For a long time Katy lay motionless upon her bed. The shock of Uncle Edwin's announcement was overwhelming; it robbed her of power to move or think. When an hour later Aunt Sally tiptoed into the room, she found her still upon her bed, her face buried in the pillow, relaxed in what seemed to be a heavy sleep. Aunt Sally gathered her clothes from the untidy heap into which they had been tossed, and laid them on the back of a chair and drew down the shade so that the sun should not shine directly into the sleeper's eyes; then she closed the door softly and went down the steps.

Katy did not stir until the sun had vanished behind the western hills and the stars were shining. Then she rose and bathed her face and sat down by the window.

"I must think," said Katy. "I must now plan out my life in a new way."

Stubbornly she forced herself to face the event which made necessary this fresh planning of her life. Beyond the event itself she did not at this moment proceed. She beheld Alvin with his red tie, Alvin with his dark curls, Alvin with his beautiful olive skin, Alvin with his great, expressive eyes. Sitting by her window with the soft evening air blowing in her face, the odors of the garden rising sweetly about her, Adam's gentle, laughing voice, and all the other pleasant sounds of the Millerstown evening in her ears, Katy wept.

"Oh, Elend (Misery)!" cried she, after the manner of Millerstown in trouble.

After a while the voice of pride made itself heard. It was not Alvin whom she defended, but herself.

"No word of marrying was said between us."

"But he kissed you," reminded the inward voice. "You thought he would marry you."

To this Katy could return only the answer of flaming cheeks and a throbbing heart.

"And there is all the money you gave him!" reminded the voice within her.

"I said he needn't pay it back!"

"But you expected him to pay it back!"

"But he needn't!"

"An honorable person would pay it before he got married."

"He has no money! He has nothing to pay it with!"

"He had an agency for neckties! He has enough to get married!"

It seemed to Katy that a ring of queer faces mocked her. She had eaten only a mouthful of supper, and she was a little light-headed. She seemed to see clearly the "lady from away" of whom her uncle had spoken. Imagination, helped by recollection of the beautiful ladies in the Allentown stores, pictured her clearly. She was brilliant and beautiful and learned, and she dressed marvelously. She was probably an acquaintance whom Alvin had made at school; she was all that Katy longed to be.

Now there rushed upon Katy a new and terrible sensation. She had been envious of David Hartman because he was going away to school, but here was a new kind of envy which affected not only the mind but the whole being. She threw herself down on her bed once more and hid her face in the pillow and wept with deep, sobbing gasps.

Presently, the paroxysm of crying over, Katy rose once more and once more dashed cold water over her burning cheeks.

"I will not cry another tear," said she with stern determination. "I will now plan my life. I must first earn the fifty dollars to pay back the squire; that is certain. Beyond that is nothing—nothing—nothing in this world. My young life is ruined."

For an hour Katy sat by the window, her chin in her hands. Frequently tears dropped to the window sill, but she gave way to sobs no more.

"My heart is broken," declared Katy. "But I must live on. I will probably live to be a thousand years old. I wish I was with my good gran'mom in heaven. I wish"—said Katy presently, with a long sigh—"I wish I had been born into this world with sense."

By the time that the house had quieted for the night and the sounds of Millerstown's going about had ceased, Katy, too, was asleep. She stirred uneasily on her pillow, her hands now clasped under a scarlet cheek, now flung above her head. But she had outlined her working theory.

In the morning she appeared in good time for her breakfast. She had not been refreshed by her restless sleep, but the first sharpness of the blow was past. In the doorway of the kitchen stood Bevy, her bright eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"What is this I hear about Koehler's boy?" she asked Edwin Gaumer. "Is it so that he will have the Millerstown school?"

"It looks that way," answered Uncle Edwin. "He is a normal, and he has good letters from the normal about his work, and he comes from Millerstown and we should help our own; and besides nobody else wants the Millerstown school."

"A Koehler teaching!" Bevy raised her hands in an astonished gesture. "He is the first Koehler that ever knew more than A B C. The school board will get into trouble. This will never go. Where will he live?"

"He will rent a house. He is getting married after school takes in."

"Married!" shrieked Bevy. The suspicion that friendly relations existed between Katy and Alvin had grown to certainty. Now, furious as Bevy had been because Katy had so lowered herself, she resented Alvin's daring to attach himself to any one else. "What cake-not-turned will have him?"

"A lady from away. I think she comes from Allentown."

"You have right to say from away," sniffed Bevy. "No girl from here would look twice at him."

Katy turned her back upon Bevy as she lifted the breakfast from the stove to the table. Sharp stabs of pain pierced her. She would have to hear a dozen times that day that Alvin was to be married. The strain of listening to Bevy's comments was almost more than she could endure. It had been important before that no one should suspect that she was helping Alvin; now it had become absolutely imperative.

When breakfast was over, Katy started down the street to carry out her plan of life. Her dress was longer than was becoming, the spring had gone out of her step. She passed the store and the post-office and turned up Church Street, and there beheld approaching the object of her journey, who started visibly at sight of her. David had grown still taller; he wore still more elegant clothes; he would have found an even more cordial welcome to the societies of his college than would have been extended to him upon entering. He was certain that he could be graduated in June of the next year, and he was pleasantly aware of his position as the most wealthy and the most reserved student in college. David liked the distinction. His speech was now entirely English; he was certain that it would be impossible for him to blunder again. He had determined that when he had graduated he would travel; he would never live for many months at a time in dull Millerstown. David added another adjective to Katy's characterization of that busy, tidy village; he called it bourgeois. David had, indeed, soared high above the low plane of his origin! He had found among the few books in the Hartman house the pictures of Paris and Amiens and Canterbury, and had learned for the first time that his father had been abroad. The mystery of his father was thereby deepened. There was only one portion of David's heart which had not hardened; in that his father was enthroned. His father, he was convinced, had had great powers, but he was held to earth and to Millerstown by a cruel fate which had linked him forever to an unworthy companion. Thus had Cassie's son decided against her.

David was astonished to hear Katy call to him.

"Come here, please, David. I want to talk to you."

He crossed the street at once and stood looking down at her. He could not help seeing, even though he had relegated Katy forever to obscurity in Millerstown, that Katy had not become altogether unattractive. Her eyes no longer sought his brightly, she looked down or past him as he came toward her. He wondered what possible errand she could have with him. He felt his face flushing and he was furious with himself.

"How are you, Katy?" said he, his voice sounding strangely in his ears.

Katy did not hear his question. Her thoughts were fixed upon the plan of life.

"I want to speak to you about something, David. I was going to your house. The doctor said your mother was not well. I heard him say to the squire that she would have to have a girl to live with her when you went back to school. I would like the place, David."

David's eyes nearly popped from his head. It was true that his mother seemed feeble and that he had been making inquiries about a maid for her. But by such an offer as this he was dumbfounded. Had Katy lost her mind? No Gaumer had ever worked out. Her relatives were comfortably fixed; she would doubtless have some money of her own when she came of age. Where was Alvin Koehler, the despicable, to whom Katy had seemed attached? Had he heard her aright? He could only look at her and gasp out a foolish, "You!"

"I can work," said Katy, with a scarlet face. "I did all the work when my grandmother was sick for so long."

"Are you not going to school?" David grew more and more astonished as he became convinced that Katy was in earnest.

"I am not going to school," said Katy. "If I cannot get a place to work at your house, I will get a place somewhere else, that is all."

"Are you in any trouble, Katy?" asked David. "Can I do anything for you?"

Katy's head lifted. David Hartman was pitying her, asking to be allowed to help her. It was intolerable. She realized now how tall he was, how deep his gray eyes, how fair his white skin; she remembered her gingham apron, her debt, her disappointed hopes, every embarrassment and pain that had befallen her.

"There is nothing wrong, of course," said she coldly as she turned away. "That is all I wanted of you."

"Oh, but wait!" David went to her side and kept pace with her. He did not proceed with his speech at once. The old vision dazzled him, Katy in a scarlet dress, Katy laughing, Katy racing down the pike. It was abominable for her to become a servant—upon this subject, also, David's opinions had advanced. What in the world were her relatives about? But if she must live out, it would be better for her to work for his mother than to work at the hotel—the only other establishment in Millerstown which required the services of a maid. He would then have her in his house; the notion set David's cheeks suddenly to burning, his heart to throbbing. He wondered what room his mother would give her, where she would sit at the table, what she would do in the evenings when her time was her own.

"Do you want to engage me?" asked Katy, sharply; "or don't you want to engage me?"

"My mother will be only too glad to have you," said David, eagerly.

"I will come when your school opens," promised Katy, as she turned the corner.

"If I get a dollar and a half a week,"—the standard of wages in Millerstown was not high,—"it will take me thirty-three and a third weeks to save fifty dollars," reckoned Katy. "That will take from September till June. After that I do not think of anything. Perhaps by that time I will die. Then I do not care if they find out that I haven't my two hundred dollars any more."

Katy at home went on with her accustomed tasks. She was silent; she avoided her aunt and uncle, since any sudden, gentle address made her certain that she was going to cry. She put little Adam down whenever he wished to climb up beside her on the settle; she was to every one a trying puzzle. In her nervousness she had often a desire to stand still and scream.

One evening the squire came into the Gaumer kitchen. Edwin lay on the settle asleep, his wife sat by the table sewing, little Adam was long since in bed. Katy, too, had gone upstairs. Forgetting now that she had announced her intention of going to bed immediately, she left her place by the window to go down for a drink, and came face to face with the squire who was entering. The squire looked grave; he seated himself in Grandfather Gaumer's armchair as though he meant to hold court. In a flash Katy knew what he had come to say. Uncle Edwin sat up blinking, Aunt Sally dropped her sewing into her lap. The squire did not often pay calls so late in the evening.

"Katy," began the squire in a stern voice, "what is this I hear about you?"

Katy's hand was still upon the latch of the stairway door; she grasped it for support. She had thought that she was prepared for the coming interview, but she was now badly frightened. Never before had the squire spoken to her with anything but gentleness and affection.

"What do you hear about me?"

"Benner came in just now on his way from Cassie Hartman's. He had been trying to find a girl for her. She said that now she would not need one, that you were going to hire out to her in September."

Uncle Edwin blinked more rapidly. Aunt Sally's lips parted.

"Well?" said Katy.

"Is this thing so?"

"Yes," answered Katy, bravely. "There is nothing wrong in it. It is honest."

"You are going to hire out!" cried Edwin.

Aunt Sally began to cry. These tears were not the first she had shed on Katy's account.

"What for?" demanded Uncle Edwin. "You have a home. I told you we would send you to school. You need not even touch your money. What is this, Katy?"

"I want to earn my living, that is all." Katy's voice was dry and hard. "It is surely my right to earn my living if I want to!"

"Earn your living if you must!" said the squire, gruffly. "Of course you can earn your living if you want to. But go to school and learn to earn it right."

"I do not want to go to school."

The squire looked at her helplessly. Then he crossed the room and took her by the shoulders and seated her on the settle between Edwin and himself. He was a persuasive person; it was hard for any one to deny him what he commanded or what he requested.

"Katy, dear, are you in any trouble?"

Katy actually prayed for help in her prevarication.

"No."

"There is Edwin and here am I," went on the squire. "We are strong enough to do up anybody. Now, what is the matter, Katy?"

"Nothing," insisted Katy.

"You once wanted to sing," Aunt Sally reminded her. "You were wonderful strong for singing."

"Sing!" echoed Katy. "I, sing? I can only caw like a crow."

"You had such plans," said Uncle Edwin. "You were going to be so educated. You were going to bring home your sheaves!"

"I have more sense now," explained Katy.

She looked at them brightly. Her eyes measured their broad shoulders—how she longed to lay her heavy burden upon them! She no longer belonged to her kin, she was an alien; she had allied herself with Koehlers, with William Koehler who was a thief, with Alvin Koehler who scorned her. She would sooner die than tell what she had done. The Gaumers were not niggardly, but they knew the value of money. Even Katy had learned that it took thirty-three and one third weeks to earn fifty dollars!

"You must let me be!" she burst out wildly. "I am not a child. I have no father and mother and my dear grandfather and grandmother are dead. You must let me be! You are persecuting me!"

In an instant the stairway door closed in the faces of her astonished elders. Uncle Edwin got out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

"Millerstown will think we are ugly to her," he said.

"I do not care what Millerstown thinks," declared the squire as he rose to go. "It is what I think. In the name of sense what has come over the girl?"

In her room Katy threw herself once more upon that oft-used refuge, her bed.

"If I could forget him," she moaned. "If I only could forget him. It is not right to think of him. I cannot be learned, but I can be good. It is wrong to think all the time of him." She remembered various women in the village who loved inconstant, unfaithful men. "I am a Mary Wolle! I am Sally Hersh! I am a shame to myself!"

Three times before September the squire reasoned with her. Even the doctor ventured to remonstrate.

"No Gaumer has ever done such a thing before, Katy."

"Well, you," said Katy with spirit, "are not a Gaumer, so you do not need to care."

At her Bevy stormed.

"You surely have one rafter too few or too many, Katy. There is something wrong with your little house! Are you crazy, Katy?"

"Yes," answered Katy, thus nearly paralyzing Bevy Schnepp. "I am."

In September Katy took up her abode at the Hartmans'. Millerstown saw her go with wonder. She carried a little satchel and walked with her chin in the air. Millerstown gazed out doors and windows to see whether the thing it had heard could be true.

"Ach, Katy!" protested Sarah Ann, "are you not going to be high gelernt?" Sarah Ann suspected some difficulty at home; her sympathetic soul was distressed for Katy. "You can come any time and live with me."

"Won't you ever go to your uncle any more?" asked Susannah Kuhns, her frank inquiry voicing the curiosity of Millerstown.

Katy turned and faced them.

"Why, certainly I will. I will go there every day."

Alvin Koehler had opened the Millerstown school and had already rented a house from William Knerr the elder. Katy saw him almost daily; he had even stopped her on the street to tell her that he had not forgotten her. He exuded satisfaction with himself from every pore; he would even have told her about his Bessie if Katy had lingered for an instant.

"She is not so good-looking as she once was, Katy isn't," said Alvin as he looked after her.

David Hartman had gone when she reached his mother's house. Mrs. Hartman lay upon the settle in the kitchen. Her face was pale; she sat up with difficulty when Katy came in. She knew little of the affairs of Millerstown; she did not speculate about the reasons for Katy's presence in her house.

"It is a long time since my house was cleaned right," she complained. "We must begin at the top and clean everything. To-day, though, we will clean David's room. That is where you are to sleep. You can first scrub the cupboards and dust the books and put them away in the cupboard. He has many, many books and they gather dust so. Then stuff a dust-cloth tight under the door while you clean the rest. And take the bed apart so you can dust it well."

Mrs. Hartman lay down, breathless. The Gaumers had the reputation of being fine housekeepers; she hoped that her house would again be restored to cleanliness. Her son, with his untidy, mannish ways, was gone; peace had returned.

By Saturday Katy had become acquainted with the attic of the great house, the house which in her childhood had been to her the abode of Mystery. The attic, with its store of discarded but good furniture, its moth-guarded chests, was clean; it had been swept, whitewashed, aired, scrubbed, made immaculate. Each garment had been carried down to the yard, had there been beaten and sunned, and then had been restored to its proper place. Cassie, making her painful way to the third story, pronounced the work good. The next week the bedrooms were to be similarly treated. Into their magnificence Katy had peered, round-eyed. Here was no mystery, here was only grandeur. Thus Katy would have furnished her house.

On Saturday evening when work was done, Katy went down to sit with Aunt Sally. She was desperately tired; such toil as Cassie Hartman directed had not come within the Gaumer experience. But Katy was happier; that was plain even to the eyes of Aunt Sally, who shook her head over the strange puzzle. Katy had had no time for thinking. And into the putlock hole she had dropped a dollar and a half. The putlock hole was a safe bank; only a small hand like her own could reach into the inner depths into which she thrust her precious earnings.