Life in the Levis house, tolerable during the remaining weeks of the summer and early fall when there was much to be done out of doors, assumed a more complex character when it was confined entirely to the kitchen. Millie had believed that she desired escape from home partly for the sake of freedom from continual chattering; apparently, however, it was merely the silence of others which she desired. She now became loquacious; Ellen, she discovered with amusement, knew nothing; that is, she knew nothing of the private affairs of her neighbors, of strange old scandals, of recent deeds of foolishness and sin. Millie knew stories about all the people on the surrounding farms, about all the people along the road to the Kloster; indeed, about the ancient inhabitants of the Kloster itself, those holy souls who had given up all the pleasures of the world for the sake of salvation. She described in detail the misdeeds of Brother Reith, who in the absence of his wife in the asylum was a rake of the first order. She had even a story about Mrs. Sassaman—did not Ellen know that! Millie laughed. Such proud aloofness as that of the Levises must have made life very dull.

"I don't believe that about Mrs. Sassaman," answered Ellen soberly. "My father would not have had her here to take care of us if she was not a good woman."

"I don't want to say anything against your father, but he had very free ideas."

"Not so free as that."

"Don't you believe that I tell you the truth?" demanded Millie.

"You must be mistaken." Ellen was pale and offended, but she was determined to give no offense.

On her first free afternoon she went to her room and opened her books. She remembered all that she had learned and it was still not too late to be educated. In the evening she heard Millie complain to Matthew of loneliness, and the next afternoon she took her books into the kitchen where the sight of them proved irritating. Millie stood no longer in awe of her superior education; she hated it; it seemed, in some dim, ominous, and inexplicable fashion, to threaten her.

"Matthew thinks learning is unnecessary beyond what we need for our every-day lives."

Ellen made no answer. Presently Millie came to believe that her growing annoyance with Ellen and her ways sprang from anxiety about her soul.

"I can't be here with you all the time without reminding you to make your peace with God."

"Thank you," said Ellen shortly.

To Matthew life was intensely satisfactory. Along with love for the land he had been endowed with a farmer's good judgment. The early Pennsylvania Germans had selected with unerring instinct the thickly wooded limestone country, leaving to their Scotch-Irish neighbors the poorer and more easily cultivated soil. To Matthew it seemed that his deep fields had qualities which were almost human; they looked to him for proper cultivation and nourishment as they looked to God for rain.

His labors were interrupted only by the time necessary for meals and sleep. When winter came, the rebuilding of the fences occupied him whenever it was possible to be out of doors. On snowy and rainy days he worked in the barn, repairing partitions, mending harness, and planning for the future. He wrote down in a notebook all his plans; he drew a map of the farm and hung it on the wall; he dreamed and meditated about springing corn and golden wheat. Mind and body were at rest, and all was as it should be in a world which had hitherto been trying.

When Ellen appeared one afternoon in December in the barn chamber to make once more her foolish request about school, he answered her by commending her for her good behavior. He seemed to himself to be at least twenty years older than Ellen in experience and wisdom.

"Millie and I were saying yesterday how well you accommodated yourself to life as it is. It will soon be even better."

But Ellen had not come to hear compliments or to interpret cryptic remarks.

"Do you mean I can't go?"

"Soon you won't want to go."

"I shall always want to go," insisted unreasonable Ellen.

She did not return to the house. A week of clear weather had ended; there was a lowering sky and a cold damp wind which gave warning that bad weather was at hand. She walked a long distance on the soft country road, and then struck across the fields, meaning to return through the woods which seemed to promise temporary peace of mind. She was aware as she approached her favorite seat that it was occupied and she was irritated when she recognized the occupant. Amos was young and strong, yet he was content to live in the past, to earn a pittance, never to see the world or to advance.

But before the ravaged face which he lifted, no one could long be angry. He seemed to have lost many pounds which he could ill spare; his clothes were too large, his hair was much too long, and he wore to Ellen's startled gaze a look so unworldly as to be almost imbecile. Her heart pitied him, while her mind was filled with a sharp repulsion.

Poor Amos's horror of the world as he found it in "Bertha Garlan" and "Evelyn Innes" had changed to an unspeakably shocking desire to know still more about it. The temptation was of the devil—that he well knew—and he was resisting it with all the strength that was in him. He was tempted, not to go into the world, but to take more of it into the Kloster in the form of books, to read and read and thus lose himself and forget his self-reproach, his despair, and a new and wild desire.

When Ellen spoke he stared like a man in hiding come upon by the enemy. Her brisk walk had made her cheeks glow, and her commiseration for Amos gave a deeper color to her eyes. Like Millie she breathed youth and freshness, but she had in place of Millie's empty beauty an eager vitality of mind and body. You could be with Millie and forget her—you could never forget Ellen. Her spirit had been for a while in eclipse, but it could not continue thus. Amos could not analyze her charm, but he felt its least emanation.

"I haven't seen you for a long time. Aren't you well?"

"Yes," he answered faintly.

"And Grandfather?"

Amos seemed not to have heard. He rose abruptly and approached Ellen, his hands clasped before him, his body trembling. His cheek-bones seemed to press against the skin, his gray eyes to have turned black. He saw not a helpless creature who needed his succor, but a gleaming light in darkness, a refuge in deep trouble, a rock to which he could cling.

"I've been thinking so much about you, Ellen, and I've been trying to help you. I thought once I would ask Uncle to let you go away. But I can't make my conscience agree to such a plan. I can't for a good reason." He laid his hand across his eyes. At this moment the world had become wholly unattractive; it offered no invitation to further acquaintance; he saw headless figures, heard men offering illicit love. "But I could take you away from where you are, Ellen."

"How?" asked Ellen stupidly.

"You could come to me."

"To you," she repeated, more mystified than before.

Then a bright, tingling flush mounted to her cheek. She saw the expression in his eyes, and recognized its tenderness.

He made his meaning clearer.

"If you were married you would be freer."

She took a step backward and rested her shoulder against the trunk of a tree. The act indicated not fear, but a desire for support. The keenest of all her startled sensations was curiosity. What was the motive for this amazing offer? Surely not love as she understood love! Did he mean to sacrifice himself and all his plans to make her comfortable? He didn't seem ridiculous; he seemed incredible.

"But you weren't to marry!"

"I'm my own master," said he with dignity. "I must decide what is best. I'm the only one who can decide." His trembling became more violent. "I sometimes sit here in the evening and look down and think how happy you and I could be in such a house together. I think of it day and night; there isn't any rest for me."

A succession of images passed rapidly through Ellen's mind, herself in Amos's arms as Millie stood in Matthew's embrace—shameless Millie!—her father's keen face, the face of his friend who had somewhat resembled him, the dim Saal with its heavy air, its pale light, its stolid worshipers.

"Oh, it couldn't be!"

Silence answered like the silence which follows an execution.

"I'm not worthy of such an offer," said Ellen, suddenly wretched. "I'm nothing; I know nothing. I'm hasty and bitter and hateful."

"You are worthy!" protested Amos. The language of the stories he had been reading, much as he loathed them, helped him to find words. He pleaded with her, not for her sake but for his own, that she would save him from despair. "There isn't any one like you. You grow more beautiful each day. I was in Harrisburg, and there I sat in the station and watched the people come and go, especially the young girls, and there was no one who carried her head so high and who had such deep, deep eyes, like a dark night, Ellen, when the sky is very clear and soft. There's no one round here with a mind like yours. I'm not old-fashioned; I understand that it is the day of greater liberty. I'll let you judge and decide in everything. Don't say you aren't worthy; that isn't true!"

Ellen looked down at the ground. Praise like this was new and not unwelcome, even though it came from the lips of so strange a lover.

"If you would come to me, I believe the peace of God would come to you."

Now Ellen pressed her whole body against the tree, so as to get farther away. The peace of God! That was not what she longed for.

"You're mistaken in me," said she. "There's only one thing I want and that is to learn. I'm grateful to you, and I shall always think kindly of you; you are my best friend, but I don't wish to marry any one."

"It is God's holy ordinance," said Amos thickly. "It saves from gross sin. Outside its bonds men and women burn with sinful passion. Have I made you afraid of me, Ellen? I have loved you since you came a little child into my school, and indeed, before that."

Into the minds of both came the scene enacted on this spot, the childish arms flung out, the kiss given and taken.

"Oh, I can't!" cried Ellen. "I'm sorry for you. Do put this out of your mind."

"I don't wish to put it out of my mind. But I'll not trouble you by speaking again. If you need help that I can give, you have only to ask. Promise me you will remember that!"

"I'll promise." She looked suddenly over her shoulder. Millie's eyes were keen and cruel; her mind was suspicious; she had related to Ellen a score of clandestine meetings, spied upon and reported to the confusion of lovers. "I must go home!" said she, moving away. "Don't come this way too often!"

"I'll do whatever you wish," promised Amos. "You don't have any ill-feeling toward me, Ellen, I hope?"

"No!" said Ellen. She flung back a crumb of comfort. "I told you you were the only friend I had in this world!"

It was four o'clock when she opened the kitchen door. Matthew and Millie stood by the table together, his arm across her shoulders. They had driven together to the store in the village and their cheeks glowed.

"Well, Sister?" said Matthew.

Ellen heard with wonder the unusual salutation. What had come over Matthew? Her own cheeks still burned. Subconsciously Millie noted her color and her excited eyes. But Millie was occupied with her own emotions. She laughed in her sharp, detached way and pushed Matthew from her. He went smiling, and when the door was shut, she laughed again.

"See what I've bought!" she cried, her hands slipping the cords from her parcels. "He said this was the time to spend." There appeared white, delicate muslins and yards of lace and ribbons and tiny patterns. "See! Aren't they beautiful? He thinks you are every day a little less self-centered, Ellen, and it is a good thing, for you will soon be certainly needed. Aren't you glad you didn't go to school?"