The squire stayed for fifteen minutes with Alvin Koehler; when he left, Alvin was limp; he sat in his little house and wept. Hitherto in his life Alvin had had grave difficulties; he had been unhappy in his poverty; he had been embarrassed by the queerness of his father; he had been disturbed when he feared that Katy Gaumer would not keep her promise and help him go to school; he had been terrified by the behavior of the Millerstown children and by the overshadowing cloud of his unpaid bills.

But now a new emotion filled his heart and weighed down his spirit. He was now, for the first time, bitterly ashamed. He had told the squire all his misery; his debt to the storekeeper, to the landlord, to Sarah Ann, to Katy, to the coal dealer, to the jeweler, to the tailor. He had a notion that in thus confessing he was doing penance. He had also a vain and foolish hope that the squire might offer to help him.

"I am turned inside out," he mourned when the squire had gone. "There is nothing to me any more."

It was on Friday that Alvin was caught, wire in hand, investigating the contents of Katy's putlock bank. That night he did not sleep. He sat by his table, pencil in hand, contemplating the problem which confronted him and trying to work out a sum in proportion. If he owed Katy two hundred and fifty dollars, and Sarah Ann Mohr twenty dollars, and the landlord fifty-eight dollars, and the coal dealer fifteen dollars, and the tailor thirty dollars, how much of his next month's salary should justly go to each—provided, of course, that he were not summarily dismissed from his position and thus deprived of his salary? Over the difficult problem he fell asleep toward morning.

He did not go to Sarah Ann's for breakfast, a fact which caused Sarah Ann no uneasiness, as he usually took advantage of the Saturday holiday to sleep late and thus make a good recovery from the exhaustion following his arduous association with the Millerstown children. Besides, another subject had this morning the whole of Sarah Ann's attention and the attention of Millerstown. Cassie Hartman had died suddenly in the night.

Nor did Alvin go to Sarah Ann's for dinner, but supported life with some crackers and apples which were in his house. It seemed to him that the passers-by looked curiously at his dwelling; he was certain that the story of his difficulties had spread over Millerstown. Who could ever have dreamed that Katy would treat him so shabbily?

Late in the afternoon there came a ponderous step along his board walk and a knock at the door. Terrified, Alvin sat still until the rap was repeated, then he opened the door a tiny crack. Without stood a no more terrifying person than Sarah Ann.

At sight of Sarah Ann, however, Alvin trembled. Sarah Ann had again reminded him, gently but with firmness, that her Thank Offering was long overdue.

"I made it up out of the money I keep for regular collections, Alvin," Sarah Ann had explained. "I keep that money in a little can. But now that little can is empty. I have nothing for General Fund."

"I cannot pay you." Thus Alvin greeted her miserably through an inch-wide crack. "I will try to pay you sometime, Sarah Ann, but I cannot pay you now."

"I am not here for pay," protested Sarah Ann, weeping. "It is not a day for collecting money in Millerstown. Poor Cassie is gone."

"Cassie?" repeated Alvin, vacantly. So engrossed was Alvin with his own joys in time of joy, and with his own sorrows in time of sorrow, that persons not immediately associated with him disappeared entirely from the circle of his consciousness.

"Why, yes, Cassie Hartman, David's mom. David is now an orphan."

Alvin shook his head solemnly at this intelligence, remembering that he was practically an orphan, too. Beyond that he did not consider the situation. He felt no satisfaction at the Hartmans' misfortunes; he had never cherished any animosity toward them, but only a vague envy of their worldly possessions.

"I am here now to see why you do not come to your dinner," went on Sarah Ann. "The folks say you are not going to get married, after all, Alvin. Is it so, Alvin? I thought you were sick. I had Sauerkraut for dinner, but still you did not come. I can heat it for supper. Ach, there is nothing but trouble in this world!"

Alvin desired to tell Sarah Ann all his woes. Like the Ancient Mariner, he would find relief in recounting the story of his griefs. But he was now too weak to do anything but select a hat from the row hanging behind the door. So low was he in his mind that he chose the shabbiest one of all. Then he followed Sarah Ann down the street. It seemed to him that there were many inches between the front of his body and his vest. He was certain that he had lost many pounds, and he thought that perhaps he would waste away. That, he decided gloomily, would be one solution of his troubles.

Once fed, Alvin felt his spirits rise. There was that in Sarah Ann's substantial victuals which was calculated to put heart into a man, there was tonic in her urging, tearful though it was.

"Ach, a little pie, Alvin, if it is you good enough! It is not to-day's pie, but yesterday's pie, but it is not yet soft. Some pies get softer than others quicker. Ach, a little rusk, too, Alvin! It stood round long enough already. Take jelly for on it, Alvin. Rusk is not good without a spread. It is too dry."

When Alvin had finished the first course, he no longer felt physically shrunken; when he had finished the second, he had ceased entirely to be conscious of the deadly twist of Bevy's grasp upon his ear. Of Katy and the squire no amount of food could hearten him to think.

But when he had finished his supper and had thanked Sarah Ann and had shut himself out of her pleasant kitchen into a cold damp night, he remembered that he had no place to go. On other Saturdays he had sought the home of Bessie in the county seat, but he could not go there now.

"I have no father and no mother and no friends," mourned Alvin to himself. "I am an outcast. I must go back to my cold house."

The wind made the limbs of the trees creak above his head; loose bricks sank sloppily under his feet, splashing his ankles; his heart sank lower and lower. The street lamps burned dimly; as most of the citizens of Millerstown sat in the kitchens, the fronts of their houses were dark and inhospitable. For his own lamp at home he had no oil and no money to buy oil. But home he must go. He saw ahead of him two men, one tall and young, the other broader of shoulder, and not so tall. He recognized them as the squire and David Hartman; he realized dully that David had just come home to his empty house, but his thought accompanied the two men no farther than the next street lamp.

There, mental as well as physical light flashed into Alvin's gloom. The Improved New Mennonites were in the midst of a series of meetings; into the misty darkness of the street their light shone pleasantly, into the lonely quiet their song poured cheerfully. Here was an invitation.

At once Alvin turned his steps toward their little church. He remembered with a thrill, a weak thrill it is true, but none the less a thrill, Essie's pretty face, her curly hair, her friendly glance. To a church every one was welcome. He went in and sat down humbly in the last pew,—no high seat for Alvin in his present state of mind! He saw in the front row no little, round head of Bevy Schnepp with its tight knot of hair at the back. Involuntarily and with great relief Alvin lifted a hand to his own head.

The preacher either directed his sermon toward Alvin, or else happened accidentally upon a text applicable to that young gentleman's condition. He reproved those whose hearts were set on worldly possessions, and Alvin groaned within himself. Doorknobs were a sign of pride—Alvin had himself set a glittering knob upon the jamb of his front door. Organs in the parlor were a snare—Alvin had long since discussed the purchase of a piano with a piano dealer. Fine clothes spelled perdition.

Poor Alvin began to wish himself out upon the dark street. If what the preacher said were true, then he was lost. It is hard to say what Alvin's views of the preacher's discourse would have been if he could have continued to call his own his dear belongings. Now that they were to be taken from him, he felt that it was wrong ever to have had them.

Then, in the depths to which he sank, Alvin longed again more desperately than ever to make confession and to be absolved. He could not endure another listener so hard-hearted as the squire; he craved a sympathetic ear, a tender eye,—a feminine eye and ear, in short.

The sermon ended, pretty Essie went to the organ. Facing the audience she looked at each one, sighing a little at the dullness of life. Then Essie's lovely eyes brightened. Alvin Koehler was here! Alvin's gaze was upon her; Alvin, in spite of the unusual disarray of his clothes, was still handsome; his eyes responded to her glance before she looked down at her music. During the course of the hymn Essie looked at him again; gradually her eyes narrowed; into them came a startled expression. She could see the change in his appearance; his jauntiness was gone; he was no longer the accepted lover. Into Essie's eyes came an intent expression like that which brightens the eyes of a hunter as he sees the approach of his game. Alvin was not himself; he was in trouble. Unconsciously Essie quickened the time of her hymn so that it changed from a dirge, intended to soften the hearts of the impenitent, to a gay, triumphant measure. Fortunately, the hymn was already near its end; there was no chance for the preacher to observe the quickening of the tune.

Waiting outside the door, Alvin joined Essie as she came from the church. Her father lingered within to talk to some of his members; there was opportunity for long and earnest discourse as Alvin walked by the side of Essie.

"You see how it was," said Alvin from time to time. Or, "That was why I did it!"

"She made me get everything ready," complained Alvin, bitterly. "Then, when I had gone to all this expense and was in debt to it yet, she wouldn't have me, and I had used my salary ahead, and I—I took a little money to help myself out. It was money I might have had if I had asked. But I didn't like to ask. It was in a way, you might say, mine. But I meant to put it back, Essie!"

Wisely Alvin entered into no further particulars, nor did he tell the name of the person from whom he had taken the money. Somehow Essie got the impression that it was the squire. That impression Essie was allowed to keep.

"Then you have sin on your mind." Thus with glowing cheeks Essie diagnosed Alvin's case. In reality Alvin had no sin, but the fear of punishment on his mind.

"Yes," he said.

Essie's cheeks glowed more brightly; she clasped her hands. She was not only curing the invalid, she was binding him to his physician forever.

"You must make everything right," she declared. "Everything down to the last penny. Then you will have peace, Alvin, and not before. You must go back to your childhood. Can you remember anything else you did?"

"I took cherries from trees already," confessed Alvin. "I put once five cents in the church collection and took six cents change out. I took often the cakes that Bevy Schnepp baked and put in a hole for—for"—here Alvin had the grace to gulp mightily—"for other children. Ach, Essie!" Alvin was terrified by the stern gaze bent upon him. He had expected to take her hand, to lay his head on her shoulder, to touch her soft cheek. It was a long time, or it seemed a long time, since Alvin had touched a soft cheek. But instead of soothing him, Essie grew each moment colder and more distant. "Don't turn away from me! I will do everything you say. What shall I do?"

"You must make all these things right," commanded the young judge. "That is the only way."

"Dare I, then, come to see you, Essie? You will not turn me off?"

"You must make it right with all these people," insisted Essie again. She had taken Alvin into the little sitting-room of her father's house. She rose now and moved to the back of her chair as though to put a barrier between herself and Alvin.

Alvin went home and sat him down at his table. The March wind had begun to blow again; Alvin's fire was pitifully small; he anticipated the dreary Sunday with horror.

"Oh, my soul!" wailed poor Alvin. "Oh, my soul!"

Once more he set himself to work with paper and pencil. There was Sarah Ann—he had often picked raspberries as he passed along her fence, but Sarah Ann would willingly forgive him. It would be ridiculous even to ask Sarah Ann. Mom Fackenthal would forgive him also for the cherries he had taken. There was Bevy—to banish this gnawing misery from his heart he could approach even Bevy.

When he had determined upon a course of action, he went to bed and slept soundly. The course of action, it must be confessed, would seem very strange to a person of common sense. But Alvin did not have common sense.

In the morning he slept late; in the evening he went to the church of the Improved New Mennonites. He would walk home with Essie, he would talk over his plans with her. Even a medical clinic involving the shedding of blood would not have been altogether unpleasant to Alvin if he could have been the subject.

But Essie would scarcely speak to him. She wore under her chin a blue bow, about as much of a decoration as her principles would allow, and she was an alluring spectacle. When Alvin stepped to her side, she asked him a single question, her eyes narrowing again like a fisherman's.

"Have you made everything right?"

"This was Sunday!" Alvin reminded her.

Essie made no friendly motion, but shook her head solemnly and went on alone.

In the morning before school Alvin visited Mom Fackenthal.

"Cherries!" said that pleasant old lady. "It is not time yet for cherries. You want to pay for cherries?" Mom Fackenthal was slightly deaf. "You don't owe me anything for cherries. Cherries that you stole? When did you steal cherries? When you were little! Humbug! Not a cent, Alvin. Keep your money. Why, all boys take cherries, that is why there are so many. Are you crazy, Alvin?"

With Sarah Ann the result of his interview was the same.

"You took my raspberries, you say? Why, I planted those raspberries near the fence for the children. You were welcome to them, Alvin."

But the way of peace was not always so easy.

"What!" roared Bevy, furious because he dared to approach her. "You stole cakes off of me! I bet you did, Alvin. You want to pay me? Nothing of the kind. You pay Katy what you owe her. Get out of here!"

Threatened with the broom, Alvin stood his ground bravely. As a matter of fact, Bevy had been strictly charged by the squire to let no word of what had happened escape her. But there was no reason why she should not give Alvin a piece of her mind.

"You are good-for-nothing, Alvin. I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should think you would go and hide!"

Then upon the angry fire of Bevy's rage, Alvin undertook to pour the water of a pleasant announcement.

"I am going to join your church, Bevy."

"Nonsense!" shrieked Bevy. "Humbug! They wouldn't have you!"

Alvin grew maudlin in his humility.

"I wish you would like me a little, Bevy."

"The farther away you are the better I like you," shrieked Bevy like a fury.

The news of Alvin's strange seeking for forgiveness followed close upon the rumor that the lady of his choice had rejected him. Millerstown looked at him with interest and pity. Even the landlord and the coal dealer felt a slight softening of the heart. The children in school were obedient for the first time in months.

But there still remained several persons for Alvin to see. He had as yet not approached the coal dealer and the landlord. Nor had he yet interviewed his chief debtor. Her Alvin did not dare to visit. Nor did he wish to approach the landlord and the coal dealer until he had a little money. But until things were made right, Essie would have none of him. Monday evening Alvin devoted to thought. On Tuesday evening he paid a mysterious visit to the editor of the Millerstown "Star." On Wednesday evening he attended the prayer-meeting of the Improved New Mennonites. He was a little late because he had stopped at the post-office. From his pocket protruded a newspaper.

Without asking permission, he joined Essie on the homeward way; without invitation he followed her into the house. He drew the paper from his pocket and offered it to Essie. No one but an Improved New Mennonite or an acolyte of the Improved New Mennonites could have manufactured so remarkable a document.

"What is it?" said Essie as she took the paper.

"There," answered Alvin, pointing.

Essie's eyes followed his finger down the first column of the first page. Sarah Ann Mohr would find this week more food for thought and discussion in the Millerstown local news than in the account of men turning into lions.

"If I have done injury to any one," read Essie, "I ask that they forgive me. Alvin Koehler."

Essie's eyes did not lift from the page for a long time. When they did, they had ceased to burn. Since her first advent into Millerstown, Essie had longed for a possession which she considered precious. Now, at last, it was hers. Now, at last, also was there hope for Alvin.