When Ellen reached Harrisburg, Fickes awaited her. To him Fetzer had made a brief statement of Ellen's changed prospects and he said, as he guided the car over the smooth streets, that he wished her well and that he would miss her. He drew up at the front door, as was suitable to her altered fortune. She had inspired only friendliness; there was no one in the house who, thus far, did not wish her well.

She saw Stephen reading in the library whither he had often summoned her and where he had heard of Grandfather and the dim Saal and the lambs at play and the singing oaks. He had been made acquainted with Mrs. Sassaman and Mrs. Lebber and had drawn from Ellen's reluctant lips the unpleasant story of Mr. Goldstein. He understood now Edward Levis's life and its disappointments and frustrations, and saw clearly all that he would have been able to do for him. He understood also Levis's daughter and her possibilities, which he believed to be unlimited. Now, alas! his philanthropic impulse was strengthened by other impulses, even more potent, though as yet unacknowledged to himself.

Ellen had begun to view her past history with detachment, and she had described for him the vagaries of her early associates not only with humor, but with tenderness.

"I wouldn't give up any of it, even to have been educated from the beginning. It used to seem dreadfully dull to sit there in the old Saal and watch the brethren and sisters, but I can see now that it was all beautiful. It was like the Rembrandt pictures in one of Father's books, all different shades of brown with sometimes a soft, golden light. I believe it was a good place for a child to be for a while."

Now, when Ellen entered, Stephen put aside his book and called her.

"Come here, Ellen."

Ellen sat down. Her cheeks glowed; her dark blue suit fitted closely her round figure; the eyes of Beatrix Esmond were no more shining, the head of Anna Karenina no more beautiful in shape. Stephen feasted his eyes, picturing her in dresses such as Hilda had worn, her smooth young flesh emerging flower-like from a gleaming sheath of delicate satin. She pushed her curls back from her forehead.

"How were the relatives?"

"All well."

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Trunk packed?"

"Yes."

"Have you said good-bye to Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane?"

"Yes. Each of them gave me a present."

"Are you sorry to go?"

"I'm coming back," said Ellen, smiling. "This seems like a dream. Fetzer thinks I've made a mistake; she meant to train me into her position." Bright tears came into her eyes. "I think of my Father."

Stephen rose and crossed to his desk. He did not at that moment wish to think of Ellen's father. Ellen rose also.

"These are your tickets and here is your money. Your tuition is in the form of a check to the University. I thought it would be simplest that way."

"It's all to be paid back," Ellen reminded him.

Stephen smiled. He had begun to expect her to pay it back, but not exactly as she understood. She took the checks and the tickets, struggling meanwhile against tears. Then she lifted her head and stood like a young Victory, breasting the winds. She pictured no specific happiness, but only a general brightness. Every experience in the world which was worth while awaited her.

When her eyes met his, her heart began to beat heavily. She did not realize that life with its strange chances had dealt with her hardly; that she should have been bound not to middle age, but to free youth. She wished above everything in the world that he would again lay his hand under her chin and that she might turn her cheek against it.

But Stephen did not move. He knew that he might touch Ellen, knew that she half expected to be kissed, and he believed that a sense of honor restrained him. In reality prevision governed him; he knew that the present must sometimes be sacrificed to the future.

"You'll write once a week," he said more as a command than as a request. "You'd better put your letter into the form of a report of what you've been doing."

"I promise," said Ellen.

Fetzer escorted her to the train and bade her farewell with regret for the loss of a congenial companion. For the loss of Ellen's help she was not at all concerned, though she had no intention of engaging any one to take her place. She would do all Ellen's work herself. Life in the Lanfair house would henceforth be very simple. Keener than her one consuming passion was now a consuming dread. Her husband's term was almost out and the Lord to Whom she prayed had but one more year to convert him and take him home; otherwise there was only one course for her.

Ellen took the seat indicated by the porter, with an air which declared that travel in parlor cars was not a new experience. She was determined not to seem puzzled or frightened or even over-pleased by the fortunes which dazzled her.

Having no knowledge upon which to base dreams of the immediate future, she turned after some vague speculations to the past. Her early life, she realized, was now behind her; she could not but feel, though she reproached herself, a deep relief. Her relatives were all troubled and she would have been glad to help them, but she knew no way. To live at Matthew's—how impossible! To become the leader of a band of religious women—how unthinkable! To her, religion was Grandfather's religion. To marry Amos!—most impossible of all! She would never marry; she would devote herself to her profession; she would apply herself with the most intense diligence, and would make Dr. Lanfair proud of her. She leaned back and closed her eyes, determined to become indispensable to him in a far greater degree than Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane together. Her admiration for his keenness of mind, his learning, his goodness of heart was unbounded.

When she was shown into her room in the third story of an old dormitory, her pathway seemed to be literally of gold. Flooded with late sunlight, the room faced west and north and looked out over the beautiful campus and the lake. She set down her satchel and walked to the window and stood looking out, comparing this scene with the scene of her first adventure, Mrs. Lebber's house overhanging the deep chasm of the railroad yards, its grime and the shower of sharp particles which fell upon her cheek at night. Here were roofs and towers showing above broad tree-tops; yonder was a stretch of heavenly blue water.

Presently she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Was it all a dream? The thick beating of her heart frightened her. She forgot her father's urging, her own unabated effort, Miss MacVane's assistance; it seemed to her that this happiness was Lanfair's gift. She began to put her small properties in their places, to examine wardrobes and bureau and desk.

As the weeks passed, she made friends slowly. She was not frightened by the complex life of the University, though at first it confused, nor by the long task before her; but she was shy in the company of youthful feminine creatures of all varieties of appearance, natures and histories. She had been associated with comparatively few persons and she was not accustomed to sharing her thoughts. The men students were entirely negligible; she knew that she was the object of their friendly curiosity, but she made no response to overtures for acquaintance.

She did not try to overcome her indifference, but devoted herself to one purpose and one alone. She had, as her father had realized, the student's mind. Her work had been planned for her by Stephen and Miss MacVane, and she gave herself wholly to acquirement. Her schedule did not point, except for one course in elementary biology, to medicine; she was to study English literature and composition, American history, French, Latin, and the history of art, and she became promptly what students called a "grind."

Nowhere else in the world is it easier to live the life of a hermit than in a university. To each student is offered a certain amount of social attention, but he is under no obligation to accept, and is soon left to himself if he indicates that isolation is his preference. Ellen made one friend, Miss Grammer, a quiet graduate student from a Western State who helped her with the arrangement of her programme and with whom, when the first adjustment was over, she went about with a tourist's eagerness. They listened enchanted to the chimes; they climbed the tower to watch them played; they gazed at mortuary marbles in the chapel and explored the deep, beautiful gorges which on two sides bounded the campus. As a graduate student, Miss Grammer had access to a Seminar room in the library, and thither she took Ellen to spend the long evenings. There on a window-seat, with the twinkling lights of the town below her and the lake hiding in the darkness beyond, Ellen learned her lessons, studying sometimes with a strong effort of the will because a dreamy contemplation of her good fortune tempted her. An elderly professor of history, adored by Miss Grammer, exhibited to them the hidden treasures of the library. He was a man of eager intellectual life to whom most young persons seemed dull, and he smiled at Ellen's profound attentiveness to all that he said until he observed that she followed up each uncomprehended allusion. The first mention of Benvenuto Cellini was answered by a puzzled flash of eye, the second by a nod of understanding. Ellen had meanwhile consulted an encyclopÆdia.

Miss Grammer had a small fortune and it was her dream to settle in some college town for life, buying a little house and taking in with her a congenial friend. She had found, she believed, her congenial friend. Every one formed, sooner or later, plans for Ellen.

Neither Professor Anderson nor Miss Grammer realized that what they did was each week minutely recounted. Ellen had written few letters, and none had been in the least like those in which she now found delightful occupation. She described her room and the campus and the color of the lake and the foam on the waterfalls and the red oak foliage against the pine trees. She described all her teachers and some of her fellow students and the chimes and the mortuary chapel, with its stiff marble effigies, and the chapel service and the sound of music across the open spaces of the campus. She wrote on Sunday, carried her letters with her to vespers, and mailed them afterwards.

Stephen received the letters on Monday evenings, and read them with delight. His own youthful response to music and art and poetry came back to him; it had been less articulate, but it had been no less keen. Ellen's descriptions reconstructed for him not only her own pleasure, but his, and he kept them in a drawer of his desk in the library and reread them often. It was possible then to see life again, freshly, even more intensely, through the eyes of youth!

He wrote briefly in reply. He was busy and so were Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane and Fetzer. Miss MacVane's eyes were better and all the women-folk sent their love. He was glad to hear that her theme had been approved and that her history mark was A.

In December his letters carried a more definite message. He said that both he and Fetzer would be away for Christmas and that the house would therefore be closed. He would be in New York and Fetzer would pay her annual visit to the penitentiary, where on account of his good behavior her husband would be allowed to see her. How would Ellen like to stay at school for the first part of the holidays and then come to New York to meet Fetzer, the excursion to be his Christmas gift?

The letter read as though it had been uttered in Stephen's quiet voice, but there had been nothing quiet about the hand which penned it or the mind which planned each detail of the visit. To observe youth's reactions to New York—how rejuvenating that would be!

Ellen traveled by night, according to directions. The journey might have been made by day, but Stephen had told her to start on a certain train. He had done so with deliberation—he wished her to learn independence. With hot cheeks he pictured Ellen traveling across seas and continents to meet him.

Fetzer had taken, the evening before, the luxurious quarters engaged for her and in the morning she went with Stephen to the train. She always did exactly as he bade her, but this was the first time she had put herself in danger of life and limb at his command, and she made of her alarm, as her taxicab threaded its way through the streets, an offering of affection.

Stephen brought a pale Ellen from the train and put the two women into a car.

"See that she gets a rest. I'll be up to lunch at one."

In the Belvoir Fetzer felt at ease—here was one spot which she had made hers and here she exhibited an air of proprietorship which impressed even the porters. Her own kingdom—she would like them to realize—was no less grand than theirs!

Stephen, coming to the door to escort his guests to the dining-room, looked not the least like pedant in charge of pupil, which character he bore in the mind of Fetzer. Freedom from anxiety and a new interest in life changed him visibly, straightened his shoulders and quickened a little his deliberate voice. He had read "Conrad in Quest of His Youth," he knew exactly what had revived him. He had talked all the morning with a rising young surgeon about an operative form of inflammation of the cornea, and had observed that the young man had come far less directly than himself to his conclusions.

He looked with delight at a refreshed Ellen who moved without embarrassment through the lobby where a hundred pairs of eyes watched her, and who walked, still unperturbed, the length of the dining-room. When his order was given, he told his guests his programme for the afternoon.

"We're going to the Metropolitan Gallery. Fetzer, did you bring your crocheting?"

Fetzer said, "Now, Doctor!"

"Good! You won't want to listen to all the preaching I mean to do and we'll leave you in a snug corner."

"Well," assented Fetzer, "I have a little rheumatism in the knees. I guess it will be better to sit still."

Having climbed the main stairway of the museum, with a supporting hand on each side, Fetzer was escorted to a comfortable seat in a warm room. She still looked with approval upon this man of important affairs who interrupted the course of his busy life to be kind.

"There are a few pictures I want you to look at closely to-day," said Stephen. "The others we'll pass by for the present. I want to give you a general view of the whole thing. Nothing wrong with your knees, I hope?"

"She's young," said Fetzer. "She'll get there yet!"

Stephen looked at the glowing creature beside him.

"Ever been sick in your life?"

"Never."

He continued to regard her—youth!—ah, nothing else was worth while. A light shiver passed over him. Then he laid his hand on Ellen's arm.

"In this room is a collection of primitives. They are enormously valuable in showing the development of art. I want to show you a Madonna and a single portrait of the period. See the grace and the lovely tenderness and then the flatness of the whole thing. Here is a real portrait—see the shrewd eyes and the kindly expression. But in the main they're valuable only because they're first."

"Professor Lamb wouldn't agree with you," answered Ellen, amazed. "He thinks that in some details they've never been surpassed."

Stephen listened with attentive, smiling eyes to illustrative allusions to Giotto and Cimabue. She should some day see Giotto and Cimabue! There was in Florence a dim church whither he had once gone alone; thither he would sometime go with a companion. He pointed out a few landscapes, a portrait of Walt Whitman, a Salome in yellow, a little woman in a white head-covering opening a casement window, three boys swimming in a green sea. Ellen's cheeks grew a deeper red—she had now no opinions. Her blood was quickened by Stephen's touch. Did she feel weariness? She would have walked till to-morrow.

At the end of an hour the two returned to Fetzer.

"I haven't heard one single word of English since we came, and it isn't Pennsylvania Dutch either. Nothing but outlanders. Where do they come from?"

Stephen explained the appreciative foreign population; then again he took Ellen by the arm. The museum had been his refuge a score of times while Hilda selected beautiful clothes or lay abed. He had made it a point of pride to know it thoroughly.

"I want you to get the impression of a voyage through the world. You must come often and stay all the time of your visit in just one section—here, for instance, and think of the pyramids and the palms and the yellow sand and the Sphinx and the Egyptian girl who wore that jewel in her brown ear, and of the jealous lover who stabbed her to the heart with that dagger, and of the tents of the Arabs on the yellow sand.

"And here you may think of ladies in voluminous skirts and tight waists and high-heeled slippers, who made love to gay gentlemen under this rococo ceiling and prinked before these mirrors." Stephen stopped before a mirror and looked into the dark eyes reflected there. In imagination he kissed Ellen's red lips. For him as well as for her it was a golden hour.

"Do you suppose I'll ever see it again?" asked Ellen sadly.

"Certainly!"

"With you?"

There was a savage defiance in Stephen's "Why not, pray?"

Ellen sighed; she had expected her father to show her the world, and she had been disappointed. Then Stephen's closer touch restored her content.

"Le ProphÈte" is not the greatest of operas, but the greatest tenor and one of the greatest sopranos were to sing and there were new and gorgeous stage-settings—it would serve as a good primer for Ellen. Stephen was amused when he thought of Fetzer and the display of women's bodies in the boxes, pitiful, thin bodies, and unpleasant fat bodies, and watching, he read her thoughts. Fetzer had, however, an advantage, she needed to look with but one eye, and that she fixed upon the stage where she found plenty to occupy and amaze her.

On Sunday he took his guests to service in an unfinished cathedral, so that Ellen might comprehend mediÆval deliberation and understand how Chartres and Amiens were built—he expected to show her Chartres and Amiens—and in the afternoon he took her alone to hear a Russian pianist. She sat quietly and for a while he forgot even her. When he turned toward her at the end of a number, she was looking at him.

"This is best of all," said she, to his supreme content.

They walked down Fifth Avenue in the late sunshine. It seemed to Ellen that every one was happy, but none so happy as she.

"But it seems wicked!" she declared suddenly.

"What seems wicked?"

"To be so happy and so gay."

Stephen recognized a lingering impression of early teachings. None of that, he was determined, should be left in Ellen! He needed no narrow creed, either for himself or for her.

"That is nonsense. That feeling is wicked!"

Then Ellen asked a question which was prompted by a hunger to share his interests, and which might have been invented by the deliberate and cunning art of a much older woman.

"You said you were going to talk to a young surgeon yesterday morning. Did you?"

Stephen plunged into an explanation. To be conducted back to the passion of his life was all that was needed to complete his happiness. He spoke rapidly, his hand still clasping her arm. He was old enough to appreciate the value of a companion moulded by one's self. His thoughts were clear; he saw even farther into the subject than he did yesterday. She was not only companionable, she was inspiring, she was essential to his well-being—he would never, he said to himself, give her up. Youth, ah, he could win it back!