Within a few minutes the farmhouse took on the air of almost hysterical activity which follows upon a sudden death. Mrs. Sassaman, after sinking upon a chair and giving a few tearful gasps, went to her room to change her dress, so that she might set to work. The tenant farmer drove away to carry the startling news to Grandfather and Matthew, and his wife panted up the hill and sat waiting in the kitchen until Mrs. Sassaman should be ready to give her the detailed information for which her soul longed. But Mrs. Sassaman had too exalted a sense of her own importance to gossip. There were, moreover, many things to be done at once, the house to be put in perfect order, funeral meats to be baked, the bees to be told of their master's death, and all the jars of preserves in the cellar to be turned.

Matthew returned with Calvin bringing word that Grandfather would follow with Amos. Having had no active exercise, Matthew had grown stout and looked nearer thirty than twenty. He kissed Ellen and they sat silently until Grandfather arrived.

"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord." It was Grandfather's accustomed salutation on entering a house of mourning. He spoke with a long sigh which expressed his apprehension about the fate of his son-in-law.

In spite of his misgivings he planned to bury Levis's body in the little cemetery beside his wife. Wednesday afternoon would be a suitable time and he would preach the sermon himself. For a half-hour the three men and Ellen sat together in the parlor. Frequently Matthew glanced at Ellen, then away. God had strangely given him his heart's desire, but he could not help pitying Ellen. He felt very solemn and important.

"I don't think that bright tie looks well under the circumstances, Ellen," he said gently.

Ellen rose and went upstairs. As she reached the upper step she heard the door of her father's office open and the undertaker come into the hall. At once the three black figures crossed to the office. She heard whispers and the door was closed.

She did not know whether an hour had passed or only a few minutes when she heard her name called solemnly. Grandfather stood by the parlor table, a tablet in his hand. His black eyes gleamed, his old hand shook. Matthew's eyes were bent upon the floor and Amos looked at Ellen in a frightened way.

Grandfather stepped between Ellen and the door and closed it. It seemed to her that she was shut into prison with three jailers.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"That is what we have to ask you, Ellen," said Grandfather. "What is this paper?"

Ellen recognized the writing which she had begun at her father's command.

"That is mine, Grandfather. Please give it to me."

Grandfather held out the paper so that she might read, but he did not relinquish it.

"Did you write those words?"

"Yes."

"Who is this friend?"

"He is a friend of Father's who was here this afternoon."

"What is his name?"

"I don't know."

"Where does he live?"

"I don't know."

"Does he know anything of this?"

"No."

"You didn't write this after your father died, Ellen?"

The words at first merely paralyzed. When their import was clear, she could say nothing. Her silence was to Grandfather condemning—alas, for the human soul which is unsupported by Christian principles!

"Why, no!" she cried at last. "Of course not! He started to dictate it to me, but before he had finished he felt better and thought it might be postponed."

"You knew you were writing words which would take your brother's property away?"

"No," said Ellen. "It was my father's property."

She saw a glance pass from Matthew to Grandfather. Both sincerely believed that God had prevented Levis from doing a deed of injustice.

"It wasn't sisterly to write such words!"

"I didn't mean to be unsisterly," protested Ellen. "Father wanted me to be educated. He said that Matthew could get along well."

Grandfather tore the upper sheet from the tablet and put it into his pocket.

"We should have very little respect in the community if such a thing were known."

Now Amos found his tongue. He leaned forward, his cheeks crimson.

"Ellen could not be dishonest," he said.

Grandfather looked at him in amazement.

"The women make serious mistakes, and Ellen has made one. They act before they think. Now I will take the first watch to-night."

Ellen crept slowly up the back stairway and closed her door. Tears came in a flood, hot, blinding, choking, drowning all thought, preventing realization of the seriousness of her bereavement. After a long time she fell asleep.

In the two days preceding the funeral she made plans. Only thus could she keep her composure and continue to feel a connection with her father. It was now June. She would stay until September, then she would go to college, as he had intended. Matthew would doubtless come here to live and would bring, alas! Millie with him. But she must reconcile herself; since she was going to have her way, Matthew should have his.

She lived through the funeral service with few tears. The house was thronged, and the line of carriages and automobiles extended far down the road. Levis had lived differently from his neighbors and there was much curiosity about his house. He had used it all, treating the parlor as though it were no more precious than the kitchen, and drawing no shades to keep carpets from fading. There were a few strangers present, members of the county medical society to whom Levis's connections by marriage were vaguely interesting.

Grandfather preached upon the certainty of death and the necessity for preparation, and made no allusion to Levis's heresies. When they returned to the house Ellen expected that he and Amos and Matthew would return to the Kloster. But instead all went into the office.

"Ellen!" called Grandfather.

Ellen went unwillingly and sat down on a chair near the door. She dreaded argument, it could only cause ill-feeling. Her plans were made.

"Ellen, death brings changes with it. It will bring change to you." There was a gloating affection in Grandfather's voice. He believed that God was bringing Ellen back to him.

"Yes," said Ellen quickly, determined not to cry.

"When the father goes, we must consider the property. Now your mother had this farm, inherited from her aunt for whom she was named, and she left it to your father to go after his death to you and Matthew, share and share alike."

"Yes," said Ellen.

"It is only natural that Matthew should want to move on his property now."

"Yes," said Ellen. "Of course."

"It is Matthew's intention to be married."

"Yes," said Ellen faintly.

"He has chosen a modest and pious young woman of his own faith who will doubtless be a blessing to him. He wishes to be married soon."

"I'm glad if Matthew is happy." Ellen's eyes sought Matthew's timidly.

"Then he will come here."

"When will that be?"

"I had thought not till spring," said Matthew for himself. "But now it will be sooner, perhaps in a few weeks." That portion of his cheeks which remained uncovered glowed brightly. He had waited long to possess Millie and the delay was disturbing his regular and calm mental processes.

"Not so soon as that!" cried Ellen, in amazement.

"Yes," said Matthew firmly. "Father is gone and things are changed and the sooner we get used to the new ways the better."

"But Calvin will be here till April!"

"I shall continue to employ him. I have talked with him already."

Ellen's face paled.

"I thought I'd stay here with Mrs. Sassaman till September. Then we could have the house ready for you before I go."

Matthew changed his position, settling himself more firmly in his chair. Ellen would have to do as he said; God was blessing her by giving her no choice.

"Now, Ellen, let us talk this out. The farm belongs to you and me—isn't it sensible that we stay here and work it? Millie isn't such a strong person as some and she may be from time to time laid up, and then there would have to be hired help. Isn't it foolish to hire a woman when you are well and strong?"

"Oh, but, Matthew, I'm going to college! It's all settled! You know that I'm to go to college!"

Silence was Matthew's answer. It was a pity that Ellen was still stubborn. Grandfather took off his spectacles.

"Ellen," he began patiently, "you don't understand business matters. The farm is much run down and Matthew means to build it up. If he gives it the attention it should have, and makes new fences, and gets the implements and lime and everything needed, there won't be any extra income for five years anyhow."

"Then I shall be too old to go to college!"

"You know already far more than is necessary."

"But if I'm not willing to stay here, if I think it's wrong, if I refuse?" Ellen's voice was still steady.

"I don't wish to be hard on you, Ellen. My heart yearns over you. But I'm your natural guardian and I have control over your property. I think that Matthew's plan is correct, and that it should be carried out. You can't expect him in these first years to run a farm and raise a family and pay an income besides!"

"But there was Father's will that he wished me to write," said Ellen, still steadily. "His last thought was that I should be educated."

"It is this way, Ellen. Your father left no real will. He had about five thousand dollars saved. Now half of five thousand is two thousand five hundred, and the income on that is only a little over a hundred dollars a year. That would not take you far."

"But he thought it was enough!"

"He meant to let you spend the principal, Ellen. That cannot be now."

Ellen knitted her brows.

"I'll sell Matthew my part of the farm."

Grandfather shook his head.

"We couldn't let you do that. The farm will be worth much more in five years than now. If we did such a thing our neighbors would reproach us because we hadn't dealt fairly with you."

"Let me have my two thousand five hundred dollars," begged Ellen. Here was light in darkness! "That is all I need; that will see me through."

Grandfather shook his head.

"I can't consent to that, either, Ellen. That must be held against a rainy day and meanwhile its income must go into the farm. My child, try to accept your lot! You have a home, comfort, everything you need, and if you stand by Matthew you will have more than you need."

"I think families should be alone!" Ellen cried desperately. "If I were Millie I wouldn't want any one to help run my house."

"You don't know Millie," said Matthew earnestly. "She has no proud ideas and she's very willing to have you help her. I have laid the matter before her."

Grandfather went to speak to Calvin and Amos followed him. Matthew would have followed also, but Ellen called him back. She stood by her father's desk, facing his unwilling gaze.

"Is it possible, Matthew, that you won't help me go to school? Couldn't you lend me money? You have the farm as security."

"You're not of age. You'd have to have Grandfather's consent, and that he wouldn't give. Besides, to be frank with you, I've had experience with advanced schooling and I couldn't help you to it under any circumstances. It begets pride of intellect, it leads young people away from God, it is a curse."

Suddenly Ellen looked at her brother with a detached curiosity, as her father had looked at him. When he had gone she went up to her room. Its loneliness was intolerable, and still more difficult to bear was the sound of the evensong of birds, the sight of the young moon rising over the woodland, and the echo of a laugh from the road. She went down to the kitchen. Mrs. Sassaman was on the porch, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, swaying back and forth in her rocking-chair: Ellen determined to go and sit on the step and lay her head against her knee.

Instead she turned and went back to her room and sat down at the window. She would not give way to mourning with Mrs. Sassaman, kind though she was. This was no time to mourn; she must think, must find some avenue of escape. Wisdom and peace of mind came from learning—her father had had both—learning she must have to lift her from despair.

Suddenly her heart leaped. The mysterious visitor to whom her father meant to entrust her—who and where was he? He had said that he lived not far away. Lancaster, Harrisburg, Reading, York were not far away—even Philadelphia was not much more than fifty miles. But she did not know his name, she had not observed which way his car had turned at the foot of the lane. And he was sailing at once for Europe! But he might read of her father's death in the newspaper before he sailed or later in one of the medical journals which published obituaries. Here was a gleam of hope! Her immaturity resented grief, repudiated it, would not harbor it. She paced up and down the room, now making wild plans, now crying. She had not yet realized what had happened and she still had high hopes of life.