Grandfather Milhausen, having heard the echoes of the slamming door die away and the gate close with a loud click after angry Matthew, began to pray. The traditional language of petition was on his lips a powerful vehicle; noble periods poured forth eloquently. He prayed as though the safety of the universe depended upon his entreaties. He asked for the blessing of God upon them all, and especially upon Matthew and Ellen, and he asked specifically that Ellen be led to return with an inclination to take up the great work which might be hers.

He did not observe that he failed to lift his companion's spirit with his own, and that along the treasured and brittle pages of "The Mystic Dove" a desecrating pencil made angry strokes. Matthew's account of Ellen's situation appalled Amos; the evil influences of the world must already have been at work upon her.

Through a sleepless night Grandfather's anxiety deepened. He reproached himself because since Levis's death he had trusted too much to the softening influence of grief upon Ellen's heart. He should have importuned her, he should have laid her responsibility before her. The deep regret for his marriage and his own consequent forfeiting of power returned. God had given him another chance in his grandchildren—had he also forfeited that? The consciousness of the immanence of God was strong within him, but it was the immanence of a reproachful God. He had slept when he should have watched and idled when he should have toiled.

Toward morning he began to pray, and at last, when he had made a promise to God, he fell asleep. He would go to find Ellen and would bring her back.

The inertia of seventy-five was not overcome by a mere intention. Emotion had exhausted him and in the morning he could not rise. As he looked out day after day from his bed upon the towering walls of the old buildings, he had blessed dreams which he did not deserve. He saw again the white-robed processions, heard the matin songs, and sometimes he lifted his hand and tolled an imaginary bell.

When at last he was able to go, he declined the offer of Amos's company. Amos had waited upon him with devotion; he was his only anchor to windward; upon him alone he could wholly depend; and therefore, as is natural to human nature, he valued him a little the less.

He did not begin his journey in the trolley car as did younger, braver spirits—steam was sufficiently dangerous as a motive power. Before he reached the railroad station he was the object of interested observation by the villagers, who did not often see him. It was one of the clear, bright mornings of Ellen's early life at the Lanfairs', and the invigorating winter air acted as a tonic to the old man. He looked about him with pleasure. In his youth he had dreamed of adventure, of journeying to the ocean which was not far away, but which he had never seen, and of visiting the West toward which many Pennsylvania Germans were then setting their faces.

But his light-heartedness did not long continue. The sky showed signs of change; fleecy clouds gathered, and the brightness of the river was soon dimmed. With the shadow there fell a cloud upon his spirit; he could not long hold any mood of youth.

The miles of furnaces and mills astonished and troubled him, signifying a great force which he felt was not of God, and when he arrived in Harrisburg he was bewildered by the crowd. The continual motion seemed to him to be in a circle, though in reality the only circular motion was that about himself as he stood, though bent, yet towering, prophet-like, gathering his faculties together for the plunge into the street.

He walked up the steep hill, pausing often to rest and passing each moment into a deeper bewilderment. There were moments when he could not recall, try as he might, the object of his journey. Then he stood quite still looking about him with dim, puzzled eyes.

At the end of an hour, when he had at last reached Hill Street, there had settled upon the city a thick mist in which black particles were suspended. He found Number 34 without difficulty and stood waiting until the rapid beating of his heart should subside. Ellen's face and figure were before him; he longed for their reality as a lover longs for a sight of his mistress. She was young and strong and she was a woman. Old as he was Grandfather missed that complementary association of which he had long been deprived. But he would not have accepted this analysis of his feelings; he was a shepherd and Ellen was his lost sheep; it was in that spirit that he sought her.

Mrs. Lebber's house still hung over the hill, it still sheltered a sad spirit, and it still exuded when its door was opened the same heavy odor. Mrs. Lebber appearing, blinked at Grandfather as though she were not sure whether he was real or whether he was a thickening of the mist into a human shape. But the shape gave forth human speech.

"Is my granddaughter, Ellen Levis, here?" he asked in his thin old voice.

Mrs. Lebber looked blankly upon the patriarchal figure. Nothing would ever happen to her; she was as stationary as her house and as gray as the mist, and the stories of other lives furnished her only entertainment. She now scented mystery.

"You'd better come in, then we can talk," she invited.

Grandfather peered at her uncertainly.

"You are Manda Sassaman's sister?"

"Yes, her younger sister."

Thus assured, Grandfather walked into the small parlor and sat down upon the first chair. He did not perceive the dreariness of the room; he perceived only the pleasant odor of food.

"What time does my granddaughter come from her work?"

"She's not here, she's gone this long time," announced Mrs. Lebber. "First Manda went to get married. She is trying it for the third time, but I don't believe she will have luck. She—"

"Where is Ellen?"

"Well"—Mrs. Lebber folded her hands and began to rock slowly. "One Sunday Ellen she said she would go for a walk, and she didn't come and didn't come, and after dark she came driving in an automobile, and I didn't know what to make of it. She was down along the river where the rich ones live and she got in front of an automobile, another automobile, that is. It's very dangerous down there. Then I know a woman that lives down there and she got a place for Ellen." Mrs. Lebber gave the impression that she had been the chief agency in Ellen's finding a place and thus unintentionally counteracted the mysterious insinuations of the first part of her speech. "It's on Front Street, a very grand place."

A grand place was to Grandfather an unsafe place.

"I was married and my husband was killed through an open switch which wasn't his fault and I never got enough for it. Then Manda, she came to live with me, but it wasn't long till she must go away and get married. I still say to her, 'Manda, why did you come if you were not going to stay?' Then Ellen came and now she is gone. There is no peace but in the grave." Mrs. Lebber wiped away her tears.

Grandfather did not dispute this opinion; he rose feebly, animated by alarm. He must find Ellen quickly.

"You needn't go," said Mrs. Lebber as though he too might as well have stayed away as go so soon. "I have sauerkraut for dinner." She quoted sadly a proverb meant to be cheerful, "Sauerkraut und Speck treibt alle Sorge weg."

A powerful temptation assailed Grandfather, but he resisted it bravely. He must see his lamb.

He found that descending the hill was more difficult than ascending. His knees seemed to have grown too weak to bear him up, and when he reached the station he could go no farther. Snow had begun to fall, and he had no umbrella. He must get home; he prayed God that he might succeed in getting home. He saw the little cottage under the shelter of the old buildings—oh, to be there, to lay his head upon his pillow!

Amos met him at the train, his face full of hungry desire. He knew that it was mad to hope that Grandfather would succeed in persuading Ellen to live at the Kloster, but perhaps she would bring him home. He had had a day of unusual freedom, but he had read none of his books, making of his abstinence a sort of petitionary offering. In the intervals of his teaching he had put the cottage into thorough order. He saw, as he worked, Ellen sitting under the lamplight, Ellen moving about. Perhaps she would help to get the supper as she did in her childhood.

When Grandfather got feebly down from the train, Amos saw for the first time that this was an old, old man. Ellen did not follow, and he guessed as he took his uncle's arm that there was no good news. Grandfather did not speak, and even when they had reached the cottage he sat for a while silently as though waiting for his strength to return.

"I couldn't find her," he said at last.

"Why not? Isn't she with Manda Sassaman's sister?"

"No. She's living with rich people on the main street. I couldn't understand the woman exactly, but I have the name and the number of the house. It's a very worldly place. I've heard how such people occupy their time."

Amos looked at Grandfather curiously. Grandfather knew nothing of the world!

"What do they do?" he asked.

"They play cards," said Grandfather in a frightened tone. "And read idle books, and their days are spent in pleasure-seeking. They never think of God. They drink spirituous liquors. There is no health of soul with such."

Amos smiled a bitter smile. Grandfather did not know the worst of them! What sort of pleasures did they seek?—ah, Amos knew! He longed to be of them—he acknowledged it to himself shamelessly.

"What are you going to do next?" he asked.

"I'm going to send a messenger to Ellen. You are to be my messenger, Amos. It will not be pleasant to you, but you will do your duty."

Then Grandfather retired to his bed.