Levis was the only member of his family who had a great deal to say on the Sunday following Matthew's declaration of faith. At meals Matthew ate with his eyes fixed upon his plate, and Ellen wiped away an occasional tear. Several times since the sad events of yesterday she had tried to open the door of Matthew's room, to tell him that she was sorry she had made him ashamed and to lay before him the reasons for her conduct, but the door was locked. Lying in wait outside had been productive of no better results, for, appearing at last, he had quietly brushed her aside. Manda was more mournful than the young people. She did not weep, but the tip of her nose showed that she had wept in the recent past.

When supper was over, Levis addressed his family, one after the other.

"Matthew, what are you going to do this evening?"

"I'm going to bed," answered Matthew in a low tone. "I promised to help with the wheat in the morning. Soon it will be a loss."

Levis's eyes twinkled. Matthew had lately shown an inclination to observe that his father's methods of farming were not those of the thrifty neighbors.

"Manda, where are you going?"

"In my church," Manda answered in a tone at once humble and reproachful. She was always a person of few words, but her ability to express a variety of meanings with a H'm or with the valuable So! of the Pennsylvania Germans made a large vocabulary unnecessary.

Again Levis's eyes twinkled and again he thought of Mrs. Gummidge, ever mourning for "the old one."

"And Ellen?"

Ellen's tears refused to be longer restrained. She rose from her chair and went to her father.

"Matthew won't speak to me. I went up seven times to tell him that I was sorry and he wouldn't open the door."

Levis led Ellen into his office.

"Matthew is best left alone. He'll come round, never fear! I have a visit to make which will keep me out till after dark. There is a book and Matthew will hear you if you call. If you get sleepy, go to bed."

Levis kissed her and put on his hat and went away. He did not carry his satchel of medicines nor go to the barn to put his horse into the buggy, but walked down the short lane to the road. Ellen watched him until he reached the gate, and stood for a moment listening to the church bells in Ephrata. When he went on his way, she turned with forgetfulness of all troubles to "David Copperfield." The first paragraphs puzzled her, but she did not linger. Mercifully, one did not need to understand everything in a book in order to get intense enjoyment out of it.

Levis retraced Ellen's journey of yesterday, except that he climbed no fences, but kept to the road until he reached the strange group of old buildings in the hollow, now more uncanny than ever in the twilight. They were entirely dark, and about them in his imagination ghosts seemed to wander, some of them saintly and all pitifully deluded. These old buildings had trapped him; entering them from curiosity soon after he had taken the practice of the old doctor, he had come out bewitched, unable to free himself, the course of his life changed.

Midway between an outer and an inner gate he stood still. He was in the little enclosure beside the public highway where for a hundred and seventy years the Seventh-Day Baptists had buried their dead. Here were no ornate monuments, but a few rows of simple stones, some sunk deep into the soil. One, a little larger and whiter than the rest, seemed to invite contemplation. Levis glanced at it, hesitated for an instant, and then went on. He knew well how unimportant are the remains of mortality and that it is mockery even to pause beside a grave in which lies the object of a love, extinguished not by death, but by life. The shadowy stone recalled not grief born when Mary died, but miseries struggled with long before.

As he passed through the second gate he heard voices. Beside the tall, steep-roofed buildings stood a little cottage where lived Grandfather, the guardian of the property, and Amos, his nephew, protÉgÉ, and familiar. Pleased with the attendance at yesterday's meeting, the two sat together on the porch, now for a long time silent, now in earnest conversation. There was now no prophet's fire in Grandfather's eyes. He sat comfortably in an old armchair, the wristbands of his unstarched shirt turned back over his coat sleeves, his loosely hanging hands, his air of negligent repose suggesting the portraits of the aged Whitman.

He spoke rapidly and easily, the young man more slowly and in a questioning tone. The prophet's mantle seemed to Amos a heavy robe, though his piety was sincere and he looked, even more than Grandfather, the part of saint. His features were beautifully modeled; his thick and curling hair was worn a little long, in faint imitation of the pious hermits of long ago. His slightly parted lips and wide gray eyes gave him a look of expectancy which was the expression of his hopes. He anticipated that the faith which filled his soul would be quickened by mystical visions. It had been so in this holy place, it would be so once more. Grandfather had assured him of it a hundred times.

Grandfather believed that in establishing in Amos a preoccupation with spiritual things and with his own soul, he had done him an inestimable service, but to Levis this preoccupation was unwholesome and unpleasant. He felt contempt for Amos and avoided whenever possible the sight of his feminine beauty. Neither Levis nor any one else had realized that Amos, with his magnificent frame, his delicate beard, his long hair, his literary aspirations, and his formal meditations, was not tragic nor profound nor despicable, but perilously like a figure of comedy.

The two did not hear the closing of the gate, and the end of their discourse came distinctly to ears already burning.

"It is a fine thing for us that young Matthew has taken this stand. I'm not afraid for the little one—it was doubtless conviction of sin which made her run away. I will see her alone, and then she too will come into the fold. It has been distinctly prophesied to me in dreams that with you three anything might be done, Matthew the head of a secular congregation, you of a restored brotherhood, and Ellen of a sisterhood."

Levis laid his hand on his heart in an habitual and, almost invariably, an unconscious gesture. The blood seemed to beat behind his eyes and in his throat. He had never been so angry.

"It comes to me sometimes that my life was all wrong," sighed Grandfather. "In my youth I had a call to remain single. But I was like others—weak. When a Seventh-Day Baptist shall show by his life that he really believes the assurances of God, then the Spirit will descend in rich measure, and we shall have again our hundreds devoted to prayer and to good works."

A flattered Amos tightened the grasp of one hand upon another. He knew that he was the foundation upon which his uncle's hopes were built, but he had never heard it so plainly stated. He felt his heart burn, he seemed to see a light over the steep roof of the Saal, and he believed that a higher authority than his uncle was going to communicate with him. Then he saw a tall man approaching from the gate.

"There is some one here, Uncle."

"It's Levis," said a crisp and angry voice. "Father Milhausen, I want a few words with you."

"Sit down, Edward," said the old man.

"I'd rather talk where there's a light." Levis tried to keep his voice steady. He did not mean to have any of his words go trailing off into the darkness without hitting their mark. Moreover, he meant, if need be, to quarrel and perhaps to storm, and he did not think it decent to quarrel so near the white tombstone.

"All right, I'm willing." The old man rose. "Amos, make a light."

The coal-oil lamp revealed a little room which was at once kitchen and sitting-room. It contained a stove, now cold, a table, a shelf holding Latin and German books, and another holding specimens of ancient pottery. All was bare and neat.

The human element was far more interesting than the furniture. Old Milhausen stood for a moment stroking his white beard. His dark eyes, half covered by heavy lids, looked downward without seeing—he was praying for wisdom. Amos stood close to the table fitting a shade over the glaring light.

"Perhaps I'd better go," said he humbly. "I don't wish to be where I have no business."

"There's no reason why you should go," said Levis lightly. "I'd like to have you hear what I say, so that there may be no misunderstanding between any of us." He sat down in a plain wooden chair by the table and Amos sat down on a bench on the other side.

Grandfather opened his eyes, having been assured, in some fashion which he understood, of help from on high. He saw that his son-in-law was angry and he determined to quiet him if possible. Edward was not one who bore the dispensations of God easily.

"This has been a very pleasant—"

Levis had not come to talk about pleasant things.

"I don't like discussions and quarreling," said he. "I have not had a bitter word with you since the hateful scene you forced upon me at Mary's bedside, but now you have brought about the occasion for another scene.

"I promised Mary that the children should not be influenced against her religion, and that I'd let them go to meeting. I've kept my word partly because I usually keep promises, but more because I didn't believe that two children brought up in this century in my house would accept the teachings of your sect. I"—Levis raised a silencing hand. Grandfather smiled, then, instead of going on with the remark which he had tried to begin, he hid his lips—"I still don't believe it, even though Matthew came home yesterday thinking he was 'converted.'

"While I've kept my promise, you've broken yours. Yesterday, publicly, you called on two impressionable children, hypnotized by darkness and heavy air and too much vague preaching, to confess the most foolish beliefs. You did worse than that—you put them into a position where it seemed wicked not to confess them. I don't doubt that Matthew would give anything in the world to forget that he made such a conspicuous fool of himself. Fortunately Ellen was more frightened than impressed.

"What I have to say about the matter is this—Matthew is going to college in the fall and until then he will come no more to church. If after he has been at college and medical school, he chooses to believe as you do, you may have him."

"I'm not afraid for Matthew," said old Milhausen. "I was bidden to break my word. I had plain directions."

"You see nothing Jesuitical in that, I suppose? Well, neither am I afraid for Matthew. Now about Ellen—"

"I'll say no more to Ellen," promised Grandfather uneasily. Ellen was far more than Matthew his darling, the delight of his eyes.

"That is so; you will not," agreed Levis. He rose and took his hat from the table. The others rose also, Grandfather towering above the younger men. Deeply disturbed, he tried to fathom Levis's meaning.

Amos understood Levis. He had watched Ellen since she was a baby; he had seen her growing toward womanhood and he believed that he loved only her soul.

"What are you going to do about Ellen?" he asked.

It seemed for a moment that Levis meant to brush by him without answering. Then he said to himself that it was just as well to let Grandfather and this saintly young whipper-snapper have their just deserts together and at once.

"Ellen will come no more to meeting. You have had your chance at her now during all her most impressionable years, for which I blame myself. I should have broken my promise long before you broke yours."

"God Almighty will require her soul of you!" Grandfather's calmness vanished, he spoke with gathering power and shrillness. "You came here a stranger, you beguiled my daughter, she married you against my will and against her conscience, but she saw very soon that there was no joy in such a marriage. She gave me her children as a holy gift, and if I died without knowing they were safe, I couldn't be happy in eternity!"

"They're my children as well as hers," answered Levis. "I have just as keen a sense of responsibility as you. You've had more than your share of their souls. You've taught them superstition, now I'll teach them the truth."

"Superstition!" Grandfather made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the dim old buildings. "What do you believe, Edward?"

"I believe in an undefinable creative power," answered Levis sharply. "As for revelation or miracles or immortality or divinity come to earth—they are delusions created by the imagination of men as panaceas for the fear of death."

The old man clasped his hands, anger transmuted into terror.

"Immortality!" he repeated. "You don't doubt immortality?"

"I think we shall be immortal as part of the revolving earth."

"Will you tell Ellen that?" asked Grandfather in a whisper.

"No," said Levis. "If Ellen has as good a mind as I think she has, she will find all that out for herself. Good-night."

Amos barred the way to the door.

"We will pray for them and you," said he.

"I have no objections," answered Levis. "Pray away!"

When the door was shut, Amos saw that Grandfather was weeping.

"Don't worry, Uncle," said he. "Matthew is safe. I'm confident of it. And Ellen will come to school for two more years. She will not forget."

"He came into our meeting from curiosity. He took all I had. He made her like a mad creature; she had only one thought and that was to be with him. But she was punished, poor, poor Mary! and now she is sanctified."

Amos's cheeks burned again. He was curious about such madness.

"They didn't live long together?"

"Four years. At first he was determined to go away, but this Mary resisted. She was like the Anastasia of whom our records tell. The better spirit had begun to work upon her and she knew that if she went from the shelter of this place she was lost."

"I'm not afraid for these children," said Amos again.

But he spoke absently. When the old man had gone to bed, he went outside and walked up and down in the thick grass. After a long time, when it was so late that passers-by were few and no headlights cast their glare over the little cemetery, he passed through the gate and stood by the white stone, thinking of the cousin whose beauty he remembered, in whom love was a sort of madness. Yet religion had been more to her than love! A dreadful word which Levis had used tempted him—was she not a fool to give up love? It seemed to him that the fragrant night was resonant with voices, calling vaguely and unhappily. He looked down upon the white stone and traced with his hand the inscription which he had read a thousand times:

Mary
Wife of
Edward Levis
Daughter of
Abraham Milhausen
Aged 25 years

Suddenly he shivered. The tradition of hearts unsatisfied was more potent than that of the peace of the saints. Then he went indoors and prayed God to forgive him. It was his object to keep himself unspotted, to guard his soul unceasingly. His ignorance of the world was well-nigh unlimited.

Levis walked back more rapidly than he had come. It was against his habit to think much of the past, and now the future held a new interest. It was a relief, moreover, to have spoken his mind, and because of it he felt greater toleration for Grandfather. For beautiful Amos he continued to have only contempt. He wished that it was already September so that he could send Matthew away.

Another educational project he meant to put into execution at once. He went whistling up the lane, noticed without pausing the blackness of the woodland and the slender moon hanging above, and pushing open the door found Ellen asleep, her book clutched in her arms. The light was burning dimly and beneath it lay a note:

"I did not go to bed because of the 'phone. Matthew is asleep. I listened at his door."

Levis stood and looked down upon plump Ellen. Her cheeks were flushed and beadlike drops stood upon her upper lip. Her curls had come out of their ribbon and clustered about her face; her relaxed body seemed tall. Levis drew up a chair and sat down to a closer contemplation. She bore no resemblance to her mother—Matthew had the maternal inheritance. In spite of her discouragement over yesterday's quiz, she had exhibited a surprising maturity of mind.

At this minute she stirred and smiled and appeared for an instant to lose her childishness in a riper charm. Tears filled her father's eyes. Perhaps he should yet have companionship in his own household!

Presently he turned to look round the room; then he rose and brought from somewhere in the house a little table and set it by the window. He went out again and reappeared with a handful of books, worn and dog-eared, and sitting at his desk, looked through them; then taking a sheet of paper wrote several lines upon which he seemed to ponder. He glanced at Ellen as though he meditated rousing her to aid in this planning, but thought better of it, and laid books and papers and two carefully sharpened pencils on the little table together.

Then he lifted Ellen herself. Before he reached the doorway she opened her eyes drowsily.

"Oh, it's you!" said she heavily and with deep content.

He was not yet through with his family. Coming back into his room, his hand again pressed upon his side as though Ellen's weight had exhausted him, he found a figure, large, bonneted, with hands humbly folded. He had a dreadful fear that Manda meant to announce her departure.

"Well, Manda!"

"I have something to say," said Manda in her humblest tone.

"Sit down, do."

Manda shook her head. There were proprieties to be observed by a widow in her position and she knew them.

"I should be called Mrs. Sassaman," said she. "I don't mind Manda, but it is as if I had lost respect for him."

Levis suppressed a hysterical impulse.

"Of course you shall be called Mrs. Sassaman!" said he. "We have all been thoughtless."

When she had gone, he lay down upon the old sofa, still showing the impress of Ellen's body. He had thought of himself till this moment as a young man, but a man is young no longer when his son sets up his will against him. He looked age in the face; he remembered the senility through which many pass to their end. Then he turned his cheek against the pillow which was warm and a little damp. It somehow comforted him.