Fetzer did not sleep well the night before Ellen returned to college, nor had she slept well for several preceding nights. More than once during the past ten days she had been astonished, not by Ellen, but by her admired Dr. Lanfair, who on warm evenings took Ellen riding in his small car.

They rode along the pleasant river or on smooth country roads. On the outward journey, companioned by the setting sun, they talked. What Ellen had not told about her past, she told now. All that Stephen could remember of his European journeys, of France, of Italy, of the Alps, he recalled; new countries which he expected to see—with Ellen—he pictured from imagination.

Ellen opened her heart; his remained closed. He said nothing about his youth, his father, his marriage, his inner self, knowing that with reticence foregone, other inhibitions would be difficult. He still believed that some day he could honorably tell Ellen everything.

They drove home silently, their eyes upon the illuminated road and the bordering trees. Once, returning from Gettysburg, they saw a deer, blinded by the light, motionless, terror-stricken. The stopping of the car roused him from his paralysis and he sped into the woods. Their thoughts followed him to some deep refuge.

Wholly unsophisticated, Fetzer would have discerned nothing unwise in these excursions if she had not espied Ellen's look on the day of Stephen's return. She believed that Stephen was too modest to suspect that he was enshrined in this susceptible young breast.

She laid the last articles in Ellen's trunk, and when she went to bed she continued to mourn. The world was, take it as one might, a queer place. Then she turned on her side to sleep. Ellen was young; she would "get over it." After a while she realized that she had forgotten to say her prayers and she crept out of bed and knelt for a long time praying for many persons, but especially for Ellen.

Still she could not sleep. She reviewed Ellen's residence in the house. This last summer she had watched eagerly for the mail. Fetzer had believed that the letters which she looked for were from some college acquaintance; she realized now that they were Stephen's letters.

"He's not old." Fetzer was about Stephen's age. "And he's very good-looking."

Again she composed herself to sleep.

"He's perhaps a little too kind to people," she said after another half-hour, in her nearest approach to disapproval of her master.

In the middle of the night she began to think of her own troubles. The Lord had not answered her prayer; Jim was not converted, neither was he translated. His term ended on the first of February, and by that time she expected to await him in the Pennsylvania German village where they had been born and married and where everybody knew their history and his shame. She was not afraid; she believed that if he could be kept from drink and entertained he would be endurable, at least he would not be dangerous. If he did not do well—it was all the same, she was bound to him. It was as yet impossible for her to imagine herself in the little house with him, but she had no other thought than to go. She would still have Christmas, and then would come the inevitable misery. To her Duty was the "stern daughter of the Voice of God," indeed.

After Ellen had gone she began to put the house in order for her own departure, spending hours over each room, making lists in neat little books, and packing carefully Hilda's belongings so that if Stephen decided to give them away they could be shipped without repacking.

"If I get everything done, I'll then have a free Christmas."

Sometimes she walked from room to room adoring and sometimes for an hour she forgot that she was to go away. Then, as if in punishment for her forgetfulness, she found her husband walking with her or sitting close beside her at the table and on the doorstep in the evenings, his arm, his arm—Fetzer needed her prayers for herself!

Through the autumn Stephen was constantly occupied and constantly cheerful. He attended his patients with promises of improvement which did much to bring about improvement. Miss MacVane stood between him and overwork, and Miss Knowlton took upon herself a heavier burden than before. The period was one of supreme happiness for both women; they lived in a dream, each perfectly aware of her own state of mind and of that of her companion. Miss Knowlton, at least, was relieved by Ellen's absence; Ellen was to her like a fifth wheel. Stephen often sat on the edge of Miss MacVane's desk when the day's work was done and discussed cases with them. "We've had a good day, haven't we?" he would say, and Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton would scarcely be able to speak for satisfaction. They both believed that it was unlimited opportunity to work and freedom from anxiety about Hilda's behavior which made him happy.

Fetzer had formed the habit of returning promptly from church each Sunday evening and after carrying Stephen his late supper, of sitting with him for half an hour. She always told about the sermon, to which she paid the closest attention for this purpose. He seldom went to church, but with this failing she was lenient so long as she could carry religion to him.

When she finished her sermon outline she invariably inquired for Hilda, and then asked for directions for the coming week. She was happiest when he set her tasks, a complete change in the position of the office or library furniture or the planning of a menu for a dinner party of medical men. This fall he gave her few directions; he was satisfied with everything.

"And now I must go away!" mourned Fetzer.

One Sunday evening early in December, she carried him his supper and sat down near him in the only straight chair, a more comfortable seat being according to her code unsuitable. When she entered she saw him fold a letter and put it into his pocket, and recognized the size and shape. Poor Ellen—Fetzer hoped that she did not write as she had looked! Though she understood Ellen's earlier history, it seemed to her, all else aside, that Ellen had lifted her eyes to an unattainable star.

As Stephen praised her sandwiches and tea, and asked her about the preacher and the choir and the attendance, she quite forgot all her worries, forgot poor Ellen, forgot her wicked husband with whom she would soon have to live, forgot everything but her adoration. But she was soon recalled from her dreams. Stephen put aside his cup and began to walk up and down the room.

"Stay and gossip a while, Fetzer. We must plan a nice Christmas for Ellen."

Fetzer looked up startled.

"Is she coming for Christmas?"

"Surely!"

"But she didn't last year!"

"No, but we went to see her. This year she's to come home."

Fetzer began to smooth the seams of her black silk dress. It was a present from Stephen and she felt like a queen in it. She passed over the astonishing word "home."

"What do you mean by a nice Christmas?"

"Oh, wreaths and holly and flowers and a turkey and presents—such a Christmas as young people like. I don't suppose she's had a real Christmas for a long time. She was here two years ago, wasn't she? What did you give her then?"

"A white apron."

Stephen laughed and Fetzer began to tremble. It was her feminine duty to protect Ellen.

"Do you suppose it is best for her to come? On account of her lessons?"

"She won't have any lessons. Of course she's coming! Wasn't she here all summer?"

Fetzer said in her heart, "But you weren't here!" Aloud she said, "Does she know she is to come?"

"Know it? Why, this is her home, Fetzer—surely you understand that!" He stopped in his walk and looked down. Fetzer was not one to make difficulties. "I should think you'd be glad to have her. She's young, and youth is everything."

With a great effort Fetzer raised her eyes. She was not thinking of Stephen or of herself, but with deep unselfish concern of Ellen. It was hideous to want what one could not have!

"I should think she'd like to be with young people," she said with a little gasp.

Stephen had taken up his long stride; he stopped again and looked down. Rarely, and very rarely, jealousy of Ellen's young companions troubled him.

"She likes to be here!" he said sharply. "She—" Then he stopped short. Fetzer was still smoothing the seam of her dress. He was glad that he had not met her glance—he did not wish to betray himself. For an instant and only an instant he hated her, then he blushed for himself—good, devoted, innocent, unsuspicious Fetzer could have no doubts of him! "I may not be here all the vacation, but that makes no difference in her coming."

Fetzer lifted her tray and bade him good-night, and when she had put all the things neatly away, went up the stairs to her room and sat down at the window. She had not met his eye, but for the first time she had heard his voice speaking to her sharply. It had the effect of light as well as sound; dark corners were suddenly illuminated. There were his frequent letters, there were the automobile rides, there was his present eagerness. She had not seen his face when he greeted Ellen; who knew what his look had expressed?

"He's all alone," she said in an awed voice after a long time. "It's very, very hard to be alone.... He's had all along from the beginning a hard time.... It was a wonder that he stood it.... He deserved better in this world.... But this cannot be!" She spoke with childish simplicity. "This would be wrong!"

The next Sunday evening she carried Stephen his supper and sat down and gave him the outline of the sermon.

"It was on the subject of always having enough light to live by and it not making anything out if we have nothing else but that," she explained in her native idiom. The sermon, if one could judge by her pale cheeks, had moved her.

She inquired about Hilda.

"I so often think of her sitting down there when there is all this here."

Then she took her future happiness in her hands. Her husband could not live always and she had expected some day to come back; now she imperiled that prospect.

"I'm sorry that I cannot be here over Christmas," she said soberly.

"Not be here at Christmas! Why not?"

"He comes out the last of January."

Stephen looked up quickly. The absurdity of preparing for a month when a week would suffice did not at first occur to him. He had seen Jim Fetzer at the trial—he was a mad brute.

"You're not really going back to him!"

"Yes, I am."

"To live with him?"

"Who else has he?"

"Let him take care of himself!"

"But he's my husband"—Fetzer pronounced it "husbant."

"He'll shoot you again."

"No, I think not. He knows now what the jail is like."

"It seems an odious proceeding."

Fetzer returned his gaze. She was a human being and so was he, there was at this moment no distinction of rank between them.

"You would not leave her stick," she said.

Stephen swallowed the last mouthful of tea. There was something behind Fetzer's strangeness; it was ridiculous for her to leave before she must. If she went Ellen could not come! It was not possible that she was trying to spoil his plan! He rose and stood quite close to her.

"Why do you go before Christmas, Fetzer?"

A deep red flooded Fetzer's cheeks. On the left side the white scar lay like a hand.

"I must get my place ready for him. It is everything all run down. The fence must be fixed and I'm going to take water into the kitchen. I'm used to the conveniences here. I—"

Stephen too flushed crimson. He laid his hand on Fetzer's shoulder.

"Look up and tell me what you're driving at!"

"I mean that I must go."

"You mean that you're taking pleasure in deliberately spoiling my little plan for Ellen's Christmas!"

Fetzer looked at him appalled. Oh, that Ellen had never come to make life hard!

"You're making some sort of foolish pretense," he continued. "Don't you want Ellen to come here?"

After a long time Fetzer said, "No."

"Why not?"

"I think it isn't for the best."

"Why not?"

"It's hard on her."

"How so?"

Fetzer looked down at her folded hands.

"It's hard to want all the time what you cannot have, especially when you see it before you."

"What is there Ellen wants which she can't have?"

Fetzer rose, pushing back the light chair upon which she had been sitting.

"You know," she said quietly. "It is hard even for me to live here for some reasons, though I'm a little older than you and I'm a very ignorant Pennsylvania Dutch woman and I have this." She laid her hand across her cheek. "Sometimes I think how different everything might have been if I had been born different. Miss MacVane—I expect it is so with her and with Miss Knowlton too. But we are older and we can resign ourselves. But I'm sorry for this young girl, that everything should be spoiled for her."

"How spoiled?" Stephen asked the question as quietly as Fetzer had spoken, but his heart was not quiet. He was not, like her, unsophisticated, and he saw, not for the first time, his attentions to Ellen through the exaggerating medium of his own desire. He suspected with alarm that Fetzer had been prompted by some worldly-wise, discerning person. There were these other women in the house, there were Hilda's friends. Could some fool have meddled?

But Fetzer's prompting had sprung from her own heart, and it did not take into account any reputations before the world.

"Because nothing can come of it for her but trouble," she said, and went out of the room with dignity, not forgetting to say good-night or to lift her tray.