That Matthew had returned, that he was to live henceforth with Grandfather, that he was not even to come to the house, were facts which Ellen found difficult to comprehend, yet which she accepted with a child's willingness to accept what her father told her. The family separation caused comment, but no great astonishment in a neighborhood where differences of opinion and the separation of dissenters were frequent.

Life went on quietly, yet not without interesting events. Study under the driving spur of her father's encouragement was an absorbing occupation for Ellen. Presently catalogues were sent for and schools considered and compared. When a sample examination paper arrived, it seemed possible that she might enter college, thoroughly prepared, in two years.

Once, before Christmas, her father took her away. When they drove to the station the pale winter sun had not yet dispelled the pearly mist which lay over the landscape, nor thawed the ice on farmhouse windows. The fields were covered with snow and it was difficult to imagine them dressed in summer's richness of corn and wheat and tobacco. The farmhouses with their huge barns looked like rich manorial properties, as well they might in this deep-soiled country. Until they reached the outskirts of the larger towns nothing was to be seen that was not beautiful, the white stretches of snow, the frozen streams which showed here and there dark pools, the fine clumps of forest trees, white trunks of sycamores, dark masses of evergreens, and willows tipped with yellow beside old spring houses. Nor was there anything that was not indicative of prosperity and peace. The houses were built of brick and stone, the fences were straight and in good repair, there were no weeds; ignorance might laugh at Mennonite and Dunker, Amish and Seventh-Day Baptist, who had tilled the fields and built the houses, but their thrift and labor had founded a great commonwealth.

The ride across the country did not compare in Ellen's mind with the ride between the Susquehanna River and the miles of furnaces and mills. The sight of the towering Capitol, viewed at first from the train above a low stretch of sordid buildings, filled her with delight. When they had climbed the steps to the esplanade, her father turned her away from the Capitol so that she might look down the broad street to the river.

"Oh, Father!" said Ellen holding his hand tight.

"It isn't very long since this was only a frontier fort and the Indians came floating in canoes from far away to barter furs for flintlocks and powder, and for mirrors and baubles for their squaws. Sometime we'll go across the river and get a view of the city and the mountains."

"Shall we really come again?" asked Ellen.

When they went indoors, she had nothing whatever to say. The rotunda was at first simply bewildering, its pictured dome was so far above her, its walls were so white, the angels who held glittering lamps on high were so majestic. Led from place to place she saw interpreted for her the history of her State. William Penn stood, an austere young figure, before an angry father, waited in audience before stern magistrates, or faced westward high on the prow of a boat against a stormy sky. Her eyes dwelt with delight upon each detail; here a blue sky mirrored in a tiny pool, here bright grass, here velvets and laces, here a lean greyhound's body, here leaping flames and young scholars casting their books upon the fire.

There were other pictures; the cold, miserable, intrepid troopers of Valley Forge; William Penn and a magnificent Indian under a yellow tree; the reading of the Declaration of Independence; and last of all, a glorious tableau in which a hundred heroes figured. There was no doubt in Ellen's mind that she had seen the most magnificent edifice in the wide world.

But there were new joys to follow. At sunset the two walked hand in hand upon the long street by the river, keeping on a path close to the brink. When Ellen's eyes left the golden surface of the water, they saw old houses firmly built, stately and well kept. After a while the houses were newer and farther apart. Far across the river trains thundered.

When they retraced their steps the glow had faded and lights sparkled in interminable lines and were reflected in the dark, velvety water. Ellen was young and eager, a warm hand held hers, she could not help dancing by her father's side.

"I'm choosing a house," she said. "There was one gray stone house on a corner—I'm watching for it. It is where I should like to live. I see it now, people are going in!"

Halted by the tightening of her hand, Levis looked across at the gray house. An automobile drove away, another was drawing up to the curb. Wrapped in furs, a lady waited on the pavement for her friends from the second car. The door of the house was open and a maid stood on the upper step.

"Is that a party, Father?"

Levis did not answer. When the door closed he crossed the street. The house fronted both on the river and on the side street, and in the wing there was apparently a suite of offices. He went closer and read the gilt name on a small black sign—"Stephen Lanfair, M.D." Then he took Ellen's hand and walked on. So this was where Stephen lived when he was not traveling about the world! He smiled without bitterness, remembering Stephen's vows of friendship.

Ellen looked up at him, a vague impression growing stronger. She believed that he would like to be here; that he belonged here, rather than with people like Grandfather and Amos.

"Would you like to live here, Father?"

"Would you, Ellen?"

"Oh, yes!"

She answered still more ardently that night. After their supper they went to a huge lighted building, where it seemed all the ladies had gathered from the fine houses. There were also many gentlemen with such an expanse of shirt-bosom as she had never seen. Here was something to tell Mrs. Sassaman—what would she say to such ironing as that?

"What is going to happen?" she asked in a whisper when they had been taken to seats in the first row of the balcony. Merely to sit there would have been entertainment enough, but it was clear that some additional joy was at hand.

"Wait!" said her father.

She watched the rising curtain; she saw standing on a platform a slender young man with a violin in his hand. Now violins were wicked—Millie's brother, who had long since vanished, was said to have brought one from the city and his father was said to have broken it over the corner of the stove.

Then she took her father's hand. The violinist moved his arm lightly and her blood raced through her veins. Her mind filled with pleasing images, detached from one another, leading nowhere, dreamlike, heavenly. She had never seen dancing, but she felt an impulse to rise and discover whether she was really light as air, whether she could really fly.

"Oh, Father!" she cried, when the dancing tune was over.

Then she said no more, had no vocabulary with which to say more. She felt both sorrow and gladness, but most of all she felt the pains of growth. There were tears in her eyes, then on her cheeks.

When on the way to the hotel her father asked whether she had liked it, she answered his question in a curious way.

"I wish Matthew would come back to us!"

The identical desire filled Levis's heart.

"I wish so, too. Perhaps you can persuade him."

"May I take him a Christmas present and speak to him then?"

"Certainly. To-morrow we'll find one for him."

The carefully chosen present was a picture which reminded Ellen of the view from Matthew's window. It was clear to Levis why she liked it, but he had small hopes that either persuasion or art would move Matthew.

"May I get a pair of gloves for Grandfather and something for Amos?"

"Yes, if you wish."

He took Ellen and her packages to the outer gate of the little cemetery on the afternoon before Christmas. The location of the cemetery suggested to him always a memento mori—the brevity of life was not to be forgotten by the residents of the Kloster! The whole place under the covering of snow seemed horribly dreary and forlorn. Ellen clambered out of the buggy and he held her packages out to her.

"In an hour and a half at most, I'll be here."

"May I invite them for Christmas dinner?"

"Yes."

"And Amos?" asked Ellen hesitatingly.

"Yes, and Amos."

She held her packages with care. She had tied them with red cord—such festive packages were not often carried through the cemetery. So accustomed was she to the path that she gave no thought to the white stones. When she came to the second gate she laid her bundle down and fastened the latch, as Grandfather liked to have it fastened, and went up the little walk to the cottage, already shadowed by the Saal and Saron. It had never been her habit to knock at the door, and she did not knock now, but balancing her picture carefully on one arm, she lifted the latch and entered.

It could not have been that the three men had not seen her coming—Grandfather sitting by the stove meditating, and Amos sitting by the table studying, and Matthew sitting idly by the window, all commanded a view of the gate and the graveyard. Each now had in secret a throbbing heart, each longed to let his eyes rest upon her, to devour her. But none had gone to open the door, and now none rose to welcome her.

But her smile was not to be resisted. It brought a faint motion to Grandfather's lips and a red flush to Matthew's cheek, and caused both heart and cheek of Amos to burn. All saw a change in Ellen, added height, a brighter color, a longer dress. Her dress was, moreover, gayer. Hitherto Mrs. Sassaman in selecting her clothes had remembered that she was destined to be a Seventh-Day Baptist and that therefore plainness was her portion; now her father had selected a new coat and hat, with a very decided intention that she was not to be plain in any sense of the word. Her coloring and his own masculine taste inclined him to red, but the clerk had persuaded him to take brown, and Ellen in a brown coat and a fur cap gratified him beyond all his hopes.

Her appearance, her gayety, and above all her greeting moved, alas, every heart against her. If she had come humbly, plainly dressed, remembering the circumstances under which she had departed, her grandfather would have taken her to his arms. If she had been a little less lovely, Amos would not have been afraid of her. If she had been quieter, as suited her sex and station, Matthew would not have turned away from her.

But she cried out with singularly poor judgment, "Merry Christmas," forgetting that Grandfather believed in searching of heart rather than gayety upon such occasions. Upon her grandfather's cheek she bestowed a granddaughterly kiss, and to Amos she gave her hand. Then going to Matthew, she put her arms round him. He longed to respond, to put both his arms round her and to hide his tearful eyes against her curls, but the expression which he gave to this desire was a sharp,

"You're getting too old for such foolishness, Ellen."

Ellen backed toward the table.

"I brought you Christmas presents—gloves for you, Grandfather, and handkerchiefs for Amos, and a picture for Matthew." She handed them round, one by one, then stood, a bewildered fairy-godmother, in the midst of unresponsive beneficiaries.

"I go out very little in cold weather"—this from Grandfather.

Amos did not lift the handkerchiefs from the table.

"I don't approve of pictures, Ellen," said Matthew. "We would much better be reading our Bibles than looking at pictures."

She knew suddenly that Matthew would not come home, that they would not come to dinner, but she hurried to give her invitation before she should lose her voice.

"Father and Mrs. Sassaman and I would like you all to come to dinner to-morrow. Every one. We're going to have turkey."

"We have no heart for gayety, Ellen," said Grandfather.

The two young men, with the healthy appetites of their age, had a second of inward rebellion against this decision, then they acquiesced. Perhaps it was his recollection of the Christmas dinner table with its handsomest white cloth with a red border, its smoking fowl, its hot mince pies, that made Matthew's voice still sharper, his words more cruel.

"You can wrap your picture up."

"You won't come, any of you?" whispered Ellen, her eyes seeking first one, then the other.

Leaving the picture in Matthew's hand she moved toward the door. To all she was a most precious creature about to slip away forever. Her grandfather leaned forward in his chair, pleading like an ancient prophet.

"Oh, Ellen, if you could only see the true light! There is only one thing worth while and that is peace with God. Not education, but your salvation should be your concern."

Matthew's attack was savage. A strange, fierce jealousy filled his narrow heart. Ellen had always obeyed him, she should obey him now!

"You aren't dressed properly. You should know better if Father doesn't."

Amos did not speak, but his eyes burned. If he might only talk to this poor lamb!

"You shan't speak against Father!" cried Ellen. "I don't see why we can't live at peace and love one another. It's wicked for Matthew to make Father feel badly. I would rather"—she knew that she was saying a monstrous thing, but it was true—"I would rather lose my soul than hurt any one like that. I wouldn't believe a religion that made me act like that. I wouldn't believe"—she was now too excited to know exactly what she was saying—"I wouldn't obey a God that wanted me to act like that. I—"

Her sentence unfinished, she got outside and shut the door between her and them. It was beginning to snow and it might be more than an hour before her father came, but she could not stay in the little house.

The snow thickened and twilight fell and she waited, pacing up and down, and feeling the chill of the raw night air through her whole body. She did not go beyond the turn of the road, nor would she start home, for then her father would go into the cottage to inquire for her and he might be met by reproaches and impertinence. Lights shone out from comfortable warm rooms in Ephrata; men returning from their work in the village to homes in the country and women laden with packages looked at her curiously; but she did not forsake her post, though she might have walked home easily.

When at last her father arrived she was shivering. He held his restless horse with one hand and put out the other to help her. He was late—the fastening of a box to the back of the buggy had taken time.

"What in the world are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I'm waiting for you."

"But why here?"

"They wouldn't take my presents," wailed Ellen. "They didn't want them; they think I'm wicked. They won't come to dinner. They were all there. Matthew has a—a—beard, Father! I—" But she could say no more.

When she had changed her clothes, she and Mrs. Sassaman taking counsel together over the proper method of pressing the beautiful coat, and had had supper, Levis asked for an account of the afternoon.

"We'll think no more of it," said he when she had finished. "Matthew has chosen for himself. We've done everything we can and it's useless to cry or worry."

But she refused to give up hope. She thought of Matthew in the night; she thought of him the next morning, when, wakened by the strains which she had heard Kreisler play, she ran down the stairs to find the source of the miracle in a victrola at which Mrs. Sassaman and her father stood beaming; she thought of him at intervals through the snow-bound, pleasant day; she thought of him when, with Mrs. Sassaman, she went to the Lutheran celebration and listened to the children singing their carols and saw—oh, beautiful sight!—a tree all set with gleaming candles.

Mrs. Sassaman felt the Christmas spirit, and her heart warmed to those whom she served. She was a loyal soul and she often defended Dr. Levis when her friends blamed him for Matthew's departure. Her marital aspirations had grown less keen; she asked only to stay and serve. With this thought in mind she visited Levis in his office.

"I would rather be Manda," said she, as though the day of her request to be called Mrs. Sassaman were but yesterday.

"Very well," said Levis. "I like it better, it is friendlier."

She sat down uninvited. She gathered now and then from her friends descriptions of extraordinary diseases, and these she reported to Levis, believing them to be professionally useful. She told now of the fearful pain which "took" the friend of her friend, of the treatment by the medical doctor and by the pow-wow doctor and of the "awful witality" of the sufferer's constitution. When she had finished she rose quickly and went happily away.

Ellen thought of Matthew every day through the winter—in the short mornings when there seemed to be so much to learn; in the afternoons when the world moved more slowly; in the evenings when she recited her lessons. If he had stayed in school, he would be very wise indeed. But instead of studying he preferred to work in the stocking factory at Ephrata—that was what Levis's son was doing now!

One spring evening Ellen went for a walk. The frost was out of the ground; the April air was full of the odor of wet earth, and when one stood still one could hear little, pleasant sounds of running water. She had passed the time when her Æsthetic sense was limited to pleasure in a glass filled with wild roses, or a gratifying arrangement of autumn leaves; she had begun to observe the delicate colors near the horizon, the soft purple of the old fences, the shapes of trees and of groups of trees. On this spring evening it was heavenly to be alive; one forgot one's haste to be older, one's regret that learning was a slow process, one's desire to see a thousand places, the cathedral of Rheims, for one, and the Doge's palace and the church of St. Sophia for others, which one would, which one must, see some day. She forgot even Matthew.

Then Matthew recalled himself. Ellen was walking slowly, but not so slowly as two persons who came toward her. At the beginning of the descent into the little hollow where the stream ran, she stopped and stood still to listen to the bubbling water and from there discerned, silhouetted against the yellow sky, two dark figures that might well have been ghosts of the early settlers of the land. The man's figure was tall, the woman's short; she wondered what couple was courting on this pleasant evening. Imagination made her flush suddenly, but before she had time to translate the incident into her own experience, the familiarity of the man's outline startled her. There was only one person who had shoulders like that and that was Matthew, who was now a Seventh-Day Baptist, having been plunged one morning in the cold waters of the creek.

The girl with Matthew was Millie KÖnig, could be no other, and the young people of the Seventh-Day Baptists did not walk with each other unless they were betrothed!

She hurried home with her miserable news.

"Father, I saw him walking in the road, and Millie was with him."

Levis knew the significance of this companionship. Under his breath, he said scornfully, "Good Lord!" and aloud, "We'll try not to think of it, Ellen."

He had thought often since his visit to Harrisburg of Stephen. He felt with increasing frequency the uneasy sensation in his heart and he knew that he ought to have a word with some one about it. Stephen was an eye specialist, but he was also acquainted with general medical practice. There was a certain disease of the heart which warned gently for a long time and then leaped with tigerish swiftness—but it could not be that!

There was another problem which he should like to lay before his friend. Life on the farm would be intolerable without Ellen and he believed himself still young enough to find another place. Stephen might be able to tell him of a practice and to help him to it. Neither favor was too large to ask if the old friendliness continued. He planned to go to Harrisburg at some convenient season, but he postponed his journey week after week, believing that there was still time enough.