Wilhelm Kellar’s health mended slowly. Some days he felt strong enough to be lifted out upon the chintz-covered lounge in the large room, but every attempt to hasten convalescence appeared futile, and after a morning spent out of bed he always felt a reaction. On one of his best days he lay on the lounge, which had been pushed into the bay-window. Above his head hung Piepmatz. When Everett came to make the first call of the day, the bird was trilling his one bar of the doxology, with long breaks now and then between the notes. Walda was trimming a plant that stood on the table near which sat Gerson Brandt. The school-master watched the future prophetess intently, and at first he did not notice Everett’s entrance.

“My patient must be better,” said Everett, passing to the window, and Walda, turning from the table, answered:

“We are happy, indeed, to-day. My father hath already begun to think about his work in the colony.”

“You must not be too ambitious,” said Everett, drawing a stool to the foot of the lounge and placing himself where he could study the old man’s face.

“I have declared a half-holiday that I may celebrate the return of health to Brother Kellar,” said Gerson Brandt, smiling upon his old friend, who lay, weak and prostrated, among the pillows. At this point Piepmatz abandoned the doxology and burst into a flood of song.

“Hush, thou saucy bird,” Walda commanded. She went to the cage and playfully shook her finger at the chaffinch. “See, he knoweth there is reason to be glad,” she declared. “Verily he hath much wisdom.”

“Piepmatz is something of a philosopher,” remarked Everett. “He makes the best of his imprisonment. Like the people of Zanah, he appears to care little for the great world.”

“He hath taught me many a lesson of submission,” said Walda.

“Still, his tiny heart is easily touched by worldly things,” said the school-master. “He hath shown a dangerous inclination to take up the song the stranger hath whistled.”

“Let me see whether you have forgotten the worldly song.” It was Everett who spoke. Going to the cage he whistled the minor strain of the love-song. Piepmatz proudly imitated him.

“You see, I might have been a good school-master if fate had not decreed otherwise,” said Everett, addressing Gerson Brandt.

“What is thy work in the world?” asked Walda. “Since my thoughtless plea kept thee here I have often wondered about thy daily labors. At first I thought thou didst tend the sick, but once I heard thee say that thou hadst not yet begun that labor.”

“So far I have not done any one thing,” Everett confessed, with a feeling of shame.

“How dost thou spend thy days?” the school-master inquired.

Everett hesitated before answering. In all his life it had never occurred to him to think how his days were spent.

“Since I left college I have travelled a great deal,” he replied, evasively.

“And hast thou seen the whole world?” asked Walda. Wonder was written on her face.

“I have seen much of it.”

Wilhelm Kellar made an inarticulate sound.

“Perhaps it disturbeth Brother Kellar to hear thee speak of the wicked world which he left long ago,” said Gerson Brandt. “Like thee, he hath seen it all; he hath wandered over land and sea.”

“Knowing the world, my father hath kept me safe from it.” Walda had drawn the stool first occupied by Everett close to the head of the lounge, and, sitting near to the sick man, she clasped one of his hands.

“Thou knowest, dear, that I have put away from me all vain longings to know aught of life outside of Zanah.”

Wilhelm Kellar closed his eyes with a look of contentment.

“Didst thou mean me to understand that thou art that abomination of the Lord, an idle and slothful man?” he asked Everett, after a moment of reflection.

“I confess that I have not done half my duty,” said Everett, humbly; “but I have spent many years in study; I have dipped into science.”

“Science? Zanah hath naught to do with science,” said Gerson Brandt. “Science would reveal the mysteries of nature that the Lord hath hidden from his people.”

“Don’t you think that the man who inquires just how the tiny body of Piepmatz has had its origin in the egg, how the bones and muscles that form the wing give him the power of flight, and how his mite of a brain is made to be the home of at least a fragment of intelligence has a wider conception of the omnipotence of God than he who knows nothing of what you call the secrets of nature?” asked Everett.

“I would not place my judgment against the judgment of Zanah,” said Gerson Brandt. “And yet when I was a boy I learned about the growth of a flower, and my soul was quickened with a new impulse towards worship.”

“They tell me there is a magic force called electricity that is now performing what would once have been called miracles,” said Walda.

It seemed incredible to Everett that, notwithstanding all the barriers placed between Zanah and the outside world, it could be possible so completely to shut out all that was modern.

“Yes; electricity propels cars; it gives men the power to talk when they are hundreds of miles apart; it sends words across the continent, literally, with lightning rapidity. You know the latest achievement of science is the discovery of the x-ray, by which it is possible to look through a man’s body so that the bones are visible.”

“How strange it all is!” exclaimed Walda, who was still stroking her father’s hand.

“The wisdom of the world is so great that no one man can understand more than the smallest fragment of it,” averred Gerson Brandt.

Walda was lost in thought for another moment or two.

“Thou makest it clear to me that we people of Zanah must seem strange, indeed, to thee.” She spoke slowly. “According to thy standard, I, who am thought wise enough to be chosen prophetess of the colony, must be ignorant and childish. Out in the world they would jeer at me, would they not?”

“Thou wilt have a wisdom that the world cannot give,” said Gerson Brandt. “Thou shalt be spared from contact with the mammon of unrighteousness.”

“Nay, Gerson, it seemeth to me there must be good men in the world. Stephen Everett, the stranger who hath come to us, belongeth not to those who are bound to the idols of sin.”

Everett, who had been sitting in one of the splint-bottomed arm-chairs, was touched by the girl’s artless words. He rose to his feet and responded quickly:

“According to Zanah’s standard I may not be a good man, but out in the world I am not singled out as one of the profligates. I hold honor dear. You people of Zanah may trust me.”

“We have trusted thee,” said Gerson Brandt. “We have prayed much over thee, and it hath been revealed to us that thou wert sent from the Lord. We trust thee so much that we have let thee speak to Walda Kellar, who hath never known any one belonging to the world.”

Gerson Brandt stood up and faced Everett. An intensity in his tone gave his words strong emphasis. Wilhelm Kellar turned his head on his pillow, and his sunken eyes stared at Everett as if they would read his uttermost thoughts. A deep flush overspread Everett’s face, and the realization swept over him that perhaps he might have it in his power to disturb all the plans of Zanah by turning Walda Kellar’s thoughts away from what he regarded as the superstition of the colony. Human nature is contradictory, and Gerson Brandt’s words presented clearly a temptation that had but vaguely suggested itself to him. He could appear not to recognize the insinuation conveyed by the school-master, and therefore he replied, evasively:

“My intentions are good. It was an unselfish motive that prompted me to remain in the colony. When Wilhelm Kellar has recovered I shall go away, and you will all forget that I ever came to Zanah.”

“Nay, we shall not forget thee,” said Walda. “We shall always be grateful to thee.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the appearance of Karl Weisel. He had scarcely finished his greetings when Mother Kaufmann and Gretchen Schneider came into the room.

“How is it that the prophetess of Zanah hath time to spend in the company of men?” asked Mother Kaufmann. “It might be better to pass the days alone, praying and reading the Bible.”

“How is it that Mother Kaufmann dares to speak thus sharply in the presence of the woman chosen to guide the colony of Zanah?” retorted Gerson Brandt.

“I like not this dispensation which permits Walda Kellar to be brought under the influence of a sinful man of the world.”

Mother Kaufmann spoke in her guttural German. She had advanced close to Gerson Brandt.

“The colony is not ruled by old women, and thy likes weigh little in Zanah,” declared Karl Weisel, whose chair had been drawn near to the one chosen by Gretchen Schneider.

“If Zanah were ruled by old women the head of the thirteen elders would not be coveting the daughter of the Herr Doktor,” said Mother Kaufmann, losing all caution in her anger.

Gretchen Schneider’s thin face turned a livid yellow, and Karl Weisel sprang forward as if he would like to grasp the woman by the throat.

“Peace, children of Zanah,” commanded Walda, rising in majestic indignation. “Your words are shameful. Put away from you the spirit of contention.”

Wilhelm Kellar had made an effort to speak, but in the excitement of the moment his tongue refused to frame the words. Everett, looking at him, saw that there were beads of perspiration on his brow and that he looked exhausted.

“Send these people out of the room,” he said to Gerson Brandt. “Wilhelm Kellar must be kept quiet.” He went to the table, where he began to mix a soothing draught, while Gerson Brandt dismissed the three visitors. The school-master preceded them out of the room, leaving Walda and Everett to soothe the sick man, who showed signs of extreme exhaustion. When the medicine had been administered, Walda drew together the white curtains and placed a chintz screen before the window.

“He looketh almost as if death were near,” she whispered to Everett.

“Do not be alarmed,” he replied; “he will soon fall asleep, and when he awakens he will be as well as he was this morning.”

The girl bent over her father to watch the faint breathing. The old man’s face was ghastly in its emaciation and pallor.

“Thou wilt not leave me yet?” she said, entreatingly. “Sit here with me until I am sure he is slumbering peacefully.”

Walda took her place on an old oaken bench above which hung Gerson Brandt’s book-shelves, and Everett drew one of the chairs close to the table, near to the place where Walda sat. Instead of taking up her knitting the girl leaned on the oaken arm of the bench, and with her chin in her hands she became lost in thought.

“Through thee it hath become plain to me that I am different from the women out there in the world,” she said, presently. “Sometimes there hath come over me a great fear lest one day I shall be sorely tempted to go forth among men and women of the earth. In the days of my rebellion, when I turned a deaf ear to the calling of the spirit, I dreamed of going away from Zanah. Since I have known thee I have sometimes faltered, even as my steps were being led near to the place of peace which will be revealed to me when the inspiration cometh.” She spoke as if she were thinking aloud, and Everett made no response, for he dared not say the words that came to his lips.

“Thou knowest the world,” she continued. “Dost thou think that I could ever be tempted to forget my duty to the people of Zanah? Shall I be able always to walk near to God?”

“It is said that there is a supreme temptation for every man and for every woman,” said Everett, not daring to look at her. “You may be spared that, or, if it comes to you, you may be strong enough to resist it.”

“There are strange, earthly impulses in my heart that none but Gerson Brandt can understand,” she said. “But even he will not let me speak of them.”

“What are your besetting sins?” Everett asked, gently. “Can’t you confess them to me? Perhaps I can judge more fairly than any one in Zanah, because mine must be the broader view.”

Walda cast upon him a look of such trustfulness that his conscience smote him.

“Stephen, my faith in the devil is not strong. I like not to think of the power of evil, for truly the world seemeth good to me. When I walk forth into the fields something in me maketh me to love the beauty of the sky, the vast stretches of rolling prairie, and the shining water of the distant lake. The bird-voices seem human to me, and yet the meadow-lark and the robin, the little creatures that God hath made, appear not to know of Satan’s rule.”

“Walda, you are not sinning. The Creator of all things is speaking to you through nature.”

“Dost thou believe that, Stephen?”

“Yes; science teaches that. Have you not been taught that the wood which burns so brightly on your hearth is giving out the sunshine stored for years, so that in time man might use it?”

Walda listened with parted lips.

“Ah, that is good,” she said. “Perhaps thou couldst unlock many of the mysteries that disturb me. Canst thou tell how the grain of wheat groweth when it is put into the ground? Dost thou know how the egg is changed into the nestling?”

“Science has probed the secrets of the seed and the egg, and it has discovered much. If it is permitted, I will send you books when I have returned to the world.”

“Nay, I am but a child in my ignorance. Canst thou not tell me about the mysteries when thou comest here to this room?”

“It would be a privilege to teach you,” said Everett. “We might have our first lesson to-morrow.”

“I have not told thee half my wayward impulses,” Walda declared, presently. “When strangers have driven to the village I have caught glimpses of women who wore gay clothes, and I have coveted the gowns of exquisite color.” She hesitated for a moment, with something like embarrassment. “And, Stephen,” she added, “I like thy garb better than that of the men of Zanah. Thou hast a ring on thy finger that I think is pretty, and when thou takest from thy pocket thy gold watch I have a curiosity to look at it. This shows how easily I am tempted by earthly gauds.”

Everett could not repress a little laugh, but seeing how much in earnest she was, he said, quite solemnly:

“Walda, these are not sins. Your confessions show that you are a woman with a woman’s impulses. Even a prophetess cannot help being a little human.”

He took his watch from his pocket and placed it in her lap. Drawing from his finger a ring of beautifully wrought gold, he put it into her hand. Walda’s face crimsoned.

“Thou must not persuade me to put it on,” she half pleaded, as she looked at the ring; and then, as if to prevent herself from succumbing to temptation, she passed it back to Everett. The watch she examined carefully. “This will mark the seconds, the moments, and the hours of all thy life. It should remind one to make good account of his time.”

“It has marked some very pleasant moments since I came to Zanah,” said Everett, and his tones conveyed to Walda a dim impression that made her suddenly shy.

Some one knocked twice on the door, lifted the latch, and entered. It was Hans Peter, who carried in his hand a package of books, letters, and papers.

“These have I brought from the post-office,” said the simple one, his pale eyes wandering from Walda to Everett as they sat close together. It was plain, even to a fool, that their conversation had been of a sort interesting only to themselves.

“The elders ordered that thy mail be given into thy hands, and I have followed thee here that I might deliver the chronicles of the wicked world into thy keeping.”

Everett thanked the simple one, who made no move to leave the room. Hans Peter still stood playing with his queer cap and balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other.

“Wouldst thou give me the newspaper when thou hast read it?” he asked, with something like eagerness in his tone.

“No, no, Hans Peter, I cannot disregard the rules of the colony,” Everett said, carelessly.

“Dost thou not know that the fool cannot be hurt?” asked the simple one. “He hath so little knowledge that he knoweth not folly from wisdom. To him the wicked appear good and the good wicked.”

Everett’s mail was scattered on the table where the simple one had put it. Among the envelopes the man of the world saw one that enclosed a photograph.

“This may be a picture that will interest you,” he said. “Will you pardon me if I open it?” He tore off the envelope, and the photograph of a young and beautiful girl was disclosed. The hair was dressed in rather an elaborate fashion, and the gown was slightly dÉcolletÉ.

“This is my young cousin Beatrice,” he remarked. “She is one of my favorite relatives. I want you to tell me what you think of her, Walda.”

“It is forbidden in Zanah that we should make the image of anything on earth,” declared Walda, turning her eyes away when Everett held the photograph towards her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

The fool had come close to Everett’s chair, and he now looked over the stranger’s shoulder.

“Is she called beautiful?” he asked.

“I believe she is,” said Everett. “Don’t you think she is a pretty girl?”

“I like her hair and her necklace,” the simple one said. “She hath no cap or kerchief. Yea, she is like an angel.” He hesitated for a moment, looking from the picture to Walda, as if he were comparing the two faces, and he added: “She is not so fair as the prophetess of Zanah. Dost thou think her more comely than Walda Kellar?”

“Hush, Hans Peter; thou knowest it is a sin to see that a woman is fair or comely,” warned Walda.

The simple one shook his head of tangled, straw-colored hair, and answered:

“Thou forgettest the fool knoweth not right from wrong; he is the only free man in the whole colony.” He threw his cap into the air, but his stolid face betrayed no sign that he might be exulting over his emancipation from the laws of Zanah.

“Here, gather up these letters and papers and come with me to the inn,” said Everett. He thrust the photograph into the outside pocket of his coat.

“Now, indeed, do I know that I am a daughter of Eve,” said Walda, rising. “To-day it hath been made plain to me that I am not like unto the women of the world. I—I—I would have one glimpse of thy cousin. Dost thou think it would be very sinful if I looked at the image of thy kinswoman?”

“Sinful! I think it is your right to know something of the women outside the colony,” Everett declared. He took the picture from his pocket and put it into her hand.

Walda studied the face for a few moments.

“Thy cousin Beatrice is fair indeed.” As she spoke the faintest sigh accompanied her words. “Wilt thou not tell me something of her?” she asked. “Doth she wear this gown and this necklace when she worketh?”

The picture of his cousin Beatrice working was so absurd that Everett smiled.

“This is the sort of a gown my cousin wears when she goes to a ball,” he explained.

“A ball! What is a ball?” asked Walda.

“Oh, it is a party—an assembly of men and women where there are music and flowers and brilliant lights.”

“And what do the people do? Do they sing hymns and pray as we do at our meetings?”

Again Everett smiled. The spectacle of the guests at a modern ball joining in hymns and prayers would be entertaining indeed, he thought.

“They talk and dance, Walda.”

“There is dancing spoken of in the Bible,” said Walda; “but the elders of Zanah have told the people how the rite hath been degraded by the men and women of the world. I have heard that dancing is no longer a religious ceremony.”

“That is true, indeed,” said Everett, and the memory of some of the stage-dancing flashed across his brain.

“What is thy cousin’s work?” Walda inquired, again studying the photograph.

“Work?” repeated Everett. “Why, she has no work.”

“And doth all thy family belong to the drones?” Walda asked. “How is it that out in the world some men and women are permitted to be idle while others labor?”

“Now, Walda, you have hit upon one of the great social problems. Out in the world the people do not work for the common good. Selfishness rules. Some men and some women are born to wealth, and some are born to poverty.”

“Thou meanest that some men are like Solomon and others are like the beggars that lay outside the gates of Jerusalem?”

“Yes, that is what I mean,” said Everett.

“Art thou like Solomon? Hast thou gold that thou keepest from the poor and hungry?” Walda placed the picture upon the table and withdrew several steps from Everett.

“I am not like Solomon, Walda,” Everett replied, with an uncomfortable feeling that he belonged to a useless class.

“But you have money so that you live without work?”

“Yes,” admitted Everett, with some reluctance.

“He carrieth much silver with him,” said Hans Peter, who had listened intently to the conversation. “He hath tossed me many a piece when I have run errands for him.”

“Oh, thou dost give away thy money?” Walda’s tone betrayed her relief at the thought that, after all, Everett might not be altogether selfish.

“Yes, I give away some of my money,” Stephen answered; “but I have not done half the good with it that I should. Perhaps I may learn here in Zanah how to employ my time and my money to better advantage.”

“Now, indeed, I know that the Lord hath sent thee here for thine own good.”

“Sometimes I am not so sure of it, Walda,” said Everett, and, turning quickly, he took up his hat. He pushed open the door, motioned to the simple one to pass out first, hesitated a moment, and then returned to Walda’s side.

“Don’t think of me as such a bad man,” he said.

“Nay, there is something in my heart that maketh me believe only that thou art wise and true.”

Quickly he left the room, and as he went down the stairs he reflected that one of the first steps in wisdom is that which takes a man away from a great temptation. Walda, standing alone by the table, thought of many things, and then, strangely enough, Piepmatz, looking from his little cage, whistled the notes of the love-song that Everett had taught him.