The evening of the Day of Warning closed in dark and dreary. The rain stopped and a high wind came up. After tea in the inn, Everett walked up and down the porch. The village square and the winding street were deserted. At long intervals lights gleamed from fast-curtained windows. At first he took it for granted that Walda would not make her nightly visit to the grave of Marta Bachmann. When he thought over the matter, however, it occurred to him that it might be well to walk out towards the cemetery. He knew the fanaticism of the colonists caused them to be punctilious in the smallest religious observances. He watched for Walda in vain. After Gerson Brandt’s exhibition of evident unfriendliness to him he knew that precautions might be taken to prevent Walda from passing the gasthaus. As he had nothing else to do, he decided that a walk out through the woods to the shore of the lake might possibly be rewarded by a glimpse of the prophetess. He met no one on the way to the cemetery, but when he reached the gate he could dimly discern the forms of two women who were standing by the grave of Marta Bachmann. He guessed that Mother Kaufmann had been sent with Walda. A tall hedge surrounded the God’s-acre of Zanah, and he followed this evergreen wall to the point where it was nearest the grave of the dead prophetess. He was careful that his presence should not be discovered by the colony “mother.”

An old oak-tree spread its branches over the little plot of ground in which the tomb of Marta Bachmann was situated. The wind waved the branches of this tree and blew a shower of brown leaves upon the two women. It wound Walda’s cloak about her and tore the shawl from Mother Kaufmann’s shoulders.

“This is a night to make the spirits of the dead walk about their old haunts,” said Mother Kaufmann.

“Put superstition away from thee,” Walda answered. “If thou hast fixed thy faith on God, evil spirits cannot harm thee.”

Mother Kaufmann put her hand to her forehead while she peered about her, as if to discover some chance ghost.

“Dost thou not hear footsteps among the dried leaves?” she asked Walda.

“Nay, Mother Kaufmann. Why art thou so affrighted?” the girl replied. At that moment a gust of wind almost swept them from their feet. Mother Kaufmann uttered a scream of terror and pointed to a far corner of the graveyard where a white form was moving about among the graves. She did not wait to find out who or what the unexpected apparition might be. Gathering her skirts in her hand she fled, leaving Walda alone beside the grave. Everett stepped through the hedge and spoke gently to Walda.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I will find out what sort of a ghost has frightened Mother Kaufmann.” He walked towards the place, where what appeared to be a headless form wrapped in a sheet was moving back and forth. When he came near to it he saw that it was a most substantial substance, for Hans Peter had borrowed a white rubber blanket, through which he had thrust his head, and thus improvised a most serviceable rain-coat.

“What are you doing here?” Everett asked, in an angry tone of voice. “Do you know that you have scared one of the colony women?”

“Thou hast no concern in what my errand may be,” said the simple one, gathering his rubber blanket around him and calmly seating himself upon the nearest gravestone. “If Mother Kaufmann had been scared to death there is none in Zanah who would have wept upon her bier.”

“You had better go back to the village,” Everett advised, as he with difficulty restrained a laugh.

“Nay, it is thou who hast no occasion to linger near the cemetery,” the simple one replied. “I have come to wait for Walda Kellar.”

Another gust of wind, even stronger than the preceding one, carried Everett’s hat away, and while he searched for it in the dark a tree was uprooted. It fell with a crash that came from the direction of Marta Bachmann’s grave, towards which Everett ran in a frenzy of fear lest Walda had been injured.

“Stephen, Stephen,” he heard her call. She took a few steps towards him, and in a moment his arms were around her.

“You are not hurt, are you?” he said, putting his right hand upon her head, and drawing it close to him until it rested on his shoulder. He felt her tremble, and he said:

“You are quite safe now. I will take you home.”

The simple one had come near. Without glancing towards Stephen and Walda, he went to Marta Bachmann’s grave, and, climbing over the branches of the fallen tree, began to search for something. Everett gently put Walda away from him lest the simple one should notice them. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her through the hedge and along the road until they came to the open place by the lake.

“Stephen, I have shown a grievous weakness and lack of faith,” said Walda, catching her breath, and drawing her hand from his. “The prophetess of Zanah should not know fear, and yet I felt a strength and comfort in thine aid that my prayers have never given me.”

Walda raised her face to him, and again he put his arms around her.

“Walda, I mean to take care of you always,” he said. “I shall never let you go. Cannot you understand that it is meant you should belong to me?” He kissed her on the lips, and, abashed and trembling, she drew away from him.

“Stephen, thou dost betray my trust in thee. Why wouldst thou profane the lips of a prophetess of Zanah?” she cried. She put her hands over her heart, as if to still its wild beating, and her eyes were wide with fear and astonishment.

“Walda, I love you. I think I have loved you ever since the first day I came to Zanah. I have kissed you because my heart claims you from all the world. Life without you means nothing to me. Can’t you love me, Walda?”

“I know not what it means to love. I have been warned that it is selfish and sinful for men and women to fix all their thoughts upon each other. Oh, Stephen, what have I done that thou shouldst speak thus to me?”

“You have made me centre all my hopes in you. You have won my reverence. I know I am unworthy to touch your hand, but this love that has come to me gives me a supreme courage. Walda, surely your heart answers mine. Words are so clumsy that, now that my tongue should tell you how great and holy a thing is the love of a man for a woman, I am but a poor supplicant.” He took both her hands in his and drew her towards him. Again he kissed her, and, instead of resenting the caress, she hid her face upon his shoulder. He held her thus for a moment. He pushed back the white cap and softly touched her hair.

“Walda, do you know, I have often been afraid of the prophetess of Zanah,” he said, in a low tone, “and if it were not for my great love I would not have the courage to covet you for my wife. Love is stronger than reason, and so I dare covet you for my own forever. You are mine, for I could not love you so if you were not the woman destined to rule my life. Cannot you find in your heart a little love for me?”

“I know not what is in my heart,” she answered. “Thy kisses make me ashamed, Stephen, and yet my heart is glad. This night my weakness hath been revealed to me. Even now I cling to thee when I should bid thee go away from me.”

“You do love me, Walda. You must love me. It was fate that brought me to Zanah to find you. I know that all my years I have been waiting for you. You have been kept for me here in Zanah. Cannot you begin to comprehend that love is the birthright of every man and woman? Zanah would have cheated you, but now it cannot separate us.”

“Thy words make me think of my duty, Stephen.” Walda’s voice trembled. “Since thou hast kissed me, I am no longer fit to be the prophetess of Zanah.”

“You will be a wife instead of a prophetess, Walda. You can still be an instrument of the Lord, for you will make the world outside better for your presence.”

She was very quiet for a moment. It was as if she had not heard him.

“Is it love that maketh my heart beat? Is it love that casteth out fear while thou hast thine arms around me?” she asked, presently. “What meaning is there in a kiss that it should make me ashamed and yet happy, Stephen? Verily, thy kisses are not like the kisses of good-fellowship that the elders give one another at the Untersuchung; they are not like the kisses the mothers have pressed upon my forehead.”

“Of course they are not,” Everett said, and he laughed aloud in the joy the knowledge of her love gave him. “Look up, Walda, and let me kiss you again, and you will learn that the kiss of love is the token that unlocks the hearts of men and women.”

She looked into his eyes, and their lips met.

“Thou speakest truly, Stephen,” Walda said. “Let us go back to the village. I would think of thee and of love in solitude and with much prayer. This hour hath robbed me of the mantle of the prophetess.”

“But it has given you the highest heritage of life. It is better to be a wife than a prophetess, Walda.”