In late September Matthew began to cut the corn in the field which he had ploughed a year ago when Ellen went away. He began early in the morning and worked doggedly and alone. The next day he would have help, but to-day he rejoiced—if so bright a word could describe his state of mind—in his loneliness. He breathed heavily; he was angry and mortified. His life had not turned out as he had expected; he had made, it was now perfectly clear, a basic error from the effect of which he should never escape. He had always believed that one could direct one's life and that so intelligent a person as himself could direct it successfully, but he had been mistaken.

He had chosen his wife with impeccable judgment—she was pretty and quiet and domestic and religious and troubled by no unbecoming ambition. She was still all of these, but each quality had been modified in some unexpected way. Her prettiness was spoiled by untidiness; her quietness was only quietness in comparison with the clatter of her family; her housewifely accomplishments proved slighter than he had expected; and her religion was, though he did not realize it, a good deal like his own, a possession for eternity, but of little practical use in this life.

She had slipped back quickly into the idioms which she had once tried to weed from her speech in order to please him, and little Matthew who was learning to talk copied her. About this subject she had already quarreled with her husband whom she accused of being ashamed of her.

He had not reckoned upon the physical depression which accompanies the bearing of children of whom there were now two. Millie was preoccupied with her sensations; she was constantly on the watch for fresh symptoms which she retailed to whoever would listen. The description of her morning miseries greeted Matthew's opening eyes; the account of her evening faintness kept him awake at the end of a weary day. She implied that for all her troubles he was to blame; a bride married by capture could have uttered a no more triumphant "Whose fault is it?"

From the pressure of unpleasant conditions Matthew was free only when he was in the fields. Domestic activities were now carried on, except for sleep, in the kitchen, and there on cold evenings even preparations for sleep were made. The fashion in which he had been brought up came to possess for him a moral and religious significance. When he remembered his youth—and he remembered it more and more often—he saw his father working at his desk, a mouselike Ellen by the window, Mrs. Sassaman busy with her tasks in a distant kitchen, and himself in his own room. Each might have if he wished the privacy which was an inalienable right, the solitude in which mind and soul could grow.

Though Esther was at present away, she had become a fixture in the house. She liked the freedom and the wages and she preferred Millie's company to that of her other sisters. She was certain that Matthew wished her gone, but his dislike did not trouble her; she knew that he feared her departure while he desired it. She had left once, and Matthew, with harvesting waiting, had done the washing.

He had repented his insolence to his grandfather and had been forgiven by him, but he was not at peace, though he went regularly to church. He had confidently expected that God would smooth his path when he so earnestly besought Him, and instead his path seemed to be growing each day rougher.

When in the middle of the afternoon Ellen came up the sloping road outside the field, he did not recognize her. She wore a changed aspect, the appearance of one intensely preoccupied with pleasant thoughts. He saw her wave her hand, and in the light of Millie's prejudices believed that she was some bold creature beckoning to him. When she slipped between two fence posts he knew her with a pang. He did not go to meet her, but stood bending forward a little until she reached to her full height to kiss his cheek. He had often accepted her kisses as though they were an infliction; now they brought tears.

"Well, Matthew!"

He looked down at her, recognizing the change in her state of mind; she felt herself to be, it was plain, fortunate and happy. He had made up his mind that when she returned she should not be received like a prodigal but now her expression made clear that she was not a prodigal in any sense.

"You've surprised me!" he said, astonished at his own delight.

"Are you glad to see me?" Ellen looked at him almost coquettishly.

"Yes," he answered with a deep breath. Then in the midst of his pleasure he was discomfited. She might stay to supper, and a welcome was doubtful. The secondary cause of all Millie's woes was Ellen.

"Can't you stop work a little while and sit down in the woods and talk to me?"

"Yes," said Matthew.

The oak trees, whose foliage was now a dark red, were but a step away and the two sat side by side on the old log. There was between them the most astonishing contrast. Matthew's youthful beauty was gone; his skin was tanned to a darker shade than his light hair; he did not sit erect and he was unshaven; but more startling was his air of weariness and dullness. He looked ten years older than Ellen and seemed to belong to a different race. She laid her hand on his knee.

"I have a long story to tell you."

"Well?" Matthew's eyes devoured her. He was bewildered and made uneasy by his delight. He wished to gather her into his arms and lean his head on her shoulder.

"Do you remember the day that Father died?"

"Of course."

"That afternoon I was sitting here reading and I looked up and saw an automobile standing before the door. When I went down an old friend of Father's was in the office, Dr. Lanfair, with his wife. They stayed only a little while, and soon after they went away Father became ill. He wanted me to give a message to Dr. Lanfair. Do you remember that, Matthew?"

"Yes," answered Matthew uneasily.

"But I couldn't remember his name. Last fall I got a place accidentally at his house. I wrote you how I had been struck by an automobile. But I didn't know then who he was. I had all arrangements made to go to college, but now he wishes to help me because of his old friendship for Father. I'm all ready and I wanted to see you before I left."

Matthew received this announcement in silence. She cherished no resentment; that was one of her notable characteristics.

Ellen read his thoughts.

"I understand everything, Matthew. You did what you thought was right, and you have certainly improved the farm. Isn't it lovely here?"

Matthew made no answer. A dull red crept up under the unpleasant growth of beard.

"I heard you had another little boy."

Thus recalled to his domestic ties he rose stiffly and hastily. A late guest would be unpardonable. "We'd better walk down to the house."

Sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously, Ellen smoothed the paths of others.

"You needn't go down now; I'll go alone. After supper, can you come with me to see Grandfather?"

"Yes."

He walked with her to the opening between the two posts; then he did not return to his work, but went back to the log and sat down. She was but a few years younger than he, but she was youthful, free, unburdened, her life was just beginning. Education had not hurt her. For the first time a serious doubt of his own wisdom troubled him. He also for the first time experienced jealousy—he did not wish any one but himself to help Ellen.

His thoughts followed her down the hill. He hoped that Millie would be polite. He saw Millie through the eyes of an outsider such as Ellen had become, her ignorance, her dullness, her stubbornness. He was at this moment all Levis.

Like Matthew, Millie did not at first recognize Ellen. She always thought of her as a forlorn person, but this was no forlorn person who stood at the door. She believed at first that Ellen was some sort of agent, but after a moment's curious contemplation she said, "Well, is it you!"

Then she was silent. She saw the beautiful suit and hat and compared Ellen's appearance with her own, her straggling hair and her dark calico dress, open at the throat since she had last nursed her baby.

"You would never have caught me like this before I was married!" she cried, expressing in her tone all her weariness and bitterness.

Ellen's cheek lost its bright color. She was not an analyst of character and she had never looked forward to Millie's future and prophesied, "Thus she will become."

"Come in," said Millie as though in defiance of a critical eye.

Ellen saw a solemn little Matthew sitting on the floor and a much smaller John in a cradle which was none too tidy. She saw, also, without looking at them directly, a littered sink, a soiled table-cover, an unblacked stove, and windows unwashed for weeks. Looking at little Matthew she began to tremble, remembering how her arms had once ached to hold him.

"Matthew is a big boy. And what a lovely baby!"

Millie's maternal ecstasy had burned itself to a dull flame.

"Perhaps you wouldn't think so if you had to take care of him day and night!"

She accepted Ellen's offer of help with an air which said that since she was going to stay it was no more than right that she should lend a hand, and Ellen bravely put on a soiled apron. Millie had had no one to talk to in the week of Esther's absence, and now the failings of Brother Reith were commented upon and much neighborhood gossip retailed.

"It's the women who run after him. They are partly to blame!" explained Millie.

When Matthew arrived he breathed a sigh of relief. He was sure that he had heard Millie laugh, though at sight of him she lost her good nature. She began to ask questions about Ellen's affairs and pried deeper than Matthew.

"How old is this man who is helping you, Ellen? Is he an old man?"

"He was a schoolmate of Father's, but he is younger than Father was."

"Is his wife living?"

"Yes," said Ellen. "But she's not well; she's in a sanatorium."

"What ails her?"

"She has lost her mind."

A look of significant amusement passed from Millie to Matthew, who stared back furiously and pulled his chair to the table. He had thought of driving in the double carriage and taking the whole family to visit Grandfather, but now he changed his mind. He would no more have Millie share his ride with Ellen than he would three years ago have had Ellen share his ride with Millie. When he had finished eating he immediately hitched his horse to the buggy and drove to the door, and Ellen climbed in beside him. She did not kiss Millie nor did Millie offer to kiss her.

For the first half-mile brother and sister were silent and busy with recollection. Suddenly Matthew breathed a long sigh.

"I could help you with money before you get your inheritance," he said in a low tone.

"Oh, thank you!" Ellen did not remember the long postponing, she saw only the yielding. "It isn't necessary now, everything is arranged. Next summer, though, when I'm twenty-one—"

"Then of course everything will be fixed properly."

Close together she and Matthew went through the graveyard. She slipped her hand into his and he did not thrust it away. The sun had set and the cottage was in shadow.

"Here is Ellen, Grandfather," said Matthew as he opened the door.

Ellen stepped into the little room. The moment of reunion had come unexpectedly. Grandfather raised his beautiful aged head and looked at her, and Amos got to his feet. Tears began to run down Grandfather's cheeks; Amos said nothing, but a crimson flush burned his face. All were conscious of her youth and her vitality and all realized that she was not theirs.

"She's here to say good-bye," explained Matthew. "She's going to college."

Grandfather saw his castle at last flat upon the ground. Amos leaped to swift, jealous inquiry. How was Ellen going to college? Who was helping her? How did she get her fine clothes? But neither Grandfather nor Amos asked any questions.

When Matthew had seen the dim red light at the end of the train grow tinier and then vanish into the darkness, he returned to the Kloster. He did not wish to go home; his rage with Millie frightened him; he would hear only complaints against Ellen and if he defended her the effect would be disastrous. He regretted now the whole course of his life since he had risen in meeting and announced his intentions, and he blamed all on the influence of his grandfather. He remembered Grandfather's ridiculous charge that he had been hard on Ellen. He remembered also Amos's burning eyes. He opened the door of the cottage and sat down.

"I expect there was something more in Ellen's going than appeared on the surface," he said without any preface. "I expect that you annoyed her, Amos."

"Annoyed her? In what way?"

"I expect that Millie was more than half right," said Matthew distinctly. "I expect that you annoyed her with offers of love."

Amos rose, his face deathly pale.

"I'm older than you, Matthew, and I've been your teacher and your adviser, but I shall answer this insult for Ellen's sake. I told her long before she went away that if marrying would help her escape from you, I would—"

"Escape!" repeated Matthew.

"That's the word I used—escape. I said if it would help her to escape I would marry her. It was months ago. I talked to her only once when I met her by chance. I had nothing to do with her going away. It was I who tried to keep her here!" Amos's voice rose. "Levis was right in a sense—you know nothing about the world, you nor Uncle. But I know what the world is like that you have driven her into. I was the only one that tried to save her, remember that, please! Your affection for her is selfish. You would have liked to keep her so that all would run smoothly in your house, and when you can't have your way with her you drive her off—out you go, Ellen! I love her unselfishly, I don't expect to get anything out of her, I—"

"Nor did I expect to get anything out of Ellen," protested Grandfather.

Matthew began to shout.

"You did! You wanted her to start a sisterhood and to stay in this worn-out place. You wanted her to come here and live with bats and mice and dress in strange clothes and cut off her hair and whistle through her teeth as they used to do"—now the devil surely had possession of Matthew!—"I never wanted her to do anything like that. You talk as though she belonged to you. I am closest to her."

"Matthew!" warned Grandfather.

"It's true." Matthew rose. "You've ruined me with your religion, ruined me, ruined me!"

"What!" cried Grandfather, aghast.

"You think you have God here. I don't believe in God!" Matthew slammed the door.

In his buggy he was tempted to lash his horse, but that would bring him home the sooner. It was out at last, the dreadful conclusion he had been approaching for a long time. It was said aloud and he was not struck dead. He laughed like a drunken man.

Then, at the top of the hill, he heard a sound and paused. A great wind had begun to blow and the oak trees were roaring like the sea. It seemed to him that there was a message for him, but he could not interpret it. He felt suddenly weak and leaned against the side of the buggy.

In the cottage Grandfather lifted his hands toward heaven. The hope of his sisterhood was definitely ended, and now the prop of his secular congregation was gone.

"They are their father's children," he said in a whisper. "You are all I have left, Amos." He looked suddenly at Amos with new appraisement. In the loud confusion of Matthew's and Amos's speech he had lost Amos's confession. "You're all I have; you are trustworthy. I am not left desolate."