It was a rainy day in Zanah. Early in the morning, when Everett looked out of the diamond-paned window of his bedroom, he saw that the trees and vines in the garden were dripping. The night-wind had beaten off many of the leaves, which had grown yellow in the long drought and the dying summer. The distant bluffs were hidden behind a curtain of mist. Two village “mothers” passed, their shawls drawn over their heads and their feet dragging slowly in their clumsy, wooden shoes. Everett dressed quickly, for his room was dark, and the silence of the village oppressed him. When he went out to his breakfast in the long, bare dining-room, Mother Werther served him in silence. He wondered at her unusual taciturnity, and he tried to start a cheerful conversation. She replied to him in monosyllables. The entrance of a boy whom he remembered seeing at the learning-school temporarily diverted Mother Werther from her unpleasant thoughts.

“This is my son Johann,” she said, pushing the lad forward.

The boy hung his head, and Everett inquired why Johann was never at home.

“It is not wise that he should be kept at the gasthaus,” Mother Werther explained, as she fixed a place for Johann at the distant end of the table.

“Does some unusual occurrence bring him here to-day?” Everett inquired, with a show of interest.

“It is the Day of Warning, and families hold communion before they go to the meeting-house,” Mother Werther explained. “It is the last Sabbath before the Untersuchung, and we make ready for the annual accounting of our faults and follies.”

The woman’s words brought uppermost in his mind the thought that had harassed him in the hours of the night. The time of Walda’s ordination as prophetess was very near. He rose from the table. He heard the rain falling upon the slate roof of the side porch upon which the dining-room opened. Lifting the heavy latch, he pushed the door slightly ajar. The downpour was steady.

“Does your prophetess take any special part in to-day’s ceremonies?” Everett asked, because he felt that he must contrive to see Walda.

“Nay, she will be present at the meeting, that is all,” said Mother Werther, bustling out into the back kitchen.

Everett sauntered into the office, which was occupied by Hans Peter. The simple one had placed upon the mantel-shelf above the fireplace half a dozen of his marked gourds, and he was studying them intently. He did not pay any attention to Everett, who stepped up beside him.

“Are you preparing for the Day of Warning and the Untersuchung, Hans Peter?” Everett asked.

The village fool shook his head.

“Thou forgettest that Hans Peter is one whom the Lord hath forgotten,” he said. “The Almighty taketh no account of the sayings and doings of the simple one.”

The simple one took into his hand a gourd which bore but one or two deep cuts dried into its hardened surface.

“This Hans Peter had in his pocket on the day that he carried the carpet-bag of the stranger,” he said.

“What do the marks stand for, Hans Peter? I hope they do not mean anything uncomplimentary.”

The simple one said that he did not understand, and Everett explained.

“This meaneth that the stranger in Zanah bringeth trouble,” the village fool answered.

Everett paced up and down the sanded floor for a few moments.

“You are not a prophet, Hans Peter,” he said, stopping to pull the village fool’s ear. “Have I done any harm in Zanah?”

“Thou hast sown some seeds of discord.”

“Cannot you forgive me for the Bible episode? You know I have done my best to make amends. You will not always blame me for your suffering in the stocks, I hope.”

The simple one put the gourd he had been examining into one of his deep pockets.

“Thou knowest the stocks were but the penalty of mine own deed,” he said. “There are other things that even a fool can see and hear. Thou hast a soft voice when thou speakest to the prophetess of Zanah. Thine eyes watch her always when she is near thee.”

Hans Peter folded his arms in imitation of Everett and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

“You are observant, Hans Peter. As I have often told you, every day I am more and more convinced you are the wisest man in Zanah.” Everett flicked the ashes from the cigar he was smoking and smiled down at the queer little figure. “What conclusions do you draw from your two discoveries?”

“It seemeth that thine actions are like Joseph Hoff’s, and the people of Zanah say that he hath earthly love in his heart.”

“If my memory serves me right, it was you who aided Joseph Hoff to send messages to the one he loves,” said Everett.

“She was not a prophetess,” the fool declared.

Hans Peter had selected a second gourd from the shelf, and had fled from the room before Everett could sound him on the subject of acting as errand-boy.

Still the rain poured down. Everett chafed under his enforced inactivity, for he felt that every hour meant much to him. Presently, because he had nothing better to do, he took down from its place beside Hans Peter’s gourds the old tinder-box, and lighted the wood that was piled in the fireplace. He lounged upon the settle and idly watched the flames creep along the logs. His thoughts flew out to Walda. He wondered what she was doing. He felt a disgust for the fanaticism of the colony, and he tried to think of some way of claiming the woman he loved. He was ready to carry her off without any ado, but he knew that as long as her father lived he could not persuade her to go away. Although he had not yet made her realize she loved him, he would not harbor the thought that he could lose her—and yet his suit appeared hopeless.

His reflections were disturbed by the voice of Mother Werther raised in indignant remonstrance. She was in the next room, and he heard her say:

“Diedrich, thou dost vex me much lately. And now thou dost tell me thou likest to gaze through the car-windows to behold the women of the world as they pass by Zanah.”

“They are comely,” the innkeeper answered, in his laconic fashion.

“How darest thou tell me that? To-day I am half persuaded to confess to the elders that at last I have learned the love of man is not to be trusted. I have a mind to claim promotion to the second rank of the colony, and who knows but I may soon hate thee enough to serve the Lord in singleness of purpose!”

“Thy tongue proveth thou mayst yet become like Mother Schneider and Mother Kaufmann, who have long been in the third rank because they love not men,” remarked Diedrich Werther.

“Thou speakest hateful words.” Mother Werther’s voice was choked with anger. “Many times hast thou tried me sorely, but never until to-day have I seen that thou art indeed a man with sinful impulses. Thy feet have been turned from the straight and narrow way. Thou hast a liking for wicked things.”

Everett smiled when he heard what he might take as an object-lesson of the inevitable experience of even the most faithful of married couples. He shrugged his shoulders, and thought that, after all, it was only the few who knew the real meaning of love, the love that blended worship and lofty aspiration.

Diedrich Werther came into the office. It was plain that the berating he had received had not disturbed his phlegmatic calm. He shuffled along in his carpet slippers until he reached the desk, behind which he perched himself on a high stool. Everett felt irritated at the unpleasant interruption to his thoughts of Walda. He snatched up his soft felt hat and went out into the muddy street. He turned his steps towards Wilhelm Kellar’s room, where he found his patient sitting up in an arm-chair. Gerson Brandt was with him. The two colonists showed an unusual restraint in the presence of the stranger in Zanah.

“I have been telling Brother Brandt that I need thy services no longer,” said Wilhelm Kellar, addressing Everett. “There is nothing to hinder thee from leaving Zanah to-morrow.”

Everett noticed that Gerson Brandt watched him closely while Wilhelm Kellar spoke.

“I shall not go away for at least a week,” said Everett, leaning against the chest of drawers, and assuming an indifferent manner.

“It is strange that thou findest colony life so pleasant,” said Gerson Brandt.

“It is restful and interesting to me,” Everett replied, carelessly.

As he faced the two elders of Zanah he felt a twinge of remorse, because his dearest purpose in life was to win from them Walda Kellar. He who had held honor first experienced a certain amount of self-abasement, but he quieted his conscience, as he had many times before, by the thought that love was the ruling power of the world, and that all things should give way before it.

“The colony of Zanah would recompense thee for thy services in helping to restore me to health,” said Wilhelm Kellar. “Wilt thou render to me thine accounting?”

“Whatever aid you have received from me has not been given for money,” Everett replied, in a voice so decided in its accents that both his hearers felt there was beneath his words something which they could not understand.

“The colony never shirks the payment of its debts,” Wilhelm Kellar declared, proudly.

“If you think you owe me anything, accept the amount as a gift to Zanah,” said Everett.

A moment of embarrassment followed, and he was glad to take his leave rather hastily. When he reached the inn, many of the villagers were assembled in the main room and on the porches. The meeting-house bell sounded as he went up the steps, and instantly the men and women moved towards the old building on the hill. The women drew heavy shawls over their heads to protect them from the rain, and the men, who walked apart from them, now and then removed their caps to shake off the water which ran down upon their hair and shoulders. No one spoke. It was evident that the Day of Warning had its terrors for many of the colonists. Everett stood on the topmost step watching the little children, who were miniature reproductions of the men and women, and listening to the click of the wooden shoes upon the board walk. He looked down the street in the hope that he might see Walda Kellar, but he was disappointed.

“Would I be admitted to the meeting-house?” he asked Diedrich Werther, who was putting a long-tailed coat over a faded blue-gingham shirt.

“Ja, ja; if thou desirest to attend a service of much solemnity, come with me,” the innkeeper answered.

The meeting-house was crowded when they entered. Its interior was as devoid of ornament as its exterior. The bare, white walls were broken at regular intervals with small-paned, clear glass windows, which let in but little light on a gloomy day. A broad middle aisle led straight to a platform upon which sat the thirteen elders, for Everett was astonished to see that Wilhelm Kellar had been carried in his arm-chair from his room in the near-by school-house. The men occupied rude benches on the right side of the meeting-house, and the women sat on the left. The children were placed in front, the boys on the men’s side and the girls on the women’s. On a dais in the middle of the elders’ platform was a heavy oaken chair.

A few moments after Everett’s entrance a group of colonists, who still lingered at the door, separated to allow some one to pass in. A hush fell upon the assemblage, for Walda Kellar was walking up the aisle. Over her blue gown she wore a long cloak with a pointed hood that she put back from her head as she moved slowly forward. The damp air had caused her hair to curl in many unruly ringlets about her forehead, and her pure skin had the peculiar clearness and transparency that a rainy day imparts to a delicate complexion. Everett could see only her profile. There was a majesty in her carriage, a consciousness of power in her pose, that made her seem far off from him. His heart beat wildly as he looked at her, and when the villagers knelt in acknowledgment of her presence, he obeyed the impulse of worship, and bent forward with a despairing humility in his heart. He, to whom prayer had long ceased to be a daily habit, breathed his heart’s sincere desire in a petition that his love might be given its reward.

When Everett raised his eyes again Walda had ascended the platform, and had taken her place on the steps in front of the chair which it was plain was the seat reserved for the prophetess. She had thrown aside her cloak, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap. Adolph Schneider spoke, in German, the words of a droning invocation. He left the front of the platform, and Everett was surprised to see Walda come forward as if she were about to speak. Instead of making an address, she began to sing a monotonous hymn, to which her rich voice lent a glorious melody.

While Walda sang, the man of the world listened in breathless awe. Her voice thrilled with the diapason of hope. It rose in triumphant notes, and then fell with a softened cadence. His soul went out to hers, but in the tense moment that followed her hymn he felt as if she were far away from him. Her purity rebuked the passion of love in him, and yet he could scarcely restrain himself from the impulse to claim her there before all Zanah. She went back to her place on the steps before the chair of the prophetess, which she was to occupy before another week had passed.

Adolph Schneider commanded the colonists to listen with undivided attention to what he had to say to them. It was the Day of Warning, when all who felt they were not prepared for the Untersuchung would make confession. If there was any man or woman who desired to ask for promotion in the colony, the time had come to show reason for a desire for advancement.

A tall, large-boned woman rose from her place far back in the congregation.

“I would seek advancement to the first grade of the colony,” she said.

“What is thy ground for making this request? Why dost thou believe that thou art worthy?” the Herr Doktor asked.

“It is five years since I refused to listen to the elders of Zanah when they told me of the trials earthly love would bring,” answered the woman, turning a sallow, weather-beaten face towards the platform. “Now have I learned that marriage is a hard discipline. Otto Schmidt hath vexed me every day for forty months. I have found that the love of man for woman is fleeting, and now do I know that I can worship God in singleness of heart.”

On the men’s side a stout mill-worker pulled himself to his feet.

“Christina hath not suffered the smallest tithe of the mortification of spirit that hath been mine,” he declared, in an emphatic tone. “It was for her sake that I gave up my place in the first grade of Zanah’s people, and now do I confess that the elders of Zanah are wise when they entreat the people to beware of love. Love is but the fire of man’s vanity kindled to flame by a woman’s wanton eyes.”

“Nay, it is but a woman’s faith which is nourished by man’s false promises of kindness and constancy,” replied the woman, who was still standing.

“Let the brother and sister of Zanah be seated,” commanded Adolph Schneider.

As she obeyed, Christina Schmidt cast a glance of hatred towards her husband.

The elders spoke together. While they were holding their conference, Everett noticed that Hans Peter was creeping slowly up the aisle with a letter in his hand. He passed the envelope up to Adolph Schneider and tiptoed to a vacant place on the front seat. The elders examined the letter. The colonists waited without any show of impatience.

“It is my sad duty to announce that one of the colony youths hath looked with longing eyes on a maid, and that he entreats permission to wed her,” said the Herr Doktor, standing upon the edge of the platform and looking down at the people with a stern expression on his face. His small eyes scanned the women and then the men. “I would have Frieda Bergen and Joseph Hoff step forward.”

It would not have been in human nature for the people to remain impassive. More than half of them turned their heads to look for the culprits. Joseph Hoff made his way towards the elders. He carried his head high, and had an air of bravado that showed how little he cared because he was transgressing the laws of the colony. He waited for Frieda Bergen, who came towards him with her head bent and her cheeks flaming. “Be of good courage,” he whispered, as they faced Adolph Schneider.

“You two have made for yourselves idols here on earth,” said the president of the colony in a thundering tone, which frightened every youth and maiden in the meeting-house. “Ye have not heeded the behests of Zanah. How did Satan manage to tempt you when all the safeguards of Zanah were thrown around you?”

Neither of the lovers spoke.

“It is not permitted here in the colony for men and women who are unmarried to speak together except on rare occasions, and never are they allowed to talk when no one is near them; how then did ye two surrender to the tempter?”

Still there was no answer.

“Speak, Joseph Hoff!” Adolph Schneider shouted, in a tone which showed that he was filled with indignation.

“Love needeth not words or messengers; love is carried on the winds that blow across a woman’s cheek,” said Joseph.

“Nay, it is like a prayer that cometh from the heart of man to the heart of woman,” faltered Frieda, bending in a low courtesy.

“Thou art blaspheming!” Adolph Schneider cried, looking on the maiden with angry eyes. “It is plain that thou art made mad by what thou callest love. To you two erring ones shall be given a chance to repent between now and the Untersuchung, but if your eyes are then still blind to your iniquities ye shall be allowed to marry. Ponder well upon the testimony given here this day by Otto and Christina Schmidt. Human love lasteth but a few years, and eternity is not long enough to blot out the sorrow it can bring to a human soul. Go hence to pray that ye may be delivered from paying the hard penalties earthly love bringeth to all.”

Tears were streaming from the girl’s eyes as she walked back to the women’s side of the building, but in her face was no sign of repentance.

Karl Weisel and the other elders had listened with stolid faces while Adolph Schneider rebuked the people. After the young lovers had taken their seats, Wilhelm Kellar pronounced a benediction. The colonists filed slowly out of the meeting-house. Everett lingered in the hope that by some happy circumstance he might speak to Walda, but she was detained by the elders, who gathered around her. He had given up hope of getting near her when it occurred to him to make Wilhelm Kellar’s imprudence an excuse by which he might at least go closer to the woman he loved. He went forward to where Wilhelm Kellar stood at the foot of the platform steps.

“You have taken a great risk,” he said, to his patient. “You should not have come here to-day.”

The old man drew himself up with a show of strength and said he was well enough to make an effort to enter the Lord’s house.

Walda, who had smiled upon Everett when she saw him coming towards her, put her hand upon her father’s shoulder and persuaded him to be carried back to his room. Gerson Brandt and another man of Zanah lifted the invalid’s chair. Everett opened the side door that they might pass out. Walda, who was anxious for her father’s comfort, would have gone into the rain ahead of them, but Everett reminded her she had not put on her cloak. He stepped up to the chair of the prophetess without taking thought that he might be profaning the place of the elders, and, taking the long garment, put it around her. Although Karl Weisel and the other elders stood by, he calmly fastened the clasp at the neck and drew the hood over the head of the prophetess. Walda, looking up into his face, beheld in the deep-set eyes as they rested upon her something that sent the blood to her face. Gerson Brandt, looking back over his shoulder, saw Everett hold the door open while Walda went through, and he noticed that the strong face of the man of the world had upon it a look of tenderness such as he had never seen before.

Everett hesitated a moment as he buttoned his mackintosh. He was uncertain whether to go out into the woods for a long walk or whether to return to the dreary inn. He turned his steps towards the inn, and he had not gone half-way down the hill before he saw Walda coming from the school-house. The prophetess was with Frieda Bergen, and behind them walked two of the village “mothers.” Everett let them pass him, but he noticed with a pang that Walda appeared not to see him as he stood with uncovered head while she walked by.

“The elders have asked me to entreat thee to overcome this love that thou hast confessed,” he heard Walda say to Frieda Bergen; but they had gone beyond ear-shot before the girl replied.

They went into the inn, whither Everett followed them after a time. Walda drew Frieda Bergen to the settle near the fire which Everett had kindled.

“Thou seemest so happy in thy sin that I would know what is thy feeling,” said Walda. “Thou hast the look of one to whom heaven hath been revealed.”

“A great joy hath come to me, Walda. If it is wicked to love, then would I continue in my sin,” answered Frieda. “Hast thou never known the temptation of love? Hast thou never seen one who maketh the world seem better to thee?”

“Gerson Brandt and Stephen Everett have taught me much,” said Walda, “but no one hath ever tempted me to forget God and to worship man. Doth not thy conscience make thee repentant?”

“Nay, I cannot believe that it is wicked to love.”

“How didst thou come to know that thou lovest?”

“One day, as we worked together, Joseph Hoff looked at me through the trellis of a hop-vine. He was on one side and I was on the other. My heart trembled, and thenceforth his face was often before me.”

“That is but a small matter. The stranger in Zanah hath sometimes made my heart leap, but that meaneth naught.”

“After the hour in which Joseph Hoff looked at me, the day was happier when I could see him. I no longer rebelled against the hard tasks given me. I had sweet dreams,” declared Frieda.

“I have felt as thou sayest thou feelest, but it was prayer and fasting that made the earth like the outer courts of heaven. Frieda, Frieda, thou hast mistaken the spirit of holiness for earthly love.”

Walda Kellar leaned forward, clasping her hands together in a gesture which betrayed her relief at what she supposed was her discovery of the true state of her companion’s mind.

“Nay, nay, it was love that made a new life for me,” insisted Frieda, shaking her black-capped head and speaking in a low voice.

“How couldst thou know?”

“One day Joseph spoke to me sweet words; he touched my hand. Life became changed again. In my heart thenceforth was a great loneliness except when I was near Joseph Hoff. I trembled when he touched my hand, and I would have had him always by my side.”

“Ah, this that thou tellest me is strange indeed. I have known something of this loneliness, but it was the loneliness of the soul that seeketh God and feareth to lose the way to heaven. Tell me something more of thy love.”

“Joseph Hoff sometimes said I was like an angel to him. He spoke softly of love.”

“Thou wert wrong to listen,” said Walda.

“Thou hast spoken often with the stranger in Zanah.”

“True, but we talked of books, and the woods; of the wonders of the heavens and the glories of the earth.”

“We spoke few words, but they gave me strange strength. The earth seemed a pleasanter place after we had talked together. Hast thou never known a day when suddenly the flowers became more beautiful and the sun shone brighter?”

“Yea, lately, since the inspiration hath come to me, it is as if Zanah were bathed in a heavenly radiance. But tell me more, Frieda.”

“The days became pleasant; every one was joyous. There was in my heart a singing that made me care not for the reproofs of the village mothers.”

“I know what thou meanest. Thy experiences are not different from mine.” Walda looked into her companion’s face with a smile of sympathy. “Disturb not thyself any longer. Thou hast the revelation of divinity that the Lord sendeth to those who serve Him. Why didst thou think this new glory in thy life was an earthly love? Foolish girl, I am glad that I did have this chance to probe thy heart to-day.”

“It was not love of God that was in my heart, Walda.” Frieda looked into the fire and shook her head thoughtfully. “Else why should I look each day for a glimpse of Joseph Hoff? Why should the simplest word from him be more to me than the longest prayer of any of the elders? Even if I had thought in the beginning that the tumult in my heart was due to the fervor of my religious faith, I found out very soon that it was Joseph Hoff I loved.”

“How did the revelation come?” Walda whispered.

“One day, when I went back into the hay-field to find a rake I had left, Joseph Hoff, who was working on the top of the stack, came down to the field, and, taking both my hands, he kissed me.” Frieda lifted the corner of her apron and half hid her face as she made this confession.

“Ah, that was sinful, indeed!” exclaimed Walda, her eyes wide with horror. “We of Zanah have been taught that a kiss is the password that Satan giveth to weak and foolish men and women. I hope that thou didst rebuke the bold and sinful youth.”

Frieda raised her apron a little higher and made no reply.

“What didst thou do when he had kissed thee?” Walda asked, after a moment of silence.

“I—I—waited for him to kiss me again.”

Walda drew away from the girl beside her. “How couldst thou let any man touch thy lips?” she exclaimed in indignation.

“Because I loved him.”

“And since Joseph Hoff hath kissed thee, hast thou not lost the sense of holiness that belongeth to the people of Zanah?”

“Nay, every kiss hath added a glory to the earth. I care no longer for heaven if I may dwell with Joseph Hoff here in Zanah.”

“Truly, thy state of mind doth alarm me, Frieda. Thou hast many of the emotions that have come to me since the beginning of mine inspiration, and yet thou hast fallen a victim to the wiles of man. Pray that thine eyes may be opened to thine errors.”

“Nay, I would not pray that, lest my prayer should be answered. If I prayed from my heart, I would ask that many years might be given me to live and love Joseph Hoff here on earth.” Frieda Bergen rose and walked away, but she turned back to put her hand on Walda Kellar’s shoulder.

“Forgive me if I seem of a stubborn spirit. I know that thou canst not understand how the love of man can take possession of a woman’s heart. Thou wilt be satisfied to live aloof from the people of Zanah that thou mayst be near to God, but I would rather have the love of Joseph Hoff than the inspiration that cometh to a prophetess of Zanah.”

“It is my duty to reprimand thee for thy sin, but somehow, when thou speakest of Joseph Hoff, I cannot feel the abhorrence for thy transgression that should fill my heart. I will pray that the Lord may show thee the right way.”

Walda leaned her head against the settle and thought about Frieda Bergen’s state of mind, but her thoughts were confused. Her reflections were interrupted by Everett, who came into the inn. Drawing near to the fireplace, he made a great show of drying his hat, which was wet from the rain. Walda did not seem to notice his presence.

“You appear to be troubled about something,” he said.

“Yea. A matter of much moment hath been laid before me, and I have not wisdom enough to see it in all its sinfulness.”

“Do you suppose my worldly advice would help you?” Everett asked.

“Nay, thou hast different measures of judgment from those set by the people of Zanah. Thou dost not hold earthly love a sin.”

“No, I do not, Walda.” Everett smiled. “I hold love—the earthly love you are taught to try to escape—as the most precious gift the Creator gave to the children of men.”

His voice was low, and it betrayed an intensity of feeling that caused Walda to give him a questioning glance. Everett looked at her with so much tenderness she turned her head away.

“Thou hast in thy tones the same sound that was strange in Frieda’s voice. Dost thou love? Hast thou the same unreasoning rapture as Joseph Hoff?”

“Not the same, Walda. I love much more than any man in Zanah.”

Walda’s face became as white as the cap upon her soft hair. She clasped her hands tightly together and said, with a catch in her voice:

“Stephen, why hast thou never told me of thy love?”

“Because I thought you would not care to hear about it. Because it is forbidden to speak of love in Zanah,” Everett answered.

He seated himself beside her on the settle. From behind the high desk Diedrich Werther now and then stared at them with a glimmer of suspicion in his eyes. His recent contact with the world at the railway station evidently had made him less trustful than his fellow-colonists. Everett noticed the innkeeper’s watchfulness, and therefore was careful not to betray emotion.

“Walda, you are not angry because I have deceived you, are you?” he said, when she did not answer him.

“Angry with thee, Stephen? Nay, thy love cannot concern the prophetess of Zanah.” Her lip quivered, but she held her head high, and disdained to let him know that the heart beneath her kerchief was throbbing so that her words were almost smothered in her throat. “Thy confession did cause me to be abashed for a moment. I had never thought that out in the world some woman loved thee.”

She rose to her feet as she spoke, and she would have gone away without another word but he boldly caught her hand and pulled her back upon the settle. Diedrich Werther looked on with jaw dropped and pipe suspended at elbow-length, but Everett defied him.

“You misunderstand me, Walda. I want to explain to you, but this is not the place.”

“I—I would not hear what thou hast to say about thy love, Stephen,” she said, with a faint smile. “Frieda hath told me her story, and it is enough for me to think of in the watches of the night. Detain me not. I must pray for Frieda Bergen. I must seek divine light for the understanding of mortal weaknesses, of which love is said to be the most dangerous. Verily, to-day I fear the inspiration hath been withdrawn from me, for I am dull of comprehension.”

Before Everett could reply, Gerson Brandt entered the room. The school-master came towards them with a stern look upon his face.

“Why dost thou talk here with the prophetess of Zanah?” he said, addressing Everett. “Thou canst have nothing to say that will be worthy of her hearing, since she is close to heaven and thou art of the wicked world.”

His long hair was wet as it lay upon his shoulders, and his thin face was deeply lined.

“We were talking of love—earthly love,” Walda said, leaving her place beside Everett. “Gerson Brandt, he hath just told me that he loveth.”

The school-master’s tall, gaunt form swayed beneath the burden of a great emotion.

“Tell me, sir, thou hast not dared to speak of love to the prophetess of Zanah?” he cried.

“Yes, I have spoken of love,” said Everett, going to the farther side of the fireplace. “Yes, I have spoken of love.” He was again the cool, well-poised man of the world. Carelessly he took up an old pair of bellows, as he added: “But you need not fear. The prophetess of Zanah did not care to hear about my love.”

“Walda, thou wouldst not listen to any man who would dare to speak of love to thee, wouldst thou?” Gerson Brandt asked, in an agony of fear.

“Disturb not thyself, Gerson Brandt,” Walda answered. “What harm can there be in Stephen Everett’s declaration that he loveth a woman out in the world?”

An expression of relief passed over the face of the school-master. Beads of perspiration stood upon his white forehead. He was shaking so that he had to steady himself against the end of the settle.

“Thy time of inspiration is so near that thou shouldst not speak to the stranger,” he said, in a softened tone. “Thou art close to heaven, and it is not wise for thee to commune with any man.”

“Must I speak no more with thee, Gerson Brandt?” Walda looked at him with all the tenderness of a deep affection shining in her eyes. Everett watched her as she addressed the school-master. The childish heart and the unawakened soul associated with the majestic form of a woman had fascinated him when he first came to Zanah, but he saw that the face, once as placid as a nun’s, showed the inner disquietude that is the recompense of those who come into a knowledge of the great emotions of life.

“Thou wouldst better dwell alone until the great day of the Untersuchung,” Gerson Brandt said to Walda. “Go now to thy closet, where thou canst pray until thou forgettest what thou hast heard of earthly love.”

Walda started to obey the counsel of the school-master, but she hesitated after she had gone to the door. She glanced at Everett. His tall form was outlined in the fire-light, but she could not see his face, which was in the shadow.

“I would speak a last word with Stephen Everett,” she said. Gerson Brandt stood by the door while she went near to Everett.

“Since this may be my last meeting with thee, I would offer thee gratitude from my heart for all that thou hast done for my father and for me,” she said. “Thou hast helped me to gain wisdom, Stephen.”

“Do not speak of gratitude, Walda. You cannot say good-bye to me here, for I shall see you again.”

“Nay, I may not be permitted to see thee again.” She stopped, as if she were taking care to speak wisely. “It is my prayer, Stephen, that thy love shall bring happiness to thee and to the woman upon whom thou hast set thine heart.”

She was gone before she could hear Everett’s reply.