During the winter Ellen's attitude toward the house in which she lived and toward all the occupants save one was that of an observant pupil. She liked the house not alone for its slight association with her father, but for its size, brightness, and beauty and its ordered and elaborate life. She heard for a long time no word or sound to make her suspect that the relation of its master and mistress was not exactly as it appeared on the smooth surface. She learned from Fetzer, an expert housekeeper; she admired from afar Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane.

She soon ceased to feel resentment toward Stephen—it was after all not to be expected that so brilliant and important a man should recall a young girl seen but once! She was not tempted to disclose to him her identity. She put his room in order; she heard the slamming door of his car; and sometimes she caught a glimpse of his tall figure or received his "Good-morning." She was glad that she had not called upon him for help, but that she had made her own way. As the weeks passed her position seemed less and less comfortable, and she longed to be gone.

She was conscious of the contrast between Hilda's butterfly existence and the sober industry of all others in the house, but she felt toward Hilda as Stephen had once felt, that she was by nature different. She was astonished at her scant and diaphanous clothing, at her lying in bed a large part of the day and at her habit of smoking cigarettes, but her association with her was limited. Her lowly position saved her from observation, and in any case Hilda had no fear of youth or bodily attraction for Stephen.

Hilda's jealousy grew daily stronger. She heard one day for a long time the sound of Stephen's voice, and at last she stole into the passageway leading to his office. She could see him as he sat on the end of Miss MacVane's desk, his arms folded, holding forth steadily and earnestly and sometimes gayly. Miss Knowlton sat in her informal fashion on the edge of her desk, her attitude much like Stephen's.

Hilda could not understand Stephen's medical discourse and her inability maddened her and quickened her suspicions, which, though they were insane, were yet terribly real. Why did these women stay on year after year? Why did Stephen prefer to work incessantly, to be with them, rather than with her? Why had he given up friends and recreation? Why was he unwilling to go away?

She turned at this moment a new corner; she determined somehow to punish these women, to get rid of them. Toward Miss MacVane especially she developed suddenly a clearly defined intention, unalterable, though not yet developed in its cunning perfection.

In the spring Ellen made a friend. Seeing in the paper the announcement of an evening lecture on astronomy at the High School, she went, recalling the rides with her father when he had taught her the names of the constellations. Next to her sat a familiar figure, Miss MacVane, who turned her thick glasses upon her. For the first time in her acquaintance she really saw Ellen.

"Why, Ellen! Is it Ellen?"

"Yes, Miss MacVane."

"Are you interested in astronomy?"

"I like to learn all I can."

"How much schooling have you had?"

"I'm ready for college."

Miss MacVane turned all the way round in her chair.

"Are you going to college?" she demanded. Her voice expressed not so much surprise as defiance; she seemed to dare Ellen to go to college.

"I hope to."

"When?"

"In the fall."

"Well, of all things!" The weak eyes sparkled. "Now if you want any advice, you come to me. I know all the ropes. No registrar can tell me what course I want or don't want, nor can any boarding-house creature charge me three prices."

Ellen described the extent of her preparation and Miss MacVane grew excited.

"How foolish to think of staying for four years! Get it in three! You can. You're no chicken—I mean you're old enough to use your time and not to run after the men and dramatics. Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd go to a girls' college."

"Oh, why don't you go to Cornell?" Miss MacVane spoke with missionary zeal. "Don't shut yourself up with a lot of little girls—you'll never stand it. Go where you may have some independence. Cornell is—"

But what Cornell was its admirer was prevented, by the arrival of the lecturer, from explaining.

"We'll continue this," she whispered, pressing Ellen's responsive hand.

When the lecture was over they walked together to the corner and there let a half-dozen cars pass. Miss MacVane proved to be an ardent advocate of education.

"I was a cash girl—I didn't know any other name than C-a-a-sh"—a passer-by turned a startled head—"I hadn't any money. Have you money? Because if you haven't there's a fund."

"If I could borrow just a little, then I could be sure of going in the fall," said Ellen excitedly.

"Of course you can borrow! To-morrow Doctor'll be away and you bring your catalogues into the office. I'll help you."

"You won't tell!"

"Not a word," promised Miss MacVane.

Ellen went home and sat by her window. It was late, but she was wide awake. A gentle breeze fanned her cheek; trains rolled far away to distant cities and mountains; a thousand lights gleamed and happy voices rose from the park. She saw almost within her grasp that for which she sighed. She was intensely happy with almost her last unclouded happiness. One could mould one's life if one had only determination enough, if one would only sacrifice that which was not essential for that which was. She thought with affectionate pity of Grandfather, of Matthew, of Amos, even of Millie to whom she owed gratitude because Millie had driven her away. She pitied every one who was not Ellen Levis.

The next afternoon she took her books into the office, where Miss MacVane sat with her back to the light and with a dark shade over her eyes.

"Ellen, I have to have drops in my eyes, and I told Miss Knowlton that I believed you'd put them in after her hours so that she won't have to stay. You will, won't you?"

"Of course."

Miss Knowlton brought a bottle of eye-wash.

"It always stands right there in the corner and it's marked 'MacVane.' You can't miss it. The other bottle in the stand is distilled water."

Ellen watched the operation attentively. Miss MacVane's blinking eyes were red-rimmed and her face was pale. When Miss Knowlton had closed the door she burst out:

"He actually keeps me seeing, Ellen. If he didn't watch, I'd be blind—think of it! I'd do anything in the world for him—anything!" She touched her eyes with her handkerchief and winced. "I sewed my way through college—that's the trouble. You'll have to read your catalogues to me; I can't see."

Both women heard suddenly a light, clear laugh. Hilda was coming in, accompanied by a gay companion. In the heart of Miss MacVane burned a bitter resentment; she thought of the millions of stitches she had taken with dim and aching eyes, and of the price of one of Hilda's dresses which would have saved her sight.

A faint odor of cigarette smoke drifted along the hall and through the door. Hilda was doubtless sitting in her favorite corner of the library sofa, smoking. Miss MacVane's lips curved downward. Sounds more distressing than the thin laugh had penetrated through doors and traveled along passageways to her ears, but she said nothing even to Miss Knowlton, though she was aware that the ears of Miss Knowlton were as keen as her own. Both women knew, as Fetzer sometimes suspected, all that was to be known, at least all that Fetzer knew.

For a few days Miss MacVane's eyes improved slowly. Each afternoon Ellen escorted her to her car, and one day as she walked back she saw standing and gazing at the river a tall figure. She noted with amusement its immobility in contrast with the ludicrous excitement of a flock of blackbirds that inflated their bodies and hopped about near by; then, recognizing the tall figure, she ran across the street.

"Why, Amos!"

Amos looked down at her. Grandfather had been ill, and this was his first opportunity to execute the commission with which he had been charged. He had meant to ring the bell, and to enter the great and beautiful house, but his courage had failed and he stood wondering what he should do. He was startled by the change in Ellen.

"Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," he answered, trembling.

"Would you like to walk?"

"Yes."

"How is Grandfather?"

"He was sick, but he's better."

"And Matthew?"

"I don't often see him."

"And how are you?"

Amos shifted his eyes uneasily. Nothing was well with him. He had become a prey to melancholy and he was losing his faith in God. His terror became at times physical as well as mental; he feared that the Saal and Saron might fall upon him and crush him; the whole universe was sinister, existence was torturing.

"Everything is with me as it was," he said. "Uncle is greatly worried about you. He's afraid you have come to a place where there is worldliness."

"What does he think I do?"

"He thinks in such places they play cards and perhaps drink, and are light-minded."

"I dust and sweep and make beds, Amos, and when I'm through I study. There are good women in the house and the office and when I have spare time I spend it with them." She accounted in detail for her presence here. "I wrote Matthew all about it. I'm only here to earn money and in the fall I'm going to college. There's nothing wrong with these people."

Then Ellen flushed—remembering Hilda's bare shoulders, the turn of her wrist as she flicked the ash of her cigarette—what would Amos say to that?

Amos saw the flush and felt his torturing suspicions return. Were there any young men in the house? Did the doctor have a son? Did they look upon Ellen with desire?

"Oh, Ellen!" he said wildly. "I haven't anything in the world but you!"

Ellen saw the hungry eyes; hitherto they had roused only pity—now they repelled.

"What you want can't be, Amos."

Amos plunged into fear that he had frightened her.

"I'll never say anything more, Ellen!"

They walked a few squares silently; then Amos said sadly, "I won't go any farther; I'll go down the other street." He was certain that he could trust her. There was no reason to be jealous of ambition.

When Ellen reached home she went upstairs and opening the door at the back of the second story went to the linen closet. The hall was bright with the light of the level sun and sweet with the odors of spring flowers. She believed herself to be quite alone and, Amos forgotten, stood still in intense enjoyment.

But she was not alone; a shrill voice from Hilda's room announced her presence.

"I'm going to Aiken, I tell you!"

Stephen's voice in answer expressed an eager desire to placate.

"There's no reason why you shouldn't."

"Are you going with me?"

"I can't."

"You can!" Uncontradicted Hilda went on more loudly, "It's on account of the woman in your office!"

"That's one of the reasons. I certainly can't let her go blind."

"You are shameless—shameless!"

Ellen closed the door softly. When her knees would carry her, she went slowly to the third story. Fetzer sat behind her closed door; she kept Stephen's worst troubles a secret from herself when that was possible. She surmised with distress that they had recently grown more acute. Now she opened the door quickly.

"Did you just come in, Ellen?"

"Yes," answered Ellen, her face in shadow.

"Well, you needn't do anything more downstairs."

Ellen closed the door of her own room and stood against it.

"How dreadful!" she said to herself. "It is she who is shameless."

When she had had her supper she walked a little distance along the river-bank to a favorite bench. She looked back at the gray house and saw the moon shining on its irregular roof. There were trees between it and her and it seemed to stand isolated, a grim and solemn habitation.

So Mrs. Lanfair was like that! How troubled Dr. Lanfair must be! Resentment had now faded wholly, she was filled with pity. Then suddenly in her dark eyes appeared the emotion expressed by Fetzer's single eye, by Miss Knowlton's pale blue orbs and by Miss MacVane's dim vision, the tenderness with which most women regard a man who for some reason is reduced from the superior position which should be his. She longed, as they did, with her whole heart, to be of some supreme service to him. Her wish was soon to be granted.

When she went into the office the next afternoon to put drops into Miss MacVane's eyes, she looked at her with curiosity. She had not the remotest claim to beauty; she was short of speech and sometimes irritable, and her thick glasses, without which she could see nothing, disfigured her. It was not possible that Mrs. Lanfair feared good Miss MacVane!

Miss MacVane removed her green shade and her thick glasses, and Ellen lifted the little rack and took from the bottle the attached medicine-dropper. A penetrating odor frightened her.

"I'm ready," said Miss MacVane patiently. "I'm better, thank God!" The expletive was heartfelt—she did thank God.

Ellen's hand poised motionless above the little vials.

"What's the matter, Ellen?"

"Why—" began Ellen.

"What is it?" Miss MacVane blinked unseeing.

Still Ellen made no motion. There was something wrong. Ammonia was not a medicament for the eye, but the lotion seemed to be pure ammonia!

"What is it, Ellen?"

Ellen believed suddenly that she understood what had happened—Dr. Lanfair had made a mistake. Her next act, quickly conceived and executed, was like a protecting gesture. Into her eyes came again the expression with which Fetzer and Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane regarded their master. No wonder that he had made a mistake! She put deliberately into Miss MacVane's eyes two drops of distilled water.

When Miss MacVane had gone, Ellen stood holding the bottle and looking at it. What should she do now? Had she behaved with unwarrantable officiousness? She stood in the same spot holding the bottle in her hand when Stephen entered and stared at her in surprise and then in amazement. For an instant they regarded each other, for the first time straightforwardly. A vaguely disturbing recollection troubled Stephen's mind and then was immediately lost in a sharper emotion.

"What's the matter?"

Ellen grew pale and her knees weakened. But it was better to have been unwarrantably officious than to have used the wrong medicine!

"I've been putting drops into Miss MacVane's eyes in the afternoon, so that Miss Knowlton wouldn't have to stay, and to-day there's something wrong with it."

Stephen took the flask roughly.

"It's different from yesterday," said Ellen, "there's a great deal more of it, and there's an odor."

Stephen held the little bottle with both hands.

"If I did wrong, I'm sorry. I can go to Miss MacVane's house if you want me to."

At last Stephen looked up.

"Couldn't you smell this stuff?" he demanded. "Couldn't she? Where is she?"

"I didn't use it!" cried Ellen.

"Oh, you didn't!"

"I used distilled water. I didn't say anything to her."

Stephen looked at his housemaid, bewildered.

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought it was your mistake and that I'd better tell you."

"You say the solution was all right yesterday?"

"I think so."

"It didn't burn?"

"No; I'm sure it didn't."

His gaze held Ellen's eyes helplessly. He tried vainly to remember her name, but at any rate her name didn't matter.

"Was this bottle in its usual place?"

"Yes."

Stephen grew white; his hand trembled and he set the rack with the little vials down quickly.

"Tell Fetzer to come here, please."

Ellen climbed to the third story and found Fetzer in her room. Hilda had gone motoring and the house was soundless.

"What ails you, Ellen?" asked Fetzer. "You look so queer."

"Dr. Lanfair wants you to come to the office."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know," answered Ellen honestly.

She went into her room and stood looking out the window. He had not even thanked her! Could the mistake have been Miss Knowlton's? What had Fetzer to do with it? Perhaps he had called for Fetzer on other business. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and she stood looking down upon the river.

When her bell rang she went to the office, and was there bidden to close the door, whether by Stephen or Fetzer she did not know. She saw only two white faces. Fetzer had sat down because she could not stand. Ammonia in eye-wash—she knew how that would madden and perhaps destroy! Her hand covered her scarred cheek. Vividly recollected sensations paralyzed her mind; she sought as yet no solution of this strange event, but dwelt only on the imagined agony.

"Fetzer tells me that you use ammonia for household purposes," said Stephen. "Where do you keep it?"

Ellen's eyes sought Fetzer's for confirmation.

"In the cupboard in the hall."

"Have you ever missed any?"

"Why, no!"

"Does any one but yourself go to the cupboard?"

"No"—then Ellen corrected herself. She still spoke straightforwardly and innocently. "Mrs. Lanfair got some there yesterday; she filled one of the engraved bottles from her bathroom; at least I think so."

"What makes you think so?"

Ellen flushed.

"Because I saw that a new bottle had been opened, and when I cleaned Mrs. Lanfair's bathroom I saw there was ammonia in her violet water bottle. I think she probably wanted to clean a chain or something."

"Thank you," said Stephen.

When Ellen had gone he looked down at the floor and Fetzer looked at him. Her lips had parted; she pressed her hand against them as though to close them. She had always known that Hilda was a wicked woman, but not that she was as wicked as this!

Ellen climbed the steps slowly. She heard presently Hilda's motor stop at the door, and Hilda come upstairs. Then quiet fell once more. After an hour the door of the motor slammed again—Stephen and Hilda had gone out to dinner. She heard late at night the sound of their return. She had remembered now suddenly and clearly a forgotten detail of their visit to the farmhouse.

"Dementia, Father!" she heard herself say. "Who has dementia?"

She looked at her open door. Did she hear the sound of a creeping approach? She sat upright. If she closed and locked her door she would leave Fetzer to the mercy of she knew not what. But she would lock the door at the head of the stairs; then they would both be safe. But she might shut out a call for help! Did she hear now a half-smothered voice? She rose and slipped barefooted into the passage. There she saw a small dark figure.

"Is that you, Ellen?" asked a sharp voice.

"I thought I heard a noise."

"You were dreaming. It was nothing. Go back to bed and shut your door."

Ellen obeyed, and Fetzer sat down on the upper step from which she had risen, and suddenly the clock struck two. The sound of voices was not imaginary.

"Can't you sleep, Hilda?"

"No, I can't sleep."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You can attend to your own affairs."

Fetzer's eyes sought longingly the window at the end of the hall. If morning would only come! She guessed now what ailed her mistress, and her kind heart ached with remorse and terror. Madness—she knew what madness was!