the faint\noutlines of arched windows and the shadowy forms of human beings. They\nwere not curious about what was being played; for them music was merely\nan aid to meditation. Miss Grammer saw a little brown house whose snug\ninterior was like that of a ship's cabin. It had built-in cases of\ndrawers, many book-cases, a few pieces of mahogany furniture, and at\nthe windows white curtains and red geraniums, and it was surrounded\nby neat flower-beds in which there was a continual succession of\nold-fashioned bloom.\n\nEllen's thoughts dwelt upon a human and not a material object. She\nsaw Stephen's smile and heard his \"Well, Ellen!\" It was only at such\nmoments as this that she allowed herself to think of him. A history\npaper had recently been marked B, instead of A, and she knew the reason\nperfectly, she had been meditating during a lecture upon the admirable\ncharacter of her benefactor. There are long periods in youth when the\npresent suffices for happiness, when the distant future casts no shadow\nupon the drifting hours. She was content to work as few students ever\nworked and to allow herself grateful thoughts during organ recitals and\nlate in the evening when she sat on the window-seat in the Seminar room\nwaiting for Miss Grammer to complete her longer tasks.\n\nThis afternoon the organist seemed to have selected his compositions\nfor the special benefit of dreamers. He used soft stops, and one lost\nat times almost all consciousness of sound. His little yellow-haired\nboy had climbed to the organ bench and the light fell upon him as he\nsat motionless watching his father's hands. It seemed as though he were\nproducing the music by a childish magic.\n\n\"Two years from now I shall probably be settled for life,\" said Miss\nGrammer to herself. \"I shall not buy a house for a year, however, until\nI am sure that everything suits me. I shall have a fireplace with a\ncouch before it and my bookshelves shall be all about me like a wall.\n_If only nothing happens!_\" Miss Grammer shivered. Alas, things had\noften happened!\n\n\"Two weeks from now I shall be at home,\" said Ellen. \"It will be almost\ndinner-time and I shall be going down to the library. Perhaps I shall\nhave a letter this evening.\"\n\nThe last part of Ellen's dream came true. She did not read the letter\nat once; it pleased her in her confident happiness to postpone it until\nshe had finished her evening's work. After dinner she and her companion\nwent back across the dark campus to the library. They listened for a\nmoment to the noisy brook over which they crossed on a little bridge,\nthey watched velvety black wind clouds blot out the stars, they smiled\nat a whistling boy, they heard the sound of a dance tune from a\nfraternity house.\n\n\"People are gayer than we, but they aren't happier,\" said Miss Grammer.\n\n\"Oh, I'm gay, too!\" said Ellen.\n\nShe wrote themes in English and Latin; then she looked over many pages\nof history notes and answered mentally a list of questions which she\nhad set down at the conclusion of to-day's lecture. She could answer\nthem all--there were to be no more B's! Occasionally the name of a\nstudious Junior was added to the list of Seniors elected to membership\nin the Phi Beta Kappa Fraternity--it was a goal at which she aimed.\n\nThen at last she opened her letter.\n\n\"My dear Ellen,\" wrote Stephen, \"I find that I shall have to be away at\nChristmas--I'm going South with Professor Mayne. Fetzer is, I'm sorry\nto say, to be away also, not as heretofore merely visiting her wretch\nof a husband, but preparing a home to which he will come permanently\nnext month. Then Miss MacVane will take charge of the house. I think\nyour best plan will be to stay in Ithaca with your friend. Would you\nlike to go to Buffalo again? What would you like to do?\"\n\nAfter a while Miss Grammer looked up. Ellen's head was bent low.\n\n\"What's the matter? Have you had bad news?\"\n\nEllen lifted a pale, astonished face.\n\n\"No,\" she said, trying to make her voice sound natural. \"Only I'm to\nstay here for Christmas. Dr. Lanfair and Mrs. Fetzer will both be away.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Miss Grammer practically, \"I'm sure we shall have a\npleasant time.\" Blinking in her queer fashion, she delivered a little\nhomily which expressed her philosophy of life. She had had deep and\nwide experience with disappointment.\n\n\"There's only one person for each of us to be absolutely sure of,\nthat's ourselves, and we've got to make our happiness dependent upon\nthings which we can get for ourselves. Now one can always have books\nand nature, and we should make the most of those pleasures and learn to\nrely upon them and not upon human beings or worldly fortune. I've had\nto do that.\"\n\nMiss Grammer returned to her books and concentrated her attention upon\nthem. Her remarks indicated no vain boasting; she had done exactly what\nshe claimed to have done. But she was quite forty.\n\nEllen sat for a little while looking out of the window. She felt\nstupefied; presently she was conscious that she had difficulty in\nbreathing. Was she going to cry? She must get quickly from under these\nsmothering ranks of dull books and this heavy pile of stone and away\nfrom the keen eyes of her companion. It had always been her habit in\ntrouble to run out of doors. She rose and put on her hat and coat.\n\n\"Just a few minutes and I'll be ready,\" said Miss Grammer.\n\n\"I think I'll go now,\" answered Ellen steadily. \"See you in the\nmorning.\"\n\nMiss Grammer looked at the door which closed gently. She knew the main\nfacts of Ellen's life, and suspecting that Harrisburg held some young\nman to whom she was attached, she sighed.\n\nOutside Ellen stood still. The night was bright and starlit. She\nwent round the great building to the rear and there sat down upon a\nfamiliar bench which was a part of the architectural design and bore an\ninscription which she knew by heart:\n\n    \"To those who shall sit here rejoicing,\n    To those who shall sit here sorrowing, greeting!\n        So have we done in our time.\"\n\nShe was filled with wonder and amazement. Could such misery be real? He\nwas going South with Professor Mayne! He could have no other reason\nthan his own pleasure. If he had stayed at home, Fetzer would have\nstayed also--she knew Fetzer's plans. He didn't care; she was nothing\nto him but a poor creature who needed help.\n\nHearing the sound of men's voices, she realized that it was foolish to\nsit here alone, when at any moment a company of students might take a\nshort cut across the hill. She longed for the shelter of her room, for\nher smooth pillow--the sky and the stars and the cold air offered no\nbalm. Perhaps in her room she could think this out, could find some ray\nof comfort, could remember some detail of their association upon which\nshe could once more build happiness. She rose and went rapidly down the\nwalk and across the brook.\n\nOnce in her room, she did not go to bed, but sat down by the window\nand looked out at the dim campus. Her pain, dulled for a few moments,\nreturned. He was going away, she should not see him! She put her hand\nto her side, to soothe actual, physical distress.\n\nPresently, as if to ascertain whether this agony had put a visible mark\nupon her, she turned on the light and examined herself in her mirror\ncuriously and with humility. She was not thinking of her appearance;\nshe was asking herself a question. Then she lifted her head with a\nsplendid defiance to resist the fire of amazement and resentment which\nran through her. The resentment was not against Stephen, still less was\nit against herself; it was against life.\n\n\"I haven't done any wrong,\" said Ellen aloud. \"It isn't my fault.\"\n\nAt once, moving deliberately, she undressed. She counted the strokes of\nthe brush on her thick hair, she hung up her clothes with painstaking,\nshe laid out fresh clothes for the next morning. But once in bed, she\ncould not sleep; a faint recollection disturbed her, a vague incident\nconnected with this hour, promising in the most tantalizing way an\ninterpretation if she could but read it aright.\n\nLater in the night she dreamed. She seemed to see Millie, a little,\nweazened creature who pointed at her and chattered, rat-like, about the\npursuit of Brother Reith and the unlawful pleasures which he allowed\nhimself in the absence of his wife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nGRANDFATHER PLANS A CRIME\n\n\nDuring the long hours in which Grandfather waited for Amos, he reviewed\nhis life, searching like Job to find where he had erred and how he had\nbrought upon himself the heavy punishments of his old age. He had tried\nto do his duty, had preached righteousness, had tried to interpret\nthe Bible correctly, had given to the poor. He had married, but the\ninstinct to mate had been implanted in the human heart by God Himself.\nExcept in this one act, his whole life had been one of self-denial.\n\nIn spite of his effort to be righteous, his life had followed a\ndescending scale since his thirtieth year. Then his wife had died, and\nabout the same time three families had left the church, two to become\nLutherans, the other to go to church no more. They had all been rich\nin this world's goods, and what was far more important, they had been\nlarge families.\n\nAfterwards Mary had married Edward Levis and the danger to her soul\nhad occupied his anxious heart. He had recovered presently his sense\nof security and had built great hopes upon Matthew and Amos and Ellen;\nbut here again he had been cruelly disappointed--Ellen had left him\nand Matthew had behaved shamefully. Last week Millie had come angrily\ncomplaining that Matthew was bewitched; he would not go to church, he\nwas teaching the children to despise her, and he had taken to reading\nbooks which he had once considered wicked.\n\n\"He tells little Matthew that things I say are wrong. My way was him\ngood enough when we were married. It is that Ellen!\"\n\nAnd now Amos had gone, and the souls of all three were in peril; they\nwere sheep lost upon the mountain.\n\nIf it had not been for the discovery of these unclean volumes,\nGrandfather would have had a search instituted at once for his nephew.\nBut to him they explained everything. He felt a destroying rage with\nAmos; he could look upon him with far less leniency than upon Matthew\nand Ellen. It was in his case as though a dog which for years pretended\ngentleness had turned and rent the hand that fed it. He had practiced\na long piece of deceit; some of these books he must have had for\nmonths. Grandfather pondered upon his comings and goings and decided\ncorrectly upon the exact day on which he had made his first excursion\nin search of literature. With fresh suspicion he took from the table\ndrawer \"The Mystic Dove\" and Amos's translation and discovered that\nwork had ceased months ago. He looked with tears at the marginal\nscribblings.\n\n\"I trusted him too much,\" he said bitterly.\n\nHe sat waiting all the rainy afternoon and evening.\n\nBut Amos did not come. Night fell after a gloomy twilight and\nGrandfather went exhausted to bed. He locked the door with a stern\npressing together of his thin lips, but after a while he rose and\nunlocked it. He even opened it and, shivering, looked out into the\nblack landscape. But no human being was to be seen and only the mocking\nblast of an automobile horn from the curve near by was to be heard.\n\nAnother day passed and Amos did not come. On the third day Grandfather\nsaw the rural carrier drop a letter into his box and hurried feebly to\nthe road. He opened it as he returned through the graveyard, but found\nthat he could not read. He was frightened until he remembered that he\ndid not have his spectacles.\n\nBut even spectacles did not make reading possible at once. He stared at\nthe sheet for a long time before he understood exactly what Amos meant.\n\n\"Dear Uncle, you will be surprised to hear that I am going to give up\nmy school. I have written to the directors. There are plenty others who\nwill be glad to have the place. Uncle, I have found peace. For a long\ntime I have been uneasy in a spiritual way. But I have found a friend\nand he says that what I need is to work hard and the soul will take\ncare of itself. I work in the furnace and in the evening I am with him.\nHe is a Salvation Army worker. There are three men and two women who\nwork together. One man and one woman are married, the rest are single\npeople. It is like the idea of the Kloster in a way. I hope you were\nnot anxious. I had a heavy burden on me, Uncle.\"\n\nWhen he at last understood, Grandfather was violently excited, not by\nanger or by disappointment, but by hope. If Amos had found peace, so\nmuch the better. But he need not stay away--this was the place for\nhim to labor; let him bring his friends here! Grandfather penned a\nforgiving, welcoming response.\n\nBut Amos was not to be persuaded. He answered saying that he was glad\nhe was forgiven, but a life of meditation and prayer suited none of\nthem; they must be up and doing, the harvest was white. \"It is our\ncustom to go where sin is,\" explained Amos. \"We do not wait for sinners\nto come to us.\"\n\n\"'We'!\" repeated Grandfather.\n\nThe word had for Amos a specific meaning.\n\n\"There is a young woman here, Corporal Sally, who is a noble woman. She\nhas had a sad history, but has come through.\" Little did Grandfather\ndream the struggling against sin, represented by a worldly Ellen,\nbehind these simple sentences!\n\nThen, alas for both writer and reader, Amos explained that he could\nno longer believe in the keeping of the Seventh Day, the ceremony of\nFoot-washing, the exchange of the holy kiss. He did not hold them to be\nthe essentials of religion.\n\nHe said in conclusion that if Grandfather needed him, if he should\nbe sick, for instance, he could come at once. He signed himself\nGrandfather's \"in the Lord.\"\n\n\"In the Lord!\" Grandfather lifted his stout old stick and brought it\ndown heavily. It struck \"Esther Waters\" and Esther fell to the floor.\n\"The Raft\" was torn across one of its grimmest pages, \"Madame Bovary\"\nwas cruelly slashed.\n\nThen a wilder mood came upon him. The end of the Kloster was decreed,\nthat was clear. The props were removed, the pillars loosened, the\nfoundations weakened. When he was gone no one would be left to cherish\nthe old buildings. Curiosity-seekers, long the bane of his existence,\nwould carry away the treasures of books and curios, the wooden blocks\nupon which saintly heads had rested, the elaborate charts penned by\ndevoted fingers. An insistent antiquarian often visited Grandfather--he\nwould come and take that which he coveted and perhaps sell his loot,\nmaking capital of the things of the saints! There was no rational\nexplanation of earthly affairs; reward was not given to merit, nor\npeace of mind to those who deserved it. It would be well to make an\nend.\n\nHis anger quickened. The Kloster was his; even in human law he\nmight claim it, might sell it, do as he liked with it, as the last\nSeventh-Day Baptist. After him there would be no one who had any real\nclaim upon it.\n\nSuddenly he had a vision. He saw clean, merciful, leaping flames doing\nquickly what time would do gradually. The suggestion seemed to come\nmiraculously and with it a plan for its carrying-out. There was an\nangle where the Saal and Saron joined, where a pile of kindling could\nbe laid. He felt an overwhelming weariness with life and an eager\ndesire to be rid of it. He began to plan cunningly.\n\nIn the night he took from his woodbox an armful of fine kindling and\ncarried it up the stone steps and round the meeting-house to the\nspot which he had selected. The night was cloudy and there was not a\nsound, not even the distant baying of a dog or the echo of footsteps.\nHe returned and secured two matches, the small can from which he\nfilled his brass lamp, and also the ponderous key. He would look for\nthe last time upon the treasures which he loved. He opened the door\nof the meeting-room in the Saal. The old benches, the table with its\nsuperimposed reading-stand which formed the pulpit, the faded charts\non the wall--he saw them clearly, though their outlines were almost\ninvisible. He repeated to himself the inscription on one of the charts,\nthen he stood trembling and sighing.\n\nHe walked through the meeting-room to the kitchen where of old meals\nhad been prepared for visiting brethren and their families who came to\nspend days in worship--he groaned as he thought of their multitude, a\nfar greater multitude in his dreams than they had been in reality.\n\nThe interior of Saron was black, but he needed no light. He touched\nlovingly an ancient chair, an old loom, a row of pewter spoons, a\nhand-woven basket. He climbed last of all to the matin room. Now he was\nbreathing heavily. The thought of Amos had returned, filling him with\nrage. Matthew and Ellen were children, his children, but Amos was not.\nHe hoped that the forthcoming tragedy would haunt Amos all his days. He\nmeant to come back to this room and await his end.\n\nHe went trembling down the steep steps and out to the angle of the\nwall where he had laid the little woodpile. He struck a match and\nits light showed faintly. He had selected the spot cunningly; it was\ninvisible from all points except a field, and in this field, sown with\nwinter wheat, there was certain to be no observer. The fire would\nnot be discovered until the flames leaped through the roof and the\nopposite wall. When he tried to light the wood it did not burn, and he\nremembered his coal-oil and lifted the can.\n\nBut before he had tilted it Grandfather paused. He had given the hours\nof a long life, not to dreams of arson and self-destruction, but to\nmeditations upon the majesty and the goodness of God. His visit to the\nmatin room had started a familiar train of thought. He ceased suddenly\nto hear the crackling of flames and the thunder of falling beams and\nrafters and thick old walls; he heard the sweet and heavenly singing\nof women far above his head, the ethereal sounds issuing from fasting\nbodies. He forgot his rage, he forgot Ellen and Matthew and Amos,\nhe forgot himself. His wrongs ceased to be real; the realities were\nwhite-robed choirs, a heavenly peace of mind. He stood listening.\n\nAfter a long time he carried the oil can and the wood back to the\ncottage and put them in their places. Then he opened the window and sat\ndown. It was almost midnight, the hour when Father Friedsam had been\naccustomed to waken his spiritual children so that they might worship\ntheir Creator. With folded hands and monkish mien Grandfather rose and\nstepped out of his cottage and up the stone steps to the meeting-house\nand there ascended the pulpit platform. The room which he saw was not\nthis dim, low-ceiled room of his ministry; it was a loftier room with a\nlatticed gallery for singers. He saw before him an entering procession,\nand alone in the darkness he lifted his voice and praised God with a\npsalm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nELLEN UNDERTAKES TO CONQUER HERSELF\n\n\nThe first sting of disappointment past, Ellen believed that she was\nglad that her Christmas journey had been made impossible. She might\nhave betrayed herself, and the only light in her darkness was the hope\nof keeping Stephen's good-will. Her experience of human passion was\nlimited; she believed that the simple fact that Hilda lived would keep\nhis heart from wandering. Pure hearts, she believed, did not wander,\nnor did they seek those which were bound. To feel his eyes upon her\nin amazement, disapproval, or scorn--there was the one contingency\nintolerable and shameful.\n\nNot once, during her self-examination, did she surmise that she was\nregarded in any other light than that of a beneficiary. Stephen was\ngrateful to her father for some remembered kindness, he sympathized\nwith her ambitions, and he had given her what must seem to him--however\nlarge it was to her--a little from his store. Fetzer's opinion that\nshe had lifted her eyes to a distant and unattainable star was her\nown opinion exactly; indeed, to Fetzer he was not nearly so exalted a\nperson as he was to Ellen.\n\nShe felt, alas! now that she understood herself, another humiliating\nemotion, jealousy of all who had anything to do with him, of Miss\nKnowlton who obeyed his commands, of Miss MacVane who kept his house,\nof Fetzer who might some day return to her post, of Professor Mayne who\nwent about with him, even of the patients who saw him daily. One could\nbecome, it seemed, wholly ludicrous.\n\nAnother woman might have tried to conquer this passion because it could\nresult only in misery and humiliation for herself, but Ellen tried to\nconquer it because it was wrong. It had not been wrong to love him; she\nhad fallen blindly into that error--upon that she proudly insisted;\nbut it would be sinful to continue. From the narrow theology of\nGrandfather and from the character of her father she had unconsciously\nconstructed a code of behavior as rigid as Grandfather's precepts and\nas her father's probity. Her nature was developing rapidly, but in this\nrespect it retained all its natural simplicity and innocence.\n\nShe determined, therefore, poor Ellen, that she would banish Stephen\nfrom the heart which he unlawfully occupied, and with this end in view\nshe laid down specific rules for herself. In the first place she would\nthink of him no more. In this determination she was not as childlike\nas she seemed for she planned for herself deliberate distractions. She\nwould study still harder; she would respond to some of the friendly\novertures which were continually made; and, above all, she would\ndream no more. She laid away the tiny watch which Stephen had sent\nher at Christmas--it was absurd to try not to think of him and then\ndeliberately to recall him whenever she needed to know the hour! She\nwent to a few dances, she received a few student callers, she even went\nwalking four times with a graduate student who confided to her the\nhistory of his past and his hopes for the future. She decided drearily\nin March that she was conquering herself.\n\nShe would go to Harrisburg in June only for a day on her way to\nEphrata. Her self-examination led her farther than her relations with\nStephen, and she believed that in her preoccupation with herself\nshe had been undutiful to her grandfather and to Matthew. When Miss\nGrammer, who had taken a cottage on the lake, invited her wistfully to\ngo with her, she burst into tears.\n\n\"I wish I could. But I've written to my brother that I'm coming home.\"\n\nMiss Grammer studied her gravely. Had the object of love died or had he\nbeen married? It was the former of these sorrows which she had suffered\nin her youth.\n\n\"You knew that you might come with me, surely, Ellen?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"You are tired,\" said Miss Grammer.\n\nSpring breaks the best of resolutions of Ellen's particular variety.\nThe willow branches turned a brighter yellow, the brook bubbled more\nand more loudly, crocuses and scilla enlivened the grass. Presently\nflowering shrubs bloomed; one walked in welcome shade where yesterday\nthere had been sunshine; bees hummed in and out of classrooms where\nstudents nodded. Those who had studied ceased to be industrious and\nthose who had been idle continued in their course. There was little\ntalk of Avogadro's Law or of the Elizabethan spirit of Shelley; there\nwas discussion of baseball games and boat-races. Envy was transferred\nfrom him who made high marks to him who, like the wise virgins, had\nprovided against springtime by saving permitted absences.\n\nOn Memorial Day there was a boat-race and the students departed with\nfew exceptions to the lakeside. A half-dozen, studious like Miss\nGrammer, worked in the library, their thoughts occupied with matters\nalien to boat-races, and others whose purses were empty sought points\nof vantage on distant hillsides. Only Ellen turned her back upon\nboth work and play and went in an opposite direction. She meant this\nafternoon, while the struggle on the lake was in progress, to take\nherself to task.\n\nShe selected her battleground with poor judgment. One may win a victory\nover one's self as one walks on a frozen road or under the bare\nbranches of wintry trees, but when one approaches the scene of conflict\nthrough beds of daisies and sweet clover one is weakened at the start.\nEven her physical strength seemed to be failing when at last she sat\ndown on a fallen tree at the edge of a little wood and clasped her\nhands round her knees. The land fell in a gentle slope to the campus\nwhose towers rose above the tree-tops. Beyond, and far below, the lake\nlay clear and blue. There was no house near by and there was no sound\nof the life of human beings, and nothing to take her attention away\nfrom her own problem.\n\nShe believed now that her obsession was a mortal sickness and that from\nit she could never escape; she hoped only to hide it and to proceed so\nthat it might be unsuspected by others. She had tried since Christmas\nto put Stephen out of her mind and had failed. She had reminded herself\nthat her affection was not and that it never would be returned. Indeed,\nit seemed to her that already Stephen's letters had grown more curt and\nbusinesslike; perhaps he understood and was trying to make clear to her\nthe hopelessness of her situation.\n\nShe reproached herself for her blindness. It was upon the night when\nshe had returned from the King Sanatorium that this had begun; she\nshould have understood herself then, and not created for herself a\nfool's paradise. The effect of this emotion was like the effect of\ndeath, it colored everything. The universe had narrowed to a point. She\ndid not realize how unlike most lives her life was, with its limited\ncircle of acquaintances, and its intense affection for a few human\nbeings.\n\nThe afternoon wore slowly on; far away the straining bodies of the\nrowers bent above their oars waiting the word to make a belated start,\nthe thousands of spectators shouted, and presently the long observation\ntrain began to move with the boats. She should have been with her\nschoolmates in body and in spirit, but she did not even think of them.\n\nSuddenly it seemed to her that some restraining band within her\nweakened and broke. In imagination she let her eyes devour Stephen, let\nherself be enfolded by his arms, lifted her lips to his. She uttered\na sigh of complete abandonment; she began eagerly to comfort herself\nwith reminders of his gifts to her, his smile upon her, his hand on a\nmemorable occasion lifting her chin. When he had walked with her in New\nYork, he had never let go her arm; when he helped her into his car his\nclasp lingered. She found herself speaking aloud.\n\n\"If I could only see him! I haven't seen him since last summer! If I\nonly knew that he didn't despise me, that he thought of me, I shouldn't\ncare for anything else. Then I could work once more. If I could only\nsee him! Others can, and I would give my life for him!\"\n\nShe heard dimly the cheering of a multitude. It must be that the race\nwas won; the visitors could produce no such volume of sound. But her\nvictory was not won! She rose and went down the hill to the road, her\nshoulders bent. Her childhood had been ended by her father's death,\nand now her youth was ended by this misfortune. She remembered, alas,\na word of Amos's--\"burn with sinful passion\"--and she was filled with\nshame.\n\nShe crossed the deserted campus to the library, walking aimlessly, and\ndescended to the cool corridor leading to the Seminar room. The door\nwas open and she could see Miss Grammer at work within. Unheard, she\nstood looking at her curiously, almost as though Miss Grammer were\ndead. So that was what was left for one, that was what one became!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nA DARK TOWER\n\n\nWhen Stephen returned from his excursion with Professor Mayne, Miss\nMacVane had installed a young woman in his office and had herself taken\ncharge of his house, filling her new position with Fetzer's devotion.\n\nHe had given no directions for Ellen's letters to follow him and when\nhe read them on his return he discovered with selfish pleasure that\nshe had missed a week. So she couldn't write, poor child! A pretty\ndreary time she must have had with Miss Grammer! So had he with Mayne.\nHe longed to tease Ellen until her eyes filled with tears and then to\nbrighten them again. He had changed his Christmas plans neither out of\nrespect to Fetzer's opinion, nor because he wished to avoid encouraging\nEllen's affection, but because of the sharp eyes of the other women in\nhis house, and because he believed his deliverance was at hand. Hilda\nwas worse, and her malady was likely to take henceforth a more rapid\ncourse.\n\nEllen's mid-year examinations were successfully passed and he proudly\nshowed her report card to Miss MacVane, who looked at him keenly and\nenigmatically from behind her thick glasses, but kept her thoughts to\nherself. Ellen and Miss Grammer had been invited by Professor Anderson\nto the box of his fraternity at the Junior Promenade, and Ellen had\ndanced. Did Ellen dance? His heart sank. Professor Anderson was an\nold man--she must have had a more agile partner. She went to the\ntheater--she did not say with whom. She won election to Phi Beta Kappa,\nand his eyes sparkled.\n\nIn the spring impatience tortured him. He was tired and his nights were\nrestless. Life was passing; he was now forty-three years old and joys,\nunless they were snatched quickly, would cease to be joys.\n\nLate in May Dr. King asked for a personal interview--the message could\nmean only a change for the worse. To be free, to have a few years\nof life at high pitch--how eager was his longing, how clear his\nvisualization of the nature of that happiness! A year from now Ellen\nwould have finished her course--it would be absurd to wait beyond that\ntime.\n\nBut freedom was not at hand. Hilda, he learned, had seemed to improve\nand had asked for her husband. Dr. King was almost jubilant; the\nimprovement offered hope for all similar cases. She was so much better\nthat he believed it might be possible for her to have a period of\nliberty in her home under the care of attendants. He felt an intense\nsympathy for Lanfair, and an intense satisfaction in the news he had to\nimpart. Mrs. Lanfair had not been long enough away for her return to\nseem like a return from the dead as sometimes tragically happened. But\nLanfair must not let himself be too hopeful.\n\nStephen looked silently down upon the eager little man. Hopeful! He\nbegan to tremble. Was he to take her home _now_? It couldn't be; he\nwould have to explain, to make excuses. He stammered an incoherent\nanswer and followed along thickly carpeted corridors, his cheeks\nquivering. He fixed his eyes upon the back of Dr. King's well-clad\nfigure and was absurdly and grossly offended by the pattern of his\ncoat. He said that he must get hold of himself, that this would never\ndo.\n\nOnly the fact that his guide locked and unlocked all doors through\nwhich they passed differentiated the journey from a journey through any\nlarge and well-appointed house. It appeared to be endless, but when\nthey paused before Hilda's door, it seemed to have lasted no more than\na second. Stephen laid his hand on Dr. King's arm. With difficulty he\ncommanded his voice, and the words when they were formed seemed to\ncome from some other throat. If the interview could be only a little\ndelayed! It was not possible that he would faint! He had felt a similar\nterror years ago when he had traveled toward Philadelphia expecting to\nhear that he was forever disgraced.\n\n\"Has she been prepared for my visit?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! She's waiting for you!\"\n\nThe superintendent pushed the door open and tapped on an inner door and\na nurse greeted them in a friendly voice.\n\n\"We've been watching for you, haven't we, Mrs. Lanfair?\" she said,\nturning to some one within.\n\nStephen felt an insane desire to imitate with childish and impertinent\nsyllables the rise and fall of her voice. He found himself in a\nluxurious sitting-room. For a moment he could see nothing; then he\ndiscovered Hilda in a rocking-chair close to the barred and awninged\nwindow which opened upon a portion of the lawn laid out in imitation of\na Japanese garden. He could hear the delicate sound of running water,\nand see birds dipping into a pool.\n\nWhile he tried to speak, he observed that Hilda had grown stout; though\nshe did not look like herself, face and figure were nevertheless\nfamiliar. Ah! it was her uncle whom she had grown to resemble, and\nthere was something grossly unpleasant in the change.\n\n\"You see, I've brought him!\" announced the superintendent, as though\nthis had been accomplished only by a very great effort.\n\nPoor Hilda saw plainly--for this moment she had been cunningly\nplanning. She did not rise or move forward or make any motion, except a\nmotion with her lips. All that she wanted to say to her uncle and Dr.\nGood on the night when she came away, she said now, eloquently. Her\nheavy, motionless body seemed to add treble emphasis. Such accusations\nuttered with an accompaniment of hysterical laughter or of waving arms\nwould have seemed mad; but she did not speak like a madwoman. One would\nhave said that her reasoning was sound though her premises were false.\n\nShe had uttered a dozen sentences before her audience came to\nthemselves. Then Stephen moved backward. He was not afraid; he simply\nwished to get away, to end the intolerable tirade as soon as possible.\nThe nurse stepped between him and Hilda, and the doctor closed and\nlocked the door quickly, himself and Stephen outside. Dr. King was\ndistressed.\n\n\"One can never tell,\" he said, frowning. \"I can't say that I'm\naltogether surprised, but I felt that the experiment should be made.\nYou understand my motive?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" Stephen assured him.\n\nIn the office Stephen repeated his directions for Hilda's comfort. He\nwould not sit down; he wished to escape quickly as he had wished to\nescape from the hospital when there had been lengthy operations with\nlong incisions or with copious letting of blood. He had always avoided\ncontact with unpleasant realities. When a nurse came to speak to the\nsuperintendent, he went out and got into the car, which he had driven\nhimself. He had expected to go on to Philadelphia for the night, but\nhis business there seemed suddenly unimportant. Neither did he wish to\nreturn home.\n\nAt the first crossroad he got out to investigate a suspicious sound in\nthe running-gear of his car, and seeking the tool with which to tighten\na screw scratched his left hand deeply, and irritably wiped away the\nblood. Then he stood still looking about. Harrisburg lay toward the\nwest--a road led there directly; Philadelphia toward the east--Mayne\nwas expecting him. He could not see Mayne of all persons in the world!\n\nThen suddenly his eyes narrowed, the beat of his heart quickened,\nhe smiled slowly. He had once visited Ithaca in the spring, it was\nlovely with its thick shade, its waterfalls, its lake; he determined\nthat he would see it again. Then he laughed. He would go if it was as\nhomely as Chestnut Ridge, if the month was January! No one need know,\nno one would ever be the worse for it. He could be there by to-morrow\nevening and any one so industrious as Ellen could cut Saturday classes.\nSaturday and Sunday would be days to set against months of unhappiness.\nHe said again that no one would be the worse for it.\n\nSuddenly he laughed at himself for a fool. Why had he not gone before?\nWhy not at Christmas-time? If the mere intention could bring about\nthis lightness of heart, this heavenly clearness of vision, this\ncertainty of purpose, this deep joy, why had he not had all these long\nago? She was, he did not doubt, prettier than ever, but it was not\nher prettiness which he valued, it was her youth, her steadfastness,\nher devotion. He was certain that she loved him, he remembered with\namusement his short-lived jealousy.\n\nHe speculated as he drove upon the rarity of human happiness. His\nfather's life--how dull, how arduous, how ill-rewarded! Mayne's--how\nfavorable from without, how hollow within! What undeserved calamity had\nvisited Fetzer--foolish Fetzer to whom he had listened so obediently!\nWhat disappointment Levis had suffered! How little satisfaction he\nhimself had had and with what high hope he had begun! But here was\nhappiness within reach!\n\nHe noticed with sharpened observation as he drove north, those changes\nin the landscape with which he had been familiar in his youth; he would\npoint them out sometime to Ellen. He drove rapidly and unweariedly, his\ndepression passing, feeling that he understood the joy of the aviator.\nHis route lay to the east of Chestnut Ridge, but he would see presently\na country similar to that in which he had been born and had spent his\nyouth.\n\nHe did not think of Hilda, sitting heavily by the shaded window; his\nthoughts leaped ahead. He drove on and on like one possessed.\n\n\"I could give her riches and ease and travel,\" he said to himself.\n\"It wouldn't be an unfair exchange for youth.\" It may have been the\ngathering dusk, it may have been a springing breeze, but a cool wind\nseemed to blow across his very heart. To wait another five years or\nten! He must have Ellen now.\n\nHe was tempted to stop as twilight fell, but he changed his mind. He\nhad come to the point when fifty miles nearer her was a goal to be\ndesired. He could reach her, he believed, before noon of the next day;\nhe did not care where he slept or whether he ate. He had ceased to\nthink of her good or of his own honor or of her father--he thought of\nbut one matter.\n\n\"It won't hurt her to be kissed,\" he said to himself, smiling. His\nthoughts came disjointedly, sometimes they expressed themselves in\nsingle words--\"Adorable\" ... \"hungry\" ... \"her dark eyes\" ... \"peace\"\n... Once he laughed aloud. \"It won't hurt her mind, she'll blossom like\na rose!\" Sometimes he smiled grimly. Fate should not cheat him, let her\nset her trap never so well! There was, he believed, nothing between him\nand the satisfaction of his desire but a few hours of swift driving.\n\nHe was so occupied with his own thoughts that he did not realize till\ndarkness was almost complete that he had taken a wrong turn. He stopped\nhis car and got out, a tall gray figure in the dusk, and surveyed the\nlandscape, and discovered that he had come into a country like the\ncountry of his youth. He could not look far in any direction, for low,\nbleak hills had closed in upon him. Through a cleft between two of them\nthe sun cast a last reflected gleam. Seeing no dim human habitation,\nhe studied the road--though it was little traveled, he believed that\nit would be best to go on. In the next valley there would doubtless\nbe a village where they could set him straight. The pale light was on\nhis left; the road led at least in the right direction. Then suddenly\nhe smiled. Memory played queer tricks--a forgotten fragment of poetry,\nrecited often by his father, surprised him:\n\n    \"Naught in the distance but the evening, naught\n    To point my footsteps further! At the thought\n    A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend,\n    Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing, dragon-penned,\n    That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.\"\n\nHe shivered suddenly. This was a sinister landscape; familiar as such\nscenes had been to him in his youth, he should not like to be held here\nfor the night. Alas, his poor father had had no other landscape to look\nupon in all his latter years!\n\nHe stepped out of the car and mounted a little bank, and discerned\nfar ahead a hopeful gleam. Driving on carefully and slowly, he saw\nwith relief that the light shone from the window of a small, faintly\noutlined house. Amusedly, as he pushed open the sagging gate, he went\non with his appropriate verses.\n\n    \"What in the midst lay but the tower itself?\n    The round, squat tower, blind as a fool's heart,\n    Built of brown stone, without a counterpart\n    In the whole world--\"\n\nHe knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He knocked again more\nheavily. There was a light, there must be human beings about; perhaps\nthe occupant had gone to drive home the cow. Perhaps a deaf person\nlived here. He stepped to the window and peered in.\n\nThe interior was like a hundred interiors which he had seen in his\nchildhood, a little room which was at once kitchen and living-room,\nits furniture a bare pine table, a few chairs, a half-dozen\ncooking-vessels, dirty, out-of-date calendars pinned against the wall,\nrags in a broken sash, and, hanging on a nail, a miner's grimy coat and\na woman's shawl. He had driven with his father to such houses as this a\nhundred times and had sat waiting in the buggy or on the grass by the\nroadside amusing himself with childish games. Sometimes he had been\npuzzled and distressed by a sound whose cause he then understood but\ndimly. Memory played him another trick, it caused him to hear the same\nsound now.\n\nHe could not see into the inner room, perhaps the deaf person was\nthere; he knocked again and opened the door. Then he laid his hand\nacross his lips. The sound had not been remembered--it had been heard.\nIt proceeded from the inner room.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked loudly and impatiently. \"I've come to ask\nmy way. Is any one ill?\"\n\nHe saw that a distorted figure lay upon a low bed. Fearing that here\nwas an emergency which had been repellent to him from his youth, he\nwent unwillingly toward the inner room and stood with his hand upon the\njamb.\n\n\"What is the trouble?\" he asked again.\n\nWith painful effort the woman turned and looked up at him. It was not\nas he had feared; her need was of a different sort. Upon her pale\nface stood drops of perspiration and she clutched her thin chest with\nboth hands. It was the same agony which had smitten Edward Levis with\nmerciful swiftness, here long drawn out. He had seen but a few cases,\nbut he recognized it as different from all other sorts of anguish. But\nhe could not be delayed!\n\n\"Bill's went for the doctor,\" said a faint voice from the bed.\n\n\"How far has he gone?\"\n\n\"There's none nearer than Weller.\"\n\n\"What!\" Stephen gave a great start. Weller! Then he had veered far to\nthe west! This was a place he knew. He looked back over his shoulder\ninto the outer room and into the darkness beyond the door. He recalled\nthe neighborhood, the roads, the ragged outlines of the ugly hills,\nthe very house. Outside this gate he had sat in his father's buggy and\nwaited and waited. He had heard his father's voice in the magic formula\nwhich he said at dying beds, \"Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem\"--it\nwas here, he remembered distinctly, at a Roman Catholic bedside. No,\nhe was dreaming, life did not present such strange coincidences. He\nsaw that the agonized figure was relaxed; he heard himself asking, \"Is\nthere no doctor at Chestnut Ridge?\"\n\n\"Not now. They had one after the other, but they didn't stay.\"\n\n\"When did your husband leave?\"\n\n\"A half-hour ago, I guess. It seems longer. I guess the next spell'll\nfinish me.\"\n\n\"Did he walk?\"\n\n\"He thought perhaps he could get a ride. But there's three\"--the\nsentence was taken up after a long pause--\"three grog-shops.\"\n\n\"Are you afraid to stay alone a little longer? I have a car. I can send\nthe doctor back.\"\n\nGlistening drops appeared upon the pale face.\n\n\"Oh, my God, don't leave me!\" She raised herself feebly upon her elbow,\nanimated by a wild hope. \"You ain't a doctor, I suppose!\"\n\n\"I'm not a general practitioner.\"\n\nShe sank down, accepting the excuse as final.\n\n\"It don't make any difference, the next one'll finish me.\" She lay\nquiet as death, fearing to breathe. It might be that another moment\nwould bring a fresh spasm, it might be that there would be no other for\nhours.\n\nStephen looked down upon her. He could see the pale face with a black\nsmutch across it; he saw an empty bottle on a chair by the bed. He had\nhad no experience in this department of medicine for twenty years,\nand his practice had been limited to hospital work under the eye of\nan instructor. He believed that of simple specifics a mustard plaster\nwould relieve--there was certainly no other drug to be had here.\n\nSuddenly the pupils of his eyes dilated, then contracted. His gaze\nwas fixed absently on his own hand, still lifted against the door\nframe. It was a slender white hand. Across the back the blood from\nthe scratch, now many hours old, had dried. The wound looked for some\nreason unnatural, and he moved his hand with a horizontal motion close\nto his eyes and put it back against the door frame. He noticed with\nquickened perception that he placed it exactly upon the spot which it\nhad already made warm. Then he laid it in the other hand and stroked\nit. A drop of blood oozed out, but it was not the blood which alarmed\nhim, but the puffy redness of the wound, the thick, ominous raising of\neither lip and a dull pain which he felt clear to his elbow. He had\na flask of peroxide in his bag, but he had not used it, and now more\ndrastic treatment was required. It was required, moreover, at once; an\ninfection like this broke down the tissues with incredible swiftness.\n\nHis hesitation, his silence, his effort to arrange his thought, roused\na suspicion in the mind of the woman on the low bed. She raised herself\nto a sitting position, trying to hold together the ragged gown which\nhalf covered her. Of his importance, his wealth, his intellect, she had\nno conception and for none of them would she have had any regard.\n\n\"For God's sake, don't go away!\"\n\nStephen still cradled his hand. He looked curiously at the wretched\ncreature, now lying prone and exhausted. He frowned in the effort to\nconcentrate his mind upon a new and very simple problem. He believed\nthat his hand was seriously infected and that it should be treated at\nonce, that haste was imperative. He believed also that the woman left\nalone might die. A cold sweat broke out upon him. He had been acutely\nimpatient with his father because he had not weighed his valuable life\nagainst two worthless lives and had suffered himself to be murdered.\nHis father, however, had merely taken a chance, there had been a\npossibility of escape, but for him there was no escape. The mischief\nwas done; unless he had speedy aid he might die in agony.\n\nHe felt his heart contract and laid his hand upon it. To die! He was\nnot old. Life which he had recently so bitterly complained of--what\ninestimable happiness it offered! What delight for the eye! What\nintense pleasure for the mind! And Ellen--what of Ellen, with whom he\nhad expected to be in a few hours? He had anticipated rapture in the\nassurance of her love. He might now never see her. It was curious that\nit was easier to risk his life than to forget his passion!\n\nThe moments passed; there was no sound within or without the little\nhouse; the woman still lay motionless. It might be that she slept; he\nrealized basely that a step would carry him away.\n\nThen, quite suddenly and simply, he knew that for him there was no\nchoice. He had lived, for all his suffering, selfishly, his heart\nhardened and not softened by the single affliction of his life. He\nhad done many kindnesses, but he had never made a sacrifice. He had\nhelped the poor, but it had cost him nothing; he had performed almost\nmiraculous cures, but they had been performed in a sense easily.\n\nYet he was not at heart selfish, and now, rising from depths almost\nunstirred since his youth, a single powerful impulse moved him. He had\ncome unknowing and unsuspecting to his Dark Tower, which, well for him!\nwas set in a familiar landscape, presided over by the guiding spirit of\nhis youth. There was a verse which said, \"Train up a child in the way\nhe should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.\" He had\nbeen trained by precept and example; was his father's last hour made\neasy by confidence in his ultimate return? Did his pleading gaze ask\nonly that the period of departure might not be long? As tenderly as\nthough he had been his father, he bent over the poor bed, forgetting\nlife and all its joys and Ellen.\n\nHe remembered now that there was a spring a few yards away. He had been\nsent there by his father and he had dipped the clear water from an\nopen space beside a bed of water-cress. Making his way thither in the\nstarlight, he filled a pail. He found a box half filled with kindling\nand built a fire and set the water on it, and fetched his traveling\nbag. He opened the sore wound on his hand and poured into it half the\ncontents of his bottle of peroxide and bound it up. He found in a dirty\ncupboard a supply of mustard, provided possibly for this emergency\nand forgotten. He thought with a faint smile of Miss Knowlton--if her\nprofessional eye could see him! He remembered that he had sat for a\nlong time on the weedy bank across the road when he and his father had\nbeen here--his car stood beside the exact spot. He seemed to hear now\ndistinctly his father's voice--would it be necessary for him to console\nthe dying? He could not offer a formula upon which he had not thought\nfor years!\n\nHe heard a moan in the inner room and returned quickly. The woman had\nturned once more on her back and had seized her thin chest. Lip and\nbrow were beaded. He worked quickly, the perspiration standing on his\nown brow. When he had done all he could, he knelt down on the floor and\ntook the clutching hands in his. He spoke, scarcely aware that he was\nspeaking, offering all the comfort that he could give. He had never\nspoken to Hilda in this fashion; not even quite in this fashion had he\ndreamed of speaking to Ellen.\n\n\"I'll stay with you. I'm sorry for you. It will be better soon. I'm\nsure it will be better.\"\n\nWhen the spasm was over he rose to his feet. In the cessation of agony\nsleep came quickly. He stood motionless for a long time, occupied with\nstrange thoughts. He was intensely, incredibly happy; he understood\nsuddenly that his father had had this happiness often; his own danger\nbecame negligible, he quite forgot it. Even when, as he moved about,\nthe pain in his hand quickened, it was still negligible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nAN UNDELIVERED MESSAGE\n\n\nDawn, which came as slowly as the dawns of winter, brought a returning\nBill in the car of a physician whom he had found after much forgetful\nwandering. A lifeless body lay upon the bed.\n\nStephen looked curiously at the old doctor who descended stiffly from\nhis car.\n\n\"You don't know me, Dr. Weller?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I'm Albert Lanfair's son.\"\n\n\"How do you happen to be here?\"\n\n\"I lost the road and came in to ask directions, and once here, could\ndo nothing but stay.\" He meant to exhibit his hand, but thought better\nof it. He must get home without wasting time. He had not undone the\nbandage, he felt less pain, and in the cheerful light of day believed\nthat he had exaggerated the seriousness of his condition. If trouble\nappeared, however, he wished to be at home.\n\nHe drove with reckless speed southward, remembering grimly,\n\n    \"The King of France, with twenty thousand men,\n    Marched up the hill and then marched down again.\"\n\nHe tried not to think of Ellen; when, sometimes, her face appeared\nbefore him, his cheeks burned. The strange night had affected all his\nthoughts; his heart had somehow changed; he saw clearly what he would\nhave made of Ellen.\n\nAs he drove into Harrisburg he felt the first premonition of a chill,\nand understood its significance. The pain in his hand had returned and\nwhen he stepped into his office he stumbled. The young assistant looked\nup from her desk and Miss Knowlton appeared at once from the inner\nroom. He held out his hand.\n\n\"Ever see anything like that?\"\n\nMiss Knowlton undid the bandage. At his touch a blush covered her pale\ncheek, but when she looked up the color had vanished.\n\n\"Dr. Lanfair! What have you done?\"\n\n\"I scratched myself on a wire. It's nothing.\"\n\n\"A girl in the hospital jabbed her hand with an icepick and infected\nit, and it had red streaks round it like this!\"\n\n\"Well, she has her hand, hasn't she?\" asked Stephen banteringly.\n\n\"She nearly lost it. You're going to see Dr. Salter?\"\n\n\"Yes; telephone for him, there's a good girl.\"\n\nHe crossed the passageway to the library and sat down, suddenly fearing\nthat his pain might bring tears; then he laughed at himself. There was\nnothing seriously the matter with him.\n\n\"It was foolish to have called you,\" he apologized to Dr. Salter. \"Miss\nKnowlton is to blame.\"\n\nDr. Salter bent above the outstretched hand, a stout, blue-eyed,\ncheerful soul who possessed the secrets of hundreds of men and women,\nand held in spite of them the most hopeful views of humanity. He had\nknown Hilda and Hilda's mother.\n\n\"What in the world have you done?\" he asked.\n\n\"I scratched it on a wire.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you come home?\"\n\n\"I did. I'm here.\"\n\nHaving concluded a cruel opening of the wound, the doctor gave a\nhovering Miss Knowlton minute directions.\n\n\"You have an ugly-looking hand, Lanfair.\"\n\nFor the moment Stephen felt neither pain nor fear, only a leaping\nexcitement.\n\n\"I'm not to be frightened,\" he said with a defiant laugh.\n\nBy evening he walked the library floor. At ten o'clock he went to his\nroom and walked there. Miss Knowlton said lightly that she would spend\nthe night--the doctor wished the dressing changed frequently.\n\n\"Your professional manner is absurd,\" declared Stephen. \"You'll come\npresently and take my temperature and watch to see that I don't read\nit.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton smiled and put a thermometer under his tongue and placed\nherself beside him, her hand on his wrist, her air important. She had\nsent for a fresh uniform which billowed about her when she walked.\n\nAt midnight Stephen went to bed. Exhaustion dulled his pain for half\nan hour; then he sat up, roused, he believed, by a ghastly dream of\nEllen in danger. But he knew in a second that it was not Ellen's\ndanger. When he lifted his hand, it felt heavy and tight and burned\nlike fire, and he understood exactly what might happen to him. The\ninfection suffered by his father had affected him slowly, paralyzing\nirremediably both body and brain; this was different; it could be\nfought, but it must be fought quickly and with cruel weapons.\n\nMiss Knowlton, hearing him stir, came in from the next room.\n\n\"I'll look at your hand,\" she said in a new, smooth voice. \"You'd\nbetter lie down.\" Stephen obeyed, his mind not on his pain, but on a\ngraver necessity. \"It doesn't look any worse,\" said Miss Knowlton when\nthe bandage was again in place. \"Would you like me to sit by you?\"\n\nStephen's negative sounded drowsy. But he was not drowsy. There was an\namazing fact to which he must give his mind and he wished to be alone.\nHe saw his father lying with half-closed eyes upon his pillow; he saw\nthat he himself lay fever-flushed with a swollen, bandaged, torturing\nobject by his side, and that he had come to the same dark brink. His\nfather had stepped out bravely; he did not believe that he should go\nbravely. His father had had a hope, but he had no hope. When his father\nhad recited the creed, he had spoken with conviction; but he had no\nconvictions.\n\nHe believed suddenly that even to say the words would help if he could\nremember them. Childishly pleased, he recited, \"Credo in Deum Patrem\nomnipotentem,\" in a tone which brought Miss Knowlton to his side.\n\n\"Did you speak to me?\" She began to open the bandage.\n\n\"I was only trying to remember some old Latin.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton remembered afterward that as Stephen said this and as she\nsaw his wrist, purple above the bandage, the market-wagons had begun to\nrumble past and dawn was in the sky.\n\n\"I'm going for hot water,\" she said soothingly as one speaks to a sick\nman.\n\nOutside the door she found Miss MacVane, pale and shocked, her hand\nlifted to rap.\n\n\"There was a call on the telephone from the Sanatorium,\" she said in\nan awed tone, her eyes blinking behind her thick glasses. \"I don't know\nwhat to do about it.\"\n\n\"Anything the matter?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Lanfair is dead,\" said Miss MacVane. \"They say 'suddenly,' that\nis all.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton grew a little paler and more important.\n\n\"Well, he can't be told now,\" she said. \"You get Dr. Salter, quickly,\nwill you?\"\n\nStephen did not realize that daylight had not yet fully come when Dr.\nSalter appeared in his room. It seemed a long, long time since he had\ncome home--was it a day and night or two days and nights or four? He\ndidn't think it queer that there was another man with Salter--nothing\nseemed queer or of any moment whatsoever, not even a strange question\nput to him. They did not mean to let Stephen die.\n\n\"Lanfair, can you understand me?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" Stephen laughed.\n\n\"Do you trust Mayne and me to use our best judgment for you?\"\n\n\"About what?\" asked Stephen. In a moment of full consciousness he\nrecognized Mayne, who bore upon his expansive face the record of more\nthan one shock. If clearness of mind had lasted for another instant,\nStephen might have suspected the cause of Mayne's disturbance of mind.\nBut he grew confused and asked in a jovial and impertinent tone,\n\"What's the matter with you, old boy?\"\n\n\"About your welfare,\" said Mayne earnestly.\n\n\"Oh, bosh!\" cried Stephen, and turned on his side. There was but one\nthing he desired, peace to pursue a search. What was it his father had\nsaid? He presently began to mix his English and Latin. He knew that\nthat which he sought was an ineffable happiness, but he could not quite\ngrasp it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nMATTHEW AND ELLEN\n\n\nEllen sent to Harrisburg no notification of her coming. She was now\nconvinced that she had thorough control of herself, and that she\ncould meet Stephen safely. He might be away--the possibility brought\na painful moment of mixed misery and relief. Shifting her heavy bag\nfrom hand to hand, she walked up the sunny street, past the jewelry\nshop of Mr. Goldstein, past small hotels in whose windows idle men sat\ndrowsily, to Front Street. The river seemed to have no current, but\nlay a burnished sheet under the low and glaring sun. In the park a few\nsprawled figures occupied the benches.\n\nShe rang the bell, and when no one answered, she opened the door with\na key which she had hesitated to use, and putting down her bag walked\nthrough the hall and passageway to the offices. It was long after\nworking hours, but Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane would be putting\ndesks and files in order and closing the day's records. She believed\nthat they would be glad to see her, and she longed for the refuge of\ntheir homely femininity. She now allied herself in spirit with them and\ntheir kind.\n\nBut neither Miss MacVane nor Miss Knowlton was at work. The office had\nan unused appearance; shades had not been lifted, and even in the dim\nlight she could see on all the furniture a film of dust. The air was\nnot merely cool, it was damp, and her final impression of strangeness\ndeepened to a fear of calamity. The house seemed to be empty.\n\nShe returned with a quickly beating heart to the front hall. In the\nlibrary shades were irregularly drawn and here also dust covered the\npolished surfaces of tables and chairs. One small article of furniture\nhad been moved and at it she stared while a deeper chill smote her\nheart. It was Hilda's little tabourette, upon which now, as formerly,\nlay matches and boxes of cigarettes. She leaned helplessly against the\ndoor. Had Hilda come back?\n\nWhen she heard steps approaching she turned slowly and in unreasonable\nterror. But they were heavier and slower steps than Hilda's. Still her\nstep might have changed! She looked toward the stairway and beheld\nProfessor Mayne, large, elegant, cigarette in hand. Her heart leaped to\na more terrible conclusion--Stephen was dead!\n\nMayne regarded her with his bland smile. He had lived recently through\ntwo harrowing experiences, but one was on the whole a relief, and the\nother, while it shocked him, did not touch his own person or habits.\n\n\"What is it you wish?\" he asked kindly.\n\n\"I'm looking for Miss MacVane.\"\n\n\"You mean Dr. Lanfair's secretary?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"She has unfortunately been somewhat indisposed. She is absent.\"\n\n\"Is Miss Knowlton here?\"\n\n\"She is in the hospital attending Dr. Lanfair.\"\n\n\"Is he ill?\"\n\n\"He has had an infected hand, a severe case of septic\u00e6mia, but we have\nsaved him. He is improving.\"\n\nEllen forgot all her resolutions.\n\n\"Can he be seen?\"\n\nMayne shook his head, then looked at her curiously. Was she an employee\nof Stephen's, like the middle-aged women who were so concerned about\nhim?\n\n\"Oh, I remember you!\" he said. \"You are the young woman who assisted\nwith my niece. Are you still employed here?\"\n\nA foolish red appeared in Ellen's cheeks.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did you know that my niece had--had passed away?\" Mayne almost said\n\"expired.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Ellen. She felt that she was not expected to make any\ncomment and she made none. She stood awkwardly looking about. \"Is there\nanything I can do?\"\n\n\"I believe not, thank you,\" answered Mayne in his booming voice. He\npassed into the library and sat down in Hilda's corner of the sofa and\nlifted a newspaper.\n\nThus dismissed, Ellen lifted her heavy bag and carried it across the\nstreet to a bench. The air was intensely hot and she was hungry, but\nshe did not connect weakness or hunger with her despair. He was ill, he\nhad been very ill or he would not be in a hospital. And he had sent her\nno word! Moreover, she had been in a sense turned out! Certainly Fate\nwas helping her to conquer herself!\n\nThen, suddenly, a desperate longing came into her heart, a longing\nfor childhood, for innocence, for ignorance, for freedom from this\nconsuming passion. She wanted her father's sheltering arm, the sound\nof his voice. Lacking him, she thought of those nearest her in\nblood--Grandfather had loved her and so had Matthew and Amos. She\nbelieved that they would welcome her. Twilight was at hand; it was the\nhour when tired men and women hasten homeward; she too would go home.\n\nShe walked rapidly toward the railroad station. At the Square, while\nshe waited for a break in the line of automobiles, she saw in a group\nof Salvation Army workers a tall brother shepherding the passers-by to\npositions within earshot of the preacher's voice. In that figure she\ncould not be mistaken, it was the first feature of a familiar landscape\nseen after a long journey. She did not stop to account for his presence\nor his blue uniform, she went up to him quickly.\n\n\"Why, Amos!\"\n\nAmos looked down at her, growing first pale, then crimson. She had\nbecome, he believed, merely a part of the fearful and unrighteous past;\nshe had vanished entirely, together with impulses to worldliness and\nevil. But here she was, looking up with her dark eyes as she had looked\nwhen she was a little girl. Her eyes seemed unhappy, and his heart\nbounded. Then it sank like a stone and uneasiness succeeded his rapture.\n\n\"I'm working for the Lord, Ellen,\" he explained, glancing at the group\nof singers who had turned to look for him. \"I'm married.\"\n\n\"Don't you live with Grandfather?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Is he alone?\"\n\n\"He doesn't want anybody,\" explained Amos quickly. \"He knows he has\nonly to ask and I'll come.\" The sharp whirr of a tambourine summoned\nhim imperatively; it spoke, not with a religious, but with a domestic\nsternness. His wife had been expecting him to bring the stranger\npromptly into the circle of inquirers; she did not approve of this\nlengthy conversation.\n\n\"I must go,\" said Amos uneasily. \"She is there.\"\n\nBack in the noisy group Amos neither spoke nor sang. When one of his\ncompanions began to pray, he removed his cap and bent his beautiful\nhead. But he was not praying, he was thinking of the Kloster and the\npast. Now that he was in the world he was not of it. He was like a\nmonk who had left his monastery too late. The glare of the sun was\ntoo bright, the noise of the world too loud. In his hard day's work\nhe forgot himself, but his evening tasks, his public orisons, his\nsoliciting of strangers, were odious. There were times when he bitterly\nregretted his marriage; there was no time, indeed, when he did not wish\nit undone. But he believed that in seeking to win souls he was obeying\nGod, and in this conviction he found consolation.\n\nIn the dingy railroad station Ellen waited for her train. The station\nhad seemed hitherto an opening gateway; she had thought it vast and\nwonderful when she had arrived with her father. Her second entrance,\nwhen she came to make her living, had been more sober. Waiting for her\ntrain for Ithaca, scarcely hearing Fetzer's good-byes because she was\nthinking of Lanfair's, she had found it again a dazzling portal. Now,\nat last, it was an entrance to prison. She believed that all happiness\nlay behind her. She stepped into the train, and when she reached\nEphrata went her way on foot.\n\nThe moon shone brightly on the Kloster and on Grandfather's cottage and\non the white tombstones in the churchyard. Ellen choked back a sob; her\nabsence from this spot reproached her.\n\nIt was a long time before Grandfather answered her pounding.\n\n\"It's Ellen,\" she called, when at last she heard his hand on the latch.\n\"It's very late, I know.\"\n\nGrandfather opened the door. He was dazed; the moonlight was not bright\nenough to make her outline clear.\n\n\"May I stay here to-night?\"\n\nHe neither greeted her nor answered her.\n\n\"It is Ellen, Grandfather.\"\n\n\"Ellen?\" He repeated a word without meaning.\n\n\"May I stay here to-night?\"\n\nHe seemed now to see her, but he regarded her as though she were a\njinn or spook or other baleful creature of the witching night.\n\n\"I never turned any one away,\" he said at last in a gentle tone.\n\nIt was clear in the morning that she was regarded not only as a\ntransient, but as a disturbing visitor. Grandfather followed a regular\nroutine which took him now to the Saal, now to Saron, now out into the\nfields, as the brethren might have traveled a hundred and fifty years\nago. He believed himself to be, indeed, one of them.\n\nIn the afternoon Ellen took up her journey to Matthew's. Inexpressibly\ntired, she wanted only sleep in a quiet bed.\n\nShe saw Matthew crossing from the house to the barn and called to\nhim. He did not come to meet her, but let her approach him, which was\nexactly like Matthew. His face was set in a somber expression, his\nshoulders were bent. Seeming neither glad nor sorry to see her, he took\nher satchel and walked with her back to the house.\n\nIn the kitchen the old chaotic condition persisted. Esther had achieved\nthe object of her life and had gone away with her prize to a distant\nfarm, and Millie had had a succession of inefficient servants. She\nlanguidly accepted Ellen's offered help.\n\n\"Where are your grand people?\" she asked.\n\n\"Mrs Fetzer has left there.\"\n\n\"And the man, where's he?\"\n\n\"He has been ill.\"\n\nA plate slid suddenly from Ellen's hands into the iron sink. Her course\nappeared incredible.\n\n\"He's ill, and I'm here!\" she said to herself. \"He might die and I not\nsee him!\"\n\nWhen Matthew said at supper that he would drive to the station for\nher trunk, she asked whether she might go with him. She saw at once\nthat Millie wished to go, but she could not yield her place. From the\ndrug-store she would call the hospital and talk to Miss Knowlton--why\nhad she not thought of it this morning? She could have cried with\nrelief. She was sorry that Millie was disappointed, but she would make\nit up to Millie twenty times over.\n\nThe drug-store was crowded with customers for ice-cream and soda water,\nall of whom were trying to speak above a strident talking machine\nwhich ground out a lively song. Only a little man of one of the plain\nsects seemed anxious to hear the music at the same time that he was a\nbit disturbed by his own pleasure. The proprietor and the customers\nregarded Ellen curiously, but did not recognize her. When the telephone\nbell rang, all looked at her and ceased speaking, believing that she\nwas calling a lover.\n\nThe talking machine, too, was silenced and she knew that every word\ncould be heard through the thin booth. Miss Knowlton could not come to\nthe telephone, but a message would be given her. Ellen inquired for\nLanfair and was told in the optimistic tone characteristic of hospitals\nthat he was entirely out of danger. She opened the door of the booth\nweakly and paid the charge. Matthew was waiting outside and she climbed\ninto the wagon. She would have liked to tell him everything, but that\nwas a weakness. He had, she surmised, enough to bear.\n\nShe was conscious of an added coolness in Millie's attitude, but to her\nweary mind it seemed unimportant. She laid her head upon the pillow\nwhich had been hers in childhood, and before the tears were dry upon\nher cheeks she was asleep.\n\nBut Millie's attitude was not unimportant. Her disposition was now\nthoroughly established; she was worn and sour and unhappy and she found\npleasure only in believing herself ill-treated. She had never forgotten\nthat Matthew had taken Ellen to the Kloster two years ago without\ninviting her, and the repetition of the offense was grossly insulting.\nIt was not he whom she blamed, but Ellen. She would have been glad to\nbelieve that Ellen was deliberately trying to \"come between\" them.\n\nThe next day Ellen wrote to Stephen. She said that she had gone to\nthe house in Harrisburg and had heard from Professor Mayne about his\nillness and that he was better. She had then come to her brother's. She\nhad called the hospital and had heard that he was still better. She was\nsorry that he had been ill. An undefined feeling restrained her from\nspeaking of Hilda.\n\nIn a week she had an answer from Miss Knowlton. Dr. Lanfair was\nimproving and was glad that she was with her brother--that was the\nbest place for her to be. He would be well enough in a day or two to\nleave the hospital, then he and Fickes and Miss Knowlton would go to\nthe shore. Even though it was Miss Knowlton who wrote, Ellen did not\nvisualize him as helpless. She cried at night, but by day she went\nquietly about innumerable tasks. The postscript of Miss Knowlton's\nletter was a \"Finis\" at the end of a story: \"We hope that you will pay\nus a call on your way back to college.\"\n\nShe grew slowly and miserably aware of the domestic volcano over which\nshe lived. Millie believed now with all her heart that she had come\nto make trouble; though Ellen's help lightened her tasks by more than\nhalf and enabled her to put on flesh she made it appear constantly,\nby devices difficult to describe, but known to all who are compelled\nto associate with women of her type, that she believed the help to be\nunwillingly given.\n\nFor a long time Ellen did not understand the exact source of this\nresentment. She laid her hand as of old on Matthew's shoulder; she\nwalked with him about the farm on Sunday afternoons; she pored with\nhim over calculations. Most foolishly of all she tried to improve the\nextraordinary speech of little Matthew.\n\nThe summer was intensely warm; through July the opening of an outer\ndoor brought heat like a leaping flame into one's face, and the nights\nwere often one long wish for morning. Ellen grew gradually accustomed\nto the hard labor, to the rising before dawn, to the insufferable\nafternoons. She shared Matthew's anxiety about the harvest; it seemed\nthat before the wheat crop was brought in destructive storms must break.\n\nSometimes in the late afternoon when vitality was at its lowest point,\nshe remembered the airy rooms in which she had lived last summer, the\nbare floors, the furniture in chintz covers, the drifting of white\ncurtains in a gentle breeze. But of last summer she did not often let\nherself think. She heard no word from Stephen, nor sent him any. She\nremembered now half-acknowledged dreams, more vivid in retrospect\nthan they had been in actuality, of position and travel and great\npossessions, and her heart burned, now with self-reproach, now with\nresentment at life's cruel chances.\n\nThe wheat was safely harvested and no rain fell. Matthew, increasingly\nanxious about the corn, searched the sky for clouds. He was irritable\neven with the children. Ellen bore with him and pitied him and obeyed\nthe commands of Millie.\n\nEarly in August Matthew sat one evening on the doorstep. There had been\nsince noon a low bank of clouds in the west, but he had often been\ndeceived by banks of clouds. When they rose higher, he was immensely\ncheered, pointing them out to Millie, who merely looked sullenly in the\nopposite direction, and said nothing. He turned to Ellen and asked her\nto walk with him to the woodland from which they could get a better\nview. She looked at Millie's lowering face.\n\n\"Won't you go, Millie? I'll stay here.\"\n\n\"I wasn't asked,\" said Millie briefly, her very flesh tingling with\nresentment.\n\nFor an instant Ellen hesitated; then she followed Matthew across the\nyard and the stubble-field to the woodland.\n\nBefore their eyes the sun sank in a blaze of glory. On bright days\nonly could a low range of hills be seen from this point, but now they\nbelieved they could see beyond to the gleaming river. As the sun\ndisappeared they sat down on the old tree-trunk. The hot wind bred\nrestlessness and sadness.\n\n\"I was wrong about everything,\" said Matthew soberly after a long time.\n\"What I said in the meeting-house was nonsense, as my father said it\nwas. I was misled.\"\n\nEllen was appalled. Matthew had arranged his whole life in accord with\nthat confession. But she could give him no comfort; when Levis died\nshe had been a child, and since that time, greatly as she had been\ntroubled, she had felt no need for superhuman reassurance.\n\n\"It must have been very hard to give it all up after you had believed\nit.\"\n\nMatthew snapped his fingers. \"It went, like that! I simply didn't hold\nto it, that was all.\"\n\n\"Did you ever try to believe again?\" asked Ellen.\n\n\"No; why should I? I don't want you to think I don't believe anything.\nWhen I come up here and the wind is blowing, it seems to me that I\nget an idea about God, greater than was ever thought of down in those\nlittle rooms. But I can't get hold of it. Perhaps some day I shall.\nIt's only that He is and that He's here. I can't describe it.\"\n\nA long sigh stirred the leaves above them. Ellen was disturbed.\n\n\"There's surely going to be a storm, and we should go down.\"\n\nAs she rose there was a bright flash of lightning and the oaks began to\nsing. She held out her hand.\n\n\"Let's run, Matthew!\"\n\nMatthew took the hand and lifted it. Thus they stood for a second,\ntheir arms outstretched, and then plunged down the smooth field and\ninto the yard. In the doorway Matthew called Millie, but she did not\nanswer. He went upstairs to find her, but she was not there. Both the\nchildren were asleep and pinned to the pin-cushion on the bureau, in\ntrue melodramatic fashion, was a note. Matthew read it and returned to\nthe kitchen.\n\n\"Where is she?\" asked Ellen.\n\n\"She has started home,\" said Matthew slowly. \"She says it is to stay.\"\n\nFor a long moment there was only the tick of the clock and the rumble\nof distant thunder. Then Ellen lifted her head.\n\n\"Would it help if I went away?\"\n\nMatthew leaned heavily against the table. His face was intensely white,\nhis gray eyes darkened. The hand upon which he leaned trembled.\n\n\"I have a friend at the University with whom I can stay for any length\nof time. She'll be glad to have me till the term opens.\"\n\nMatthew lifted his hand and examined the callous spots upon it. It had\nseemed to him that peace had descended upon his house. He believed that\nEllen would stay with him if he needed her. He saw the peace continued,\nthe old life restored, his children brought up correctly, himself\ncontented. He longed intensely for Ellen's learning, for her outlook\nupon life. If she stayed he might yet repair the effect of his own\nmadness. But like Ellen, he had been trained to follow a certain rule\nof conduct and he could not go counter to that which he had been taught.\n\n\"I guess I should bring her back,\" he said at last thickly. Then a\nquiver passed over his face. His sense of honor was of the variety\nwhich leads, if need be, to the stake. What he said was not easy to\nsay. \"Oh, I have many, many times wished for my father!\"\n\nIn a few minutes his horse galloped down the lane. The lightning was\nnow almost incessant and the thunder rumbled heavily. Standing at the\ndoor Ellen saw his white face against the side of the buggy. Then she\nwent upstairs, and when she had closed the windows and looked in upon\nthe sleeping children she began to pack her trunk.\n\nIn the morning she walked slowly down the road. Matthew had come back,\nand Millie would return later in the day. The storm had made all fresh;\ngoldenrod was abloom along the fences. She thought with longing of Miss\nGrammer and of the deep Seminar room at the library. Work!--ah, that\nremained!\n\nShe wished that she did not have to go to the Lanfair house, even\nthough Stephen was away, but there were a few possessions in her room\nwhich she must secure. Besides, she did not know how to explain her\nfailure to go. In the station she inquired about the night train to\nthe north. When she heard that it still left at 10.35, she smiled with\nbitter amusement, having unconsciously expected that a new era had\nbegun, even for trains.\n\nThe open space before the station was almost deserted, only\noccasionally a traveler plunged into the sunshine from the cool shadow\nof the portico. But indifferent to the heat, which was almost tropical\nin spite of last night's storm, Ellen made her way toward the street\nof Mr. Goldstein and thence toward the river. She saw the dome of the\nCapitol and stood still. Why not spend her brief hour with memories of\nher father and spare herself a keener pain?\n\nBut she went on toward the shining river, her shoulders lifted so that\nthree elderly gentlemen sitting in the windows of a clubhouse opened\ndrowsy eyes and craned admiring necks. All had comfortable fortunes,\none had great possessions and one had memories of intense happiness,\nbut all would have exchanged that which they had for that which Ellen\nhad and which they would have no more.\n\nSuddenly she crossed the street and sat down on a bench in the park.\nShe was breathing rapidly, she must compel herself to be composed. She\nmust forget her dreams, she must take account of what she still had and\nthus fortify herself before she entered Stephen's house.\n\nWork?--the reminder had consoled her this morning, why could it not\nconsole her now? Friends?--she had made few, and Miss Grammer was old.\nBooks?--ah, what miserable defect in her made them seem dull? The\nbeauty of the world?--it, alas! merely quickened one's pain.\n\nHow often she had stolen away to the heights above the lake or to a\nsecluded seat from which she could watch Triphammer Fall! She thought\nof it now without pleasure. How often she had marked the perpetually\nchanging aspect of the stream before her! As if to recall her pleasure\nshe looked at it with attention. Below her on the bank stood a pair\nof young aspen trees whose delicate interlacing branches formed a\nlattice-work through which the river showed here a pale lavender, here\na delicate gray. Toward the farther bank a mile away a rosy cloud\nseemed to rest upon the water. The sight brought not pleasure but\ntears. She was to see the river no more with the eye of possession;\nthis was not home to her, it was a place of strangers.\n\nShe rose quickly. She would get the books which Lanfair had given her,\nthe dress which hung in the closet which had been hers, and she would\nflee.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nA BITTER WAKENING\n\n\nStephen woke from unconsciousness to incredible sensations of nausea\nand weakness and pain. In his mind two convictions alternated; the\nfirst that he was an enormous body which no room could contain; the\nsecond that he had no body whatever, that all flesh had been removed\nfrom his bones by some terrible process. Gradually all the indefinable\npain and terror concentrated in his left side.\n\nAs consciousness quickened he realized that he was not at home, but in\na strange bed in a strange room, and that a strange woman in a white\ndress sat beside him. Slowly he accounted for his presence in this\nplace, confusing, however, in spite of the pain, his right hand with\nhis left. It was his right hand, he believed, which he had hurt. He\ntried for a long time to lift it and succeeded at last in bringing it\nwith a feeble jerk within his area of vision. It was still there and\nhe could see no change in it. He gave a long sigh and recognized Miss\nKnowlton's blue eyes looking at him from a white face. After gazing at\nher steadfastly he brought out a few foolish words.\n\n\"Your--mouth--is--twisted.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton's mouth was twisted. She yearned to be of heroic service\nand at the same time she desperately hoped for the return of Dr.\nSalter. She had sat often by the bedsides of reviving women who had to\nbe told that no living joy had come from hours of purgatory; and it was\nafter many experiences of this sort that she had become an attendant\nin a doctor's office. She waited for Stephen's return to consciousness\nwith even more frightful apprehensions.\n\nAnother hour passed and she was still sitting in the same place, when\nthe first numbing suspicion of the truth dawned upon Stephen. If his\nhand was there and sound, why this agony in his other shoulder? He\nturned his unpillowed head slowly and looked down, but the covers hid\nhis body. He tried to lift his left hand as he had lifted his right,\nbut he could not move it. It was doubtless tightly bandaged; it was\nnecessary in such cases to be thorough and Salter and his assistants\ncut deep. He closed his eyes to shut out thought.\n\nBut thought was not to be permanently shut out. With a sudden impulse\nhe reached across his body, but he reached vaguely and met only Miss\nKnowlton's strong grasp.\n\n\"I'd try to lie perfectly still,\" she advised earnestly.\n\nHe left his hand in hers. It was comfortable to feel a human touch and\nit suited a cunning plan to pretend to yield. Her mouth twisted again,\nbut he made no comment upon it. He closed his eyes and after a while\nwithdrew his hand gently and slipped it back under the covers. Miss\nKnowlton had an eagle eye and he must move with caution. He smiled\nfeebly--she furthered his scheme by drawing up the covers to his neck.\nHe moved his hand little by little, and touched with the tips of his\nfingers after long and exhausting effort his left shoulder.\n\nHis first emotion was, incongruously, one of amusement.\n\n\"They've taken it off,\" he said aloud as though his circumvention of\nwatchfulness was the only important fact.\n\nMiss Knowlton ignored his cleverness. \"I'd try to get to sleep now.\" In\nthe effort to prevent her lips from twisting she looked at him with a\nthreatening gaze. If Dr. Salter would only come! Suddenly he caught her\nhand and held it in a weak and desperate grip. She closed both her own\nupon it.\n\n\"Did they take it off?\"\n\nDenial was useless.\n\n\"Yes, Doctor.\"\n\n\"At the shoulder?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She lifted his hand and held it against her breast, then she\nbent over him and wiped away his tears. He turned his head, conscious\nof his ignominy, but she felt solemnly that she had lived through a\ngreat moment.\n\nHe slept a drugged sleep. In the morning he woke to consciousness as\none wakes to bereavement; first a vague suspicion that all is not\nright, then full perception of the leaden weight from which there is to\nbe henceforth no escape.\n\nDr. Salter repeated to him presently the opinions of his colleagues,\ntheir hesitation, their deep concern, their final agreement that delay\nwould be fatal, and Stephen managed to answer gayly. Then he closed his\neyes and Salter went away.\n\nWith returning strength came increasing activity of mind. He remembered\nthe journey upon which he had set out and its interruption. He was\nuplifted no longer by the spirit of sacrifice; he felt only a sort of\nshamed humility. Some mighty power had mishandled him, and resistance\nwas absurd. There were moments when he wept feebly.\n\nHe believed presently that he was going to die, and he tried to\nrecollect a magic formula which had once comforted him, but which he\ncould no longer remember. Miss Knowlton saw his knitted brows.\n\n\"Is there anything you want?\"\n\n\"Do you know anything which begins 'I believe'?\" No sooner were the\nwords uttered than he realized that he had delivered himself to the\ntyranny of a sentimental piety.\n\nMiss Knowlton, being a church woman, knew the Creed perfectly. Having\nconcluded a glib recitation she began a psalm. Her mouth was once more\nawry, she believed that she had lived through a second great moment.\n\nIt was not until the fifth day that he thought of Ellen. At once\na reviving flood filled his veins; he became impatient with his\nhelplessness, with bandages, with feeding with a spoon, with the tender\nministrations of over-solicitous nurses. He moved restlessly in his\nnarrow bed. Ellen would be coming home--if she did not stay for the\nSenior festivities, she might be on her way now! But Fetzer was not at\nhome and he was not there! He tried to reckon the time which had passed\nsince he had written to her, but the problem was too difficult. When he\nsaw her, everything would be right, everything; she would smile at him,\nshe--\n\n\"Oh,\" he cried suddenly, \"I am helpless, useless, weak, crippled!\"\n\nIt was midnight and no one but Stephen himself was present at this\nfirst moment of full mental and physical consciousness. The various\nshocks through which Miss Knowlton had sustained him were slight\ncompared with the cruel realization that life was over and done for,\nthat even Hilda's death could not give him Ellen, that she was lost to\nhim. He measured for the first time his love. Without his hope of Ellen\nhe had nothing. He felt himself sinking deep into an abyss; he knew\nthat body as well as soul was faint, he believed that death might be at\nhand.\n\nThen suddenly an extraordinary experience was his; he seemed to grasp\nfor an instant that solution of life for which he had struggled a week\nago in fever and pain. He lay thinking intently in the quiet night. The\ndoor was closed, traffic on the street was for a short time suspended,\nthe nurse did not return. His father had had all Stephen's youth in\nwhich to sow; now suddenly, warmed not by sunshine, but by the heat of\npain, and watered by affliction, the seed bore fruit. Forlorn, maimed,\nbroken in spirit, he remembered his father's teaching, he heard his\nfather's voice describing again the wooing of that importunate Lover in\nwhom he believed:\n\n    \"Yet let him keep the rest,\n    But keep them with repining restlessness;\n    Let him be rich and weary, that at least,\n    If goodness lead him not, yet weariness\n    May toss him to My breast.\"\n\nHe remembered the Chestnut Ridge schoolhouse, filled after a mine\nexplosion with weeping women and children; he recalled his father's\nprayers, their prayers. Even he had prayed and had been comforted!\n\nThe memory of boyhood became detailed; he was suddenly in the midst of\nan almost fatal experience. He had gone to swim in a deep mine hole\nand had become exhausted. Hanging over the edge of the bank was a\nbranch of an old tree, and he had reached for it desperately without\nany expectation that it would sustain him, but it had proved firm\nand he had drawn himself slowly but safely out of the black water.\nHe remembered the rough bark against his bare, shivering body, the\nheavenly consciousness of safety. He felt now a similar security, but\nit was of the soul.\n\nOn the seventh day Mayne came to visit him. He did not know exactly\nwhere to look, and with recourse to a physician's gesture, he laid his\nhand on Stephen's wrist. He glanced meaningly at the nurse, and she,\nreturning his gaze with an understanding nod, departed.\n\n\"I have sad news for you, my boy,\" he said solemnly.\n\nIn a flash Stephen saw himself walking through carpeted corridors\nfollowing the back of a Prince Albert coat.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Hilda has passed on.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"A week ago.\"\n\nThen everything was over, even the poor body was put away. He felt for\nan instant more than an orthodox solemnity, a tenderness which bred\ntears; then misery sprang upon him like a beast from the jungle. If he\nhad not gone on his journey northward, if he had waited a few pitiful\ndays, he would not be lying here, done for! His slight color vanished,\nhis hand trembled, the skin of his face quivered.\n\n\"What is it?\" Mayne's hand went back to his wrist.\n\nHe began babbling his formula. He tried not to say it, but his weak\ntongue would not be controlled, and Mayne looked down upon him more\nembarrassed than he had ever been in his life. His philosophic\ngood-humor furnished him with no panacea to offer this smitten\ncreature, returning in feebleness of mind to some forgotten piety of\nhis youth.\n\nIt seemed to Stephen after a few days that he could, if he were clever\nenough, get Ellen back. He still had periods of pain, but his brain now\nworked smoothly. She had an angel's heart. If he needed her before,\nhe needed her doubly now. Her youth was only a small part of her; he\nneeded her cheerfulness, her devotion, her enthusiasm. In exchange he\nwould give her riches, travel to the ends of the earth, everything she\ncould desire. He would not be tyrannical over her, but she must be\nhis. When the fires of his soul burned lowest he promised her liberty\nand riches--if she served him till his death! The meditations of his\nmidnight hour had not yet worked their complete work upon him.\n\nBut where was Ellen? To-morrow was the latest day upon which she could\nbe expected. He was to have sat up, but he would postpone it another\nday because they would certainly not let him both sit up and see a\nvisitor.\n\nWhen she did not come, he grew restless. She had attended dances, she\nhad mentioned the names of young men. The weakness of body which had\nkept him humble and quiet had vanished, physical strength intensified\neach emotion.\n\nWhen another day passed, his restlessness became apparent to his\nnurse. He would have inquired of Miss Knowlton but he believed\nthat she enjoyed prying into his soul and he feared some betraying\nexpression. He asked for his letters and was allowed to look over\nthem. Miss MacVane had attended to his business correspondence and now\nawaited eagerly his further pleasure. He cared nothing for business\ncorrespondence--here was a letter from Ellen, written two weeks ago\nfrom the University--Miss Knowlton helped him with the stiff paper.\n\n\"She ought to be coming along,\" he said, trying to keep his excitement\nout of his weak voice.\n\n\"She came to the house some days ago to inquire and went on to her\nbrother's. She asked for you by telephone from there--at least some one\ncalled from Ephrata.\"\n\nStephen turned his head away. Miss Knowlton spoke as though Ellen's\ninquiry were unimportant. He was sharply irritated. She needn't think\nthat Ellen would not come!\n\nBut only Ellen's letter came.\n\n\"She's sorry I am ill!\" said Stephen to himself. He closed his eyes and\nMiss Knowlton thought that he was drowsy. She treated him now like a\nloved infant.\n\n\"Would you like to _go sleepy by_?\"\n\nUnder his breath Stephen said, \"Curses on the tribe!\"\n\nBy leaving at this moment Miss Knowlton missed another great crisis.\n\n\"I shall send for Ellen,\" said a certain Stephen.\n\n\"You shall not send for her,\" said another Stephen. \"She is young,\nlovely, she must be free.\"\n\n\"But I will.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, you won't! You are old, maimed, forlorn.\"\n\n\"But she'll come!\"\n\n\"If you love her,\" the other whispered, \"you will never let her come.\"\n\nMiss Knowlton asked, presently, whether she should not answer Ellen,\nand he nodded, and turned away his face. It was surely not required\nthat he prevent her from coming! His heart warmed to Miss Knowlton and\nhe knew nothing of her kindly postscript. Her eyes were as sharp as\nFetzer's, and she had once had a suspicion. But it was unfounded, she\nknew perfectly, and she had only friendly feelings for Ellen. Sometimes\nthe beating of her heart almost suffocated her. Stephen was helpless\nwithout her and she believed that his misfortune had narrowed to\nnothingness the gap between them. She interpreted a growing humility\nand gentleness as a growing regard for herself. A little color remained\nsteadily in her cheeks and she acquired a sort of majesty of mien. She\nselected the friends who should be admitted to his room; she barred out\nthose who, she thought, would prove exciting; she did not inform him,\nuntil he was almost well, of the concern for his life which was almost\ncity-wide.\n\nStephen continued humble and patient. The next week he went to the\nshore with Miss Knowlton and Fickes. He had now, he believed, given\nEllen up. Among his friends was a conspiracy; they all had confidence\nin the healing power of occupation and they meant presently to bring\nhim back to an orderly house and to an office set to run with its\nformer machine-like regularity. Devoted assistance should make his\naffliction of no account, for his office practice at least.\n\nAt the shore he passed an intolerable month. Miss Knowlton read to\nhim in a voice which took on after the first page the mournful tones\nof an \u00c6olian harp set to sing in a south wind. She selected religious\ncompositions which made him blush. Fickes carried him about, over miles\nupon miles of smooth roads, but Fickes, always a dull companion, was\nnow awed and more silent than ever.\n\nHe put the thought of Ellen away and sometimes he recited the Creed\nagainst her. He meant when he was delivered from Miss Knowlton to look\nsecretly into this strange return to his believing youth, to discover\nwhether he had been cheated in his weakness or helped in his need. At\ntimes, looking down at his shoulder, he said bitterly, \"I should have\nsomething in exchange.\" At other times he dwelt upon possibilities\nwhich he could not put into words, but which answered the questions of\nweariness and despair.\n\nThere was a cruel bitterness in the fact that Ellen did nothing\nwhatever to make the putting away of her difficult. Of all the world,\nshe was indifferent to his misery. He evolved presently an unworthy\nexplanation for her absence--she was repelled by his maimed condition.\nThen he grew sensitive to the eye of mankind.\n\nOne day Miss Knowlton approached his shaded chair on the beach with a\nletter. Unexpectedly another conspirator had joined them.\n\n\"To Dr. S. Lanfair, M.D.\"\n\nStephen smiled. Poor Fetzer, was an eye easier to lose than an arm?\n\n\"Read it.\"\n\n\"'Dear Friend,'\" read Miss Knowlton noting all Fetzer's peculiarities\nof style. \"'I take my pen in hand'--it is a pencil by the way--'to\nsay that my prayers are answered and he is gone to where there is no\nmore sin and sorrow. _He made a good end_'--italics--'I heard of your\ntroubles, but we all must bear troubles, that is God's law. I suppose\nyour holiday is over--anyhow, I will be at my old stand when you come\nback. Yours respect.'--period--'Mrs. James Fetzer.'\"\n\n\"My holiday! Does Fetzer think I'm off on a holiday?\"\n\nMiss Knowlton looked at him, her long, homely face beaming with\nencouragement.\n\n\"Aren't you? She expects you to go back and get to work.\"\n\n\"She does, does she?\"\n\n\"There isn't any reason why you shouldn't.\"\n\nHe looked at Miss Knowlton and grinned.\n\n\"I'll bet you and Salter and Fetzer and all the rest are in cahoot.\"\n\n\"When shall we go?\" asked Miss Knowlton, trembling and believing, poor\nMiss Knowlton! that she was taking the first step toward her throne.\n\n\"At once, by all means,\" said Stephen grimly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nA QUIET HOUR\n\n\nWhen the journey was over and the offices inspected, Stephen sat in\nhis room. Fetzer, controlling her emotions in his presence, had gone\nto the third story both to rejoice and to weep; Miss MacVane and Miss\nKnowlton, moving about the office, worked with shining eyes. Stephen\nhad promised to see a few patients to-morrow; life would be, Miss\nMacVane expected, if there was to be any change, happier. Miss Knowlton\ndid not put into words what she expected. Neither thought of Ellen\nLevis; their household was complete.\n\nThe storm in the night had given the park a springlike greenness. The\nriver from Stephen's room was blue, with tiniest silver ripples. A soft\nbreeze stirred the curtains gently and a cool green light filled the\npleasant room. The familiar walls rested his eyes; though he had known\nlittle but misery in this house, he loved its stateliness and it was\nnow a safe haven. He had begun to be curious about what had been said\nand done in the medical world in his absence. He had not forgotten the\nquest upon which he intended to go when he should be wholly relieved\nfrom espionage. In the meantime, he thought, drowsily and childishly,\nit was sufficient to be quiescent and humble. He believed that he\nshould never see Ellen nor desire greatly to see her.\n\nThen he opened his eyes at a slight sound. Ellen was at hand; she had\ncrossed the street and her familiar figure which had a moment ago\nstartled the women in the office approached his door, though Miss\nKnowlton had directed her with lofty kindness to Fetzer's room.\n\n\"She'll take you to see the doctor,\" Miss Knowlton promised.\n\n\"Is he still ill?\" Ellen asked, astonished.\n\n\"He's not entirely well.\" Miss Knowlton spoke as though he were her\nchild. \"But he'll see you, I'm sure.\"\n\nIf Miss MacVane's sight had been keener, she would have interpreted\nthe long look which Ellen gave Miss Knowlton. In it were astonishment,\nresentment, and even defiance. She would break no resolutions, would\nnot endanger her self-control, her ticket for her journey was in her\npurse, but she would not be escorted to Dr. Lanfair's room by Mrs.\nFetzer at Miss Knowlton's suggestion!\n\nStephen saw her at first dimly across the wide room--could she be a\ndeluding vision? He felt the injured resentment of a man hit when he is\ndown.\n\nWhen he was convinced of her reality, he clutched the arm of his chair.\nHe did not rise to meet her, realizing that he would need all his\nphysical strength to support his resolution and his pride. When she\ncame toward him, and he saw that some harsh trouble had deepened her\neyes, he grew still more weak. He wished for Fetzer or Miss MacVane or\nMiss Knowlton--he thought with confused rage of Miss Knowlton--if she\nwas worth anything she should have defended him from this!\n\n\"I didn't know you were here,\" said Ellen in her low voice. \"Miss\nMacVane and Miss Knowlton just told me.\"\n\n\"Or I suppose you wouldn't have come!\" Had he said the foolish words or\nmerely thought them?\n\n\"I'm going to Ithaca to-night,\" went on Ellen.\n\nShe was halfway across the room on her way to shake hands with him when\nshe halted. \"I'm going to--\" She stood staring, incredulous, at his\nmaimed body. She could not move or speak. It is hard to say which she\nfelt more deeply, an anguished pity or a sharp resentment.\n\nStephen saw her horror; the theory which he had framed to account\nfor her absence was then quite proved. He even believed that he saw\nher hands lifted to shield her eyes. Her repulsion and terror were\nunendurable, they constituted the final insult of fate.\n\n\"Does it frighten you?\" he asked, wishing to hurt her. She had no\nbusiness to come now!\n\nHer gaze transferred itself to his eyes and held them for a second.\nAfter a long moment she spoke slowly, looking down, with the slightest\nemphasis on her last word.\n\n\"What did you say to me?\"\n\nStephen leaned forward, hating himself.\n\n\"Didn't you know, Ellen?\"\n\nA dumb mouth answered.\n\n\"I had an infected hand. Won't you sit down?\"\n\nEllen did not move. Her eyes lifted, regarded him steadily.\n\n\"Did you never wonder why I didn't come?\"\n\nStephen could not endure her gaze. Alas, he was not cured, she was\ndearer, more desirable than she had ever been. Perhaps if he were wise\nand wary, if he did not betray himself, he could keep her childish\naffection until some one won her away! He could then grow gradually\naccustomed to that which now seemed worse than death.\n\n\"You wrote and I answered,\" he said lightly. \"Did you say you were\ngoing back to school? Why so early, Ellen?\"\n\n\"I'm going to--\"\n\n\"Do sit down!\" he cried. Did she mean to flee? \"I won't hurt you. I\ncan't hurt you!\" With an effort of his will he looked at her again;\nhe saw her waving hair, her broad forehead, her dark eyes, her round\nfigure, all of sweet Ellen. He looked at her, steadily and long, in the\nquiet room as though he should never see her again.\n\nHe saw not only her body; he saw with a clear vision her soul, and knew\nthat his journey northward would have been in vain, that he could never\nin such fashion have made her his. In her gaze was all her father's\nquiet dignity, all his self-respect, which could not be impaired though\nall else were taken. She had gained, Stephen saw plainly, the resources\nof maturity; though she had been cruelly hurt, she still lifted her\nhead.\n\nBut he saw more than the beauty of Ellen's body and the worth of her\nsoul; he read her heart and found there that what he desired was to be\ngiven him. He rose to his feet without taking his eyes from her. The\nenergy of life returned; he felt no weakness; he knew that that which\nhe was to have was of inestimable value and he determined to be lacking\nin no grateful return.\n\nEllen moved a little toward him, her eyes now downcast.\n\n\"I have come to say good-bye.\"\n\nHe made no answer. The edge of the awning was slightly lifted in the\nbreeze, the green light brightened, a shaft of sunlight struck across\nthe room, and he stood still. He would not say, \"Ellen, I am too old,\"\nor, \"Ellen, I am maimed.\" He would not hurt her more than she had been\nhurt. She had, it was clear, no suspicion that Fate had given her less\nthan the best. He stood looking at her quizzically, almost merrily,\nwaiting for her to lift her eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nFETZER CLOSES A DOOR\n\n\nFetzer presently dried her tears and, remembering a message which was\nto be delivered to Miss Knowlton, smoothed her hair which was already\nsmooth and went down to the office. When she entered both women looked\nup in surprise.\n\n\"Where is Ellen?\" asked Miss MacVane. \"Is she going to stay? It's too\nearly to go back to school.\"\n\n\"Ellen,\" repeated Fetzer. \"Is she here? Do you mean our Ellen?\"\n\nMiss MacVane grew a little pale and Miss Knowlton turned her head\nquickly.\n\n\"She came in a long time ago and I sent her to find you. I told her\nthat Dr. Lanfair was in his room and that you'd take her to speak to\nhim.\"\n\n\"Did she go upstairs the front way?\" asked Fetzer.\n\n\"She must have,\" answered Miss Knowlton.\n\n\"How long ago was this, then?\"\n\n\"A half-hour,\" said Miss MacVane.\n\n\"It's much longer than that,\" corrected Miss Knowlton. She rose, her\ncheeks scarlet. Ellen should have followed directions.\n\n\"Doctor should have some nourishment,\" she said sharply. \"I'm going to\ntake him a cup of iced broth.\"\n\nThen to her astonishment Miss Knowlton found her way barred. Fetzer had\nclosed the door and placed herself in front of it. She stood again in\nthe hall on a hot August afternoon and saw Ellen's look. A flame leaped\nto life in her heart, then died down, leaving only glowing embers. She\nbelieved that she knew what was happening in Stephen's quiet room. As\nfor these poor souls, they had had no experience of life. She looked at\nthem with the utmost kindness.\n\n\"I wouldn't go now,\" she said, flushing. \"He'll ring when he\nwants\"--she had meant to say \"you,\" but she said valiantly \"us.\" Then a\nsound startled her, almost shocked her. It was a man's laugh, hearty,\nclear, happy, ringing through the quiet house, and penetrating the\nclosed door. She laid her hand on the side of her face, the tips of her\nfingers covering the black patch, and smiled a brave smile. All of them\nheard the laugh again.\n\n\"Ellen, she will make him happy,\" said Fetzer in her pleasant idiom.\n\n\"He deserves to be happy,\" said Miss MacVane soberly after another\nmoment of silence.\n\nMiss Knowlton, who was younger, said nothing. She returned to the inner\nroom, and there with automatic regularity of motion lifted bottles from\na shelf which had not been dusted to one which had.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n  Transcriber's Note:\n\n  Page 190\n    always unobstrusive _changed to_\n    always unobtrusive","title":"Ellen Levis: A Novel","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":99464}