In an upper room of the school-house Wilhelm Kellar lay upon a high-post bedstead that was screened by chintz curtains drawn back so that the air could reach him. His thin, wan face looked old and drawn as it rested on a feather pillow. He was comfortable, he let Everett know, when the physician went to visit him early in the morning after the seizure. His tongue refused to frame the words he tried to utter, but his eyes showed his gratitude. Everett took a seat in the heavy wooden chair at the foot of the bed, which stood in a little alcove. Beyond the alcove the main room stretched out beneath the roof, which gave it many queer corners. Rows of books partially hid one wall. In one corner a high chest of drawers held a pair of massive silver candlesticks. An old desk with a sloping top occupied a little nook lighted by a diamond window; here were quill-pens and bottles of colored ink. This upper room, occupied jointly by Wilhelm Kellar and Gerson Brandt, bore the impress of the school-master, who waited now, leaning on the back of an old wooden arm-chair polished with much use.

“He will be much better,” said Everett. “He may recover from the paralysis, but it will be a long time before he leaves his room.”

Behind the curtains there was something like a groan. The sick man tried to say something, but neither Everett nor Brandt could understand him. Suddenly his eyes looked past them, and there was a smile on his face. Walda entered the outer room and came to her father, kneeling down beside him, apparently unaware that there was any one except themselves present.

“Art thou better, father?” she asked, in the softest tone, and then, burying her white-capped head in the pillow beside him, she murmured something in a low voice. Everett and Gerson Brandt left the two together and went into the larger room, where the physician began to prepare some medicine. Presently Walda’s voice was heard in prayer. The two men waited reverently until the last petition, uttered with the fervency of great faith, had died away.

“The daughter loveth her father; she hath a true heart,” said the school-master. He turned to the little window and looked out. Everett, who was distributing powders among a lot of little papers, went on with his work without making reply. The old hour-glass on the high chest of drawers had measured several minutes before any word was spoken. Then it was Mother Kaufmann who broke the silence. She entered the room with a heavy step, and with a “Good-day, Brother Brandt,” stood for a few moments studying Everett.

“Where is Walda?” she asked. Gerson Brandt made a little gesture towards the alcove.

“She hath no right to come here alone,” the woman replied, with a frown. “She is my care, and she hath done a foolish act. I shall forbid her to leave the House of the Women without me.”

“Walda was drawn hither by anxiety concerning her father,” said Gerson Brandt. “Thou wilt not wound her by a reprimand, Sister Kaufmann?”

The woman went near to him and spoke in guttural German some words that Everett could not catch, but from her furtive looks and glances he knew she was talking of him.

Walda passed through the room. Everett raised his eyes and they met the girl’s glance. Then he bent his head in deferential recognition of her presence. It was only a second that each had gazed at the other, but the man from the outside world felt a heart-throb. He spilled the powder on the tablecloth, and after he had brushed it off he hastily took up his hat. He went down-stairs, Gerson Brandt and Mother Kaufmann following him to ask about his patient. The three stood in the little porch talking of Wilhelm Kellar. From the garden, Walda, who stood among the flowers, watched them as if she would hear every word. Involuntarily she was drawn to the little group.

“Thou wilt tell me the truth about my father,” she said, addressing Everett. She spoke in precise English, with a soft accent and full tone.

“He is seriously ill, but he will recover from this attack,” Everett answered.

The girl folded her hands on her breast in the manner common to Zanah.

“It is my duty to rejoice when death freeth the soul, and yet I cannot think of my father’s illness with aught but sadness,” she said, as a tear trickled down her cheek.

“Thou art showing weakness,” admonished Mother Kaufmann.

“Be not so stern,” said Gerson Brandt. “She hath not yet faced the mystery of death. She is young, and she loveth her father.”

“Always thou dost find excuse for Walda Kellar,” said the woman. “She is near to the day of inspiration, and the things of this world should not touch her.”

Walda Kellar appeared not to hear Mother Kaufmann’s words. Her eyes were fastened upon Everett’s face.

“Thou art not going away from Zanah soon, art thou?” she asked. “Nay, stay to watch my father until he shall be out of danger.” There was such pleading in her tone that it touched the heart of the man of the world. Her beauty cast a spell over him.

“Thou forgettest that the stranger hath much to call him away,” interposed Gerson Brandt. “Thou wouldst not be selfish?”

“Oh, I would not think first of self, and yet I would pray that the stranger might find it in his heart to remain in Zanah to aid him whom I love above all, for, strive as I may, I cannot forget that he is my father.”

She stepped nearer to Everett; her lips quivered.

“It may be many days before your father is entirely well. It will be a privilege to be of service to you,” said Everett, remembering how seldom he had been of any real use in the world. “I will remain until your father is out of danger.”

Mother Kaufmann took Walda by the arm and led her down the hill towards the House of the Women. Everett felt a resentment towards the unsympathetic colony “mother.” For a moment he was angry, and then he tried to make himself believe that he was a fool to waste a thought upon Walda Kellar or any of the villagers. Still he could not stifle his curiosity. A dozen questions rose to his lips, but there was something in the look of the school-master that forbade any inquiries.

The man who belonged to the outside world walked down to the bridge, and, turning, followed the turbulent little creek to a place where there was a deserted windmill beside a broken dam. Here he sat upon a log, for he suddenly made the discovery that it was a warm day. From the mill he could look back into the village and out upon the vineyards and the broad fields that surrounded the picturesque little settlement.

The peaceful scene soothed him. He fell to wondering whether, after all, the colonists might not be wise to bar out the world, but although his thoughts travelled far away to the busy scenes in which he usually moved, they always came back to Walda Kellar.

The novelty of his position rather amused him. He had meant to spend only a day or two in Zanah, and now he had made a promise that meant a sojourn of several weeks, perhaps a month or two. He lighted a fresh cigar and let his thoughts wander back to the friends who were waiting for him in the Berkshire Hills, where he had intended to spend the autumn weeks. He knew that they would concern themselves but little about his absence, for he had always been erratic since, when a school-boy, he was left, long ago, with an ample fortune and an indulgent guardian.

His reflections were suddenly interrupted, for he heard a soft footstep inside the mill. In an instant the fool had darted out, and, running to a tree that formed a foot-bridge across the little stream, he stooped to conceal something in the roots. Everett was interested. It was clear that Hans Peter was executing some commission that would not find favor with the elders. Lest he might excite suspicion, Everett turned his back and looked down the dusty road. The simple one ran lightly past him.

Everett was still facing the road when he saw a girl come towards the mill. She passed the stranger, who was almost hidden by the wild clematis-vine that covered a bush near him. She was pretty, after the flaxen-haired, pink-cheeked type. She went to the tree and took something that looked like a letter from its roots. She opened it, read it hastily, and concealed it beneath the black kerchief crossed upon her breast. With quickened steps she turned back towards the village. Half-way to the bridge she met the fool, who was returning to the mill. They spoke a few words, and the simple one continued on his way.

“So you are back?” said Everett, handing a coin to Hans Peter, who put it in one of his bulging pockets.

“What wouldst thou have me do?” asked the simple one.

“I would have you sit there on the grass and answer my questions, Hans Peter. First, who is the girl?”

“She is Frieda Bergen, a village maid.”

“What was it you put in the tree for her?”

Hans Peter looked aghast. He thrust both hands into his pockets and appeared to be thinking. He was a strange figure, for there was a curious blending of shrewdness and foolishness in his expression as he furtively glanced up at Everett.

“Thou wouldst not tell the elders,” he pleaded, presently, “if I trusted thee? I fear nothing, but I would not make the maid unhappy.”

“Was it a love-letter that you put there for her?”

Everett could not repress a smile. He was beginning to believe that he might find some amusement in watching the people of Zanah. When the fool remained silent he repeated his question.

“I know not what was in the packet, as I carried it for another,” said Hans Peter. “Thou forgettest that thou art talking to the fool of Zanah.”

“Your wisdom makes me lose sight of that fact, Hans Peter. Is not love against the law of the colony?”

“Yea, all except Hans Peter, the fool, hold it a sin to put their affections on the things of this world. The simple one cannot understand aught but that which is of the earth; he cannot reach up to heaven, and so he seeth nothing wrong in love that maketh men and women happy.”

Everett rose and paced up and down the little footpath. “I suppose the elders are always above temptation?” he remarked, stopping before Hans Peter.

The simple one looked almost wise, and, apparently forgetting all prudence, said:

“Karl Weisel, head of the thirteen elders, hath been tempted for many years. He loveth Gretchen Schneider, the daughter of the Herr Doktor President, but he would have to give up his high place in Zanah if he were to marry, and so he preacheth much against the wickedness of loving.”

“And what of Gretchen Schneider?”

“She hath always a bad temper; she spieth on all the youths and maids. Frieda Bergen and Joseph Hoff, who loveth her, fear Gretchen Schneider most of all in Zanah.”

“And what will be the punishment of Frieda Bergen and Joseph Hoff when it is discovered that they love each other?”

“Marriage,” said the simple one, solemnly. “The elders will rebuke them, and if still they love not God above themselves they will be put in the third, or lowest, grade in the colony.”

“And will they ever be forgiven? Will the elders ever restore them to a high place in Zanah?”

Hans Peter made an awkward little gesture.

“When they have found out each other’s faults they may repent; the Lord’s hand may be heavy on them. Then, when they see that love bringeth pain and grief, they may go before the elders, confess that they have erred, and when they have proved that they can serve God with singleness of purpose they will be put in the foremost rank.”

Hans Peter spoke as if he were repeating a lesson often conned, and Everett said:

“You talk not like the simple one, my boy. If I closed my eyes I should think the Herr Doktor himself were speaking to me. But tell me, Hans Peter, among all the married people of the village, how many have failed to repent?”

“Diedrich Werther and Mother Werther alone love much. They are still in the lowest grade, and it is fifteen years since they were married. Most of the men and women of Zanah are in the second grade, but the Herr Doktor and Mother Schneider are among the highest. It is said they hate each other.”

“This has been a half-hour well spent,” said Everett. “You shall have another piece of silver, Hans Peter, and to-morrow you will tell me more about the people of Zanah.”

The simple one rose from his place on the grass, took the coin into his square, fat hand, and slouched away with it. As he disappeared, Everett thought of a hundred things he would have liked to ask about Walda Kellar. Yet, strangely enough, he could not bring himself to speak her name to the village fool.