The first sting of disappointment past, Ellen believed that she was glad that her Christmas journey had been made impossible. She might have betrayed herself, and the only light in her darkness was the hope of keeping Stephen's good-will. Her experience of human passion was limited; she believed that the simple fact that Hilda lived would keep his heart from wandering. Pure hearts, she believed, did not wander, nor did they seek those which were bound. To feel his eyes upon her in amazement, disapproval, or scorn—there was the one contingency intolerable and shameful.

Not once, during her self-examination, did she surmise that she was regarded in any other light than that of a beneficiary. Stephen was grateful to her father for some remembered kindness, he sympathized with her ambitions, and he had given her what must seem to him—however large it was to her—a little from his store. Fetzer's opinion that she had lifted her eyes to a distant and unattainable star was her own opinion exactly; indeed, to Fetzer he was not nearly so exalted a person as he was to Ellen.

She felt, alas! now that she understood herself, another humiliating emotion, jealousy of all who had anything to do with him, of Miss Knowlton who obeyed his commands, of Miss MacVane who kept his house, of Fetzer who might some day return to her post, of Professor Mayne who went about with him, even of the patients who saw him daily. One could become, it seemed, wholly ludicrous.

Another woman might have tried to conquer this passion because it could result only in misery and humiliation for herself, but Ellen tried to conquer it because it was wrong. It had not been wrong to love him; she had fallen blindly into that error—upon that she proudly insisted; but it would be sinful to continue. From the narrow theology of Grandfather and from the character of her father she had unconsciously constructed a code of behavior as rigid as Grandfather's precepts and as her father's probity. Her nature was developing rapidly, but in this respect it retained all its natural simplicity and innocence.

She determined, therefore, poor Ellen, that she would banish Stephen from the heart which he unlawfully occupied, and with this end in view she laid down specific rules for herself. In the first place she would think of him no more. In this determination she was not as childlike as she seemed for she planned for herself deliberate distractions. She would study still harder; she would respond to some of the friendly overtures which were continually made; and, above all, she would dream no more. She laid away the tiny watch which Stephen had sent her at Christmas—it was absurd to try not to think of him and then deliberately to recall him whenever she needed to know the hour! She went to a few dances, she received a few student callers, she even went walking four times with a graduate student who confided to her the history of his past and his hopes for the future. She decided drearily in March that she was conquering herself.

She would go to Harrisburg in June only for a day on her way to Ephrata. Her self-examination led her farther than her relations with Stephen, and she believed that in her preoccupation with herself she had been undutiful to her grandfather and to Matthew. When Miss Grammer, who had taken a cottage on the lake, invited her wistfully to go with her, she burst into tears.

"I wish I could. But I've written to my brother that I'm coming home."

Miss Grammer studied her gravely. Had the object of love died or had he been married? It was the former of these sorrows which she had suffered in her youth.

"You knew that you might come with me, surely, Ellen?"

"Oh, yes."

"You are tired," said Miss Grammer.

Spring breaks the best of resolutions of Ellen's particular variety. The willow branches turned a brighter yellow, the brook bubbled more and more loudly, crocuses and scilla enlivened the grass. Presently flowering shrubs bloomed; one walked in welcome shade where yesterday there had been sunshine; bees hummed in and out of classrooms where students nodded. Those who had studied ceased to be industrious and those who had been idle continued in their course. There was little talk of Avogadro's Law or of the Elizabethan spirit of Shelley; there was discussion of baseball games and boat-races. Envy was transferred from him who made high marks to him who, like the wise virgins, had provided against springtime by saving permitted absences.

On Memorial Day there was a boat-race and the students departed with few exceptions to the lakeside. A half-dozen, studious like Miss Grammer, worked in the library, their thoughts occupied with matters alien to boat-races, and others whose purses were empty sought points of vantage on distant hillsides. Only Ellen turned her back upon both work and play and went in an opposite direction. She meant this afternoon, while the struggle on the lake was in progress, to take herself to task.

She selected her battleground with poor judgment. One may win a victory over one's self as one walks on a frozen road or under the bare branches of wintry trees, but when one approaches the scene of conflict through beds of daisies and sweet clover one is weakened at the start. Even her physical strength seemed to be failing when at last she sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of a little wood and clasped her hands round her knees. The land fell in a gentle slope to the campus whose towers rose above the tree-tops. Beyond, and far below, the lake lay clear and blue. There was no house near by and there was no sound of the life of human beings, and nothing to take her attention away from her own problem.

She believed now that her obsession was a mortal sickness and that from it she could never escape; she hoped only to hide it and to proceed so that it might be unsuspected by others. She had tried since Christmas to put Stephen out of her mind and had failed. She had reminded herself that her affection was not and that it never would be returned. Indeed, it seemed to her that already Stephen's letters had grown more curt and businesslike; perhaps he understood and was trying to make clear to her the hopelessness of her situation.

She reproached herself for her blindness. It was upon the night when she had returned from the King Sanatorium that this had begun; she should have understood herself then, and not created for herself a fool's paradise. The effect of this emotion was like the effect of death, it colored everything. The universe had narrowed to a point. She did not realize how unlike most lives her life was, with its limited circle of acquaintances, and its intense affection for a few human beings.

The afternoon wore slowly on; far away the straining bodies of the rowers bent above their oars waiting the word to make a belated start, the thousands of spectators shouted, and presently the long observation train began to move with the boats. She should have been with her schoolmates in body and in spirit, but she did not even think of them.

Suddenly it seemed to her that some restraining band within her weakened and broke. In imagination she let her eyes devour Stephen, let herself be enfolded by his arms, lifted her lips to his. She uttered a sigh of complete abandonment; she began eagerly to comfort herself with reminders of his gifts to her, his smile upon her, his hand on a memorable occasion lifting her chin. When he had walked with her in New York, he had never let go her arm; when he helped her into his car his clasp lingered. She found herself speaking aloud.

"If I could only see him! I haven't seen him since last summer! If I only knew that he didn't despise me, that he thought of me, I shouldn't care for anything else. Then I could work once more. If I could only see him! Others can, and I would give my life for him!"

She heard dimly the cheering of a multitude. It must be that the race was won; the visitors could produce no such volume of sound. But her victory was not won! She rose and went down the hill to the road, her shoulders bent. Her childhood had been ended by her father's death, and now her youth was ended by this misfortune. She remembered, alas, a word of Amos's—"burn with sinful passion"—and she was filled with shame.

She crossed the deserted campus to the library, walking aimlessly, and descended to the cool corridor leading to the Seminar room. The door was open and she could see Miss Grammer at work within. Unheard, she stood looking at her curiously, almost as though Miss Grammer were dead. So that was what was left for one, that was what one became!