To Millie KÖnig the last few weeks of single life were a period of intense satisfaction. Her waiting for Matthew and matrimony had seemed long, but now, at last happiness and prosperity were at hand. It was very unlikely that any of her seven sisters would marry so well.

For the home which she was leaving she had no deep affection. She believed herself to be the only quiet soul in a noisy brood, and the incessant chattering and laughing which accompanied all the daily tasks, the crowded kitchen, the shared bedrooms, the full knowledge of one another's affairs, offended her. She disliked to be teased, and the chief form of wit in the KÖnig household was teasing. She had loved to go to meeting because it was quiet and she could sit and think about her own affairs, and she liked Matthew because he was quiet.

She was ambitious and her future offered as large a field for advancement as she could conceive. The Levis farm was in poor condition, but the land was fertile and the buildings were solid. On the other side of the wood-crowned ridge ran a vein of limestone which could be made a source of profit—Matthew had told her long ago of his desire to develop it, together with many other secret wishes.

"Five years of careful economy," said Matthew now. "Then we shall not need to travel with horses"—this with actual as well as figurative meaning.

On the evening of his father's funeral he laid before Millie his completed plans. He came to the door of the farmhouse and asked her to walk with him to the gate.

"It's all over, Millie."

"Yes," said Millie with a becoming sigh. "I was there this afternoon. I thought your Gran'pop laid things out right to those of us that are left."

Matthew had no desire to discuss his grandfather's sermon which had decently omitted many things that might have been said. He had no sense of triumph; he accepted God's will when it profited him as he accepted it when it sent him to work in the Ephrata stocking factory. His mind was upon Millie; in the twilight he put his arm round her and drew her close to him. Her cheek was like a rose petal and her whole body breathed freshness and health.

"How soon could you get married, Millie?"

It was not in Millie's nature to be coy.

"I'm ready now," she answered promptly. "I have all my things this long time, and it's not like going into a house where there is nothing."

"In a month, then?"

Millie saw no reason for even a week's delay. An intense impatience filled her soul.

"Yes. How is Ellen?"

Matthew shook his head. A heavenly providence had delivered Ellen into improving hands.

"She can't accept this. It's so with people who are not religious."

Millie determined to show herself kind.

"She needn't think that she will have it too hard. Everything can be pretty much like always. I think we should even put away the bedding and things like that for her. I shouldn't like her to say that I used what should be for her Aussteir."

Matthew tightened his arm round this thoughtful creature. He had come a long, hard way to his happiness, but it promised to be worth the journey.

The next day Millie counted her sheets and blankets and table-cloths and her many pieced quilts, made in long winter afternoons to an accompaniment of steady sisterly chatter. No bride of the neighborhood had ever had so fine an assortment.

Matthew lived at the farmhouse. He slept in his old room and ate his meals with a quiet Ellen and a tearful and monosyllabic Mrs. Sassaman. At other times he was at his work. His eyes shone with eagerness, his brow was furrowed with pleasant thinking. He could have embraced the trees and thrown himself upon the soil which he loved.

Already, though the farm was run down and needed all that he could put into it, he looked with longing eyes upon a small adjoining property, across which he could reach the highroad directly from the quarry he meant to open. He looked down upon it from the woodland one August afternoon. The undertaking would be inexpensive and the profit would be out of all proportion to the small outlay. If he only had enough money to begin! Perhaps Grandfather would lend it to him. He did not like to go to Millie's father, would not, indeed, though success was certain. That was no way for a self-respecting son-in-law to begin married life!

Then, as though his question had been borne aloft by the wind, the wind returned an answer. He looked at the nearest tree, a fine oak from which the soft whisper came; he looked at the next tree which was equally fine. In reality the plan for their own destruction was not breathed by the trees, but originated in a suggestion of Millie's, made long ago when possession of them seemed only a dream. The price of the adjoining fields was in his hand!

Ellen and Mrs. Sassaman cleaned the house and Ellen packed away her father's belongings, realization of the finality of death being now complete. Once she asked a question.

"Shall we leave the office as it is, Matthew?"

Matthew blinked; he was calculating at that moment the price which the trees would bring.

"I'll ask Millie what she wants," said he at last, bringing himself to consider Ellen's question. "And I'll ask Dr. Wescoe whether he would like to buy the medicines and the books."

"Not the books!" Ellen began to twist her hands together in the most excited way.

"Very well!" he answered impatiently. "As you like."

Mrs. Sassaman also approached with a question.

"When, then, am I to go?" Her large face was pale and her hands drooped from the wrist joints, like the front paws of a rabbit sitting upon its haunches. She might have been asking for the date of her execution.

"I'm going to be married on Saturday at meeting," said Matthew.

"Well, I guess I'll go then Saturday morning."

"You're going to your sister?" asked Matthew kindly, putting his hand into his pocket. "I'll pay you now—for the whole week, though it isn't due till Monday."

Mrs. Sassaman did not hold out her hand and Matthew laid the money in her lap, the last full salary he would have to pay for domestic service. Suddenly he was amazed. Mrs. Sassaman rose and the money dropped to the floor.

"You're doing wrong, Matthew," said she slowly. "You were always such a headstrong boy, but I never thought you would be such a cruel boy. Religion is right, so far, but not farther."

Matthew said nothing, but went out the door and down the road to pay a last visit to Millie. Mrs. Sassaman did not make him uncomfortable even for a moment—such is the sustaining power of a good conscience. He supposed that she was alluding to Ellen, but what she said was unimportant.

On Saturday morning he told Ellen the hour of his wedding.

"It will be in the afternoon in the Saal. I suppose you will hardly come."

"I can't, Matthew."

"You take things too hard, Ellen. We've got to live, no matter what happens!"

"But not rejoice!" said Ellen tragically to herself. Then she said aloud, "You'll come here for supper before you go away?"

"We'll go to her folks for supper. You are invited also, but I said I didn't think you would go. We'll come here later."

"You're going away for a trip?" asked Ellen, suddenly alarmed. "I don't mean for a long trip, but for a little journey?"

"Of course not. I don't approve of such celebrations; they're expensive and they accomplish nothing but the spending of money. We shall come home."

"Home!" repeated Ellen when he had gone. "Oh, I wish they would not come home!"

She flung herself into the arms of a bonneted Mrs. Sassaman.

"They're coming here to-night!"

Mrs. Sassaman wept also.

"Don't cry, Ellen! You're young yet. You don't have it as bad as I who have lost two husbands. The thing for you is to marry and spite them. Marry some one who will stand up for you and tell Matthew the meaning. That's the thing for you to do."

She climbed into the spring wagon beside Calvin and was gone.

The day had promised to be fine, but at nine o'clock a soft rain began to fall. At ten o'clock Matthew came downstairs dressed in his best clothes and drove away. The pleasant courtesies once natural were forgotten or ignored in their mutual embarrassment and he did not bid his sister good-bye. It was not altogether pleasant that one's wedding day should be rainy, but the fields needed rain and he was not disturbed.

Through the long morning Ellen sat idle. She could not bear to be in the house, but sat on the porch, a lonely and mournful figure. A score of vague plans came into her mind only to be rejected. Could Matthew be won over?—she did not think so. Could her grandfather be persuaded?—she doubted it. Could they be compelled by law to give her what was right?—she had no friends to advise her. The mysterious visitor to whom her father had meant to entrust her—she thought of him with despair.

By turns grief and resentment overwhelmed her, but finally apathy succeeded both. The blow which she had received seemed to have injured her beyond recovery; plans were useless when all earthly hopes could be so quickly dissolved.

"I may die!" said she and found in that a dreary consolation.

At dark Matthew brought Millie home and the three sat for a while together on the porch. Ellen had been afraid that she might cry, but the event seemed too unreal to draw tears from a fountain so nearly exhausted. Millie rocked rapidly back and forth, for once as loquacious as her sisters. She stood a little in awe of Ellen's mind, but she believed that she was making a favorable impression upon her. She was nervous and excited and her short sentences were not always completed.

"I haven't yet been in your house except last month when your father—" Millie feared that she had made a mistake.

"Would you like to go through it now?" asked Ellen, unmoved by Millie's allusion.

"To-morrow will do for sight-seeing," said Matthew with heavy facetiousness unlike him.

"I guess it will!" laughed Millie. "It seems as though I'm to be here a long time, from what the preacher said!"

When the clock struck nine, Matthew rose. Calvin had attended to the stock, Matthew had given himself a whole holiday, the only holiday he was to give himself deliberately in all his life. Millie also rose abruptly.

"Are you going to bed, Ellen?" asked Matthew.

"Not yet."

"You'll lock the doors?"

"Yes."

"Then good-night."

"Good-night," answered Ellen.

Ten o'clock struck and eleven and Ellen sat still. Then she went in and advanced slowly toward the stairway. With her foot on the lowest step, she heard Millie laugh. Grossly offended, she turned and went into her father's office and closed the door. Millie had asked for no changes, and here was the old sofa with its worn cushions, a desk, a chair, and a little table, upon it a few books, a pad of paper, two lead-pencils, and some withered flowers in a glass. Ellen lay down upon the sofa as though it were her bier.

It was part of Millie's religion to have kindly feelings toward all mankind. Finding breakfast on the table in the morning, she praised Ellen and thanked her and assured her that she would be lazy no more.

"We can plan everything so that neither will have more to do than the other."

It was now Ellen who was nervous.

"Thank you," said she in a tone which seemed to Millie to express a becoming gratitude.

Millie was sincerely commiserative; she pitied every one in the world who was not Millie Levis—except Matthew to whom she belonged.

"I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I am for you, Ellen," said she, looking pleasantly into Ellen's heavy eyes. "But we must remember that God doeth all things well."