The Project Gutenberg eBook, Walda, by Mary Holland Kinkaid

WALDA

A Novel

BY

MARY HOLLAND KINKAID

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS

PUBLISHERS ∴ MCMIII

Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

Published March, 1903.

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

For obvious reasons, the real name of the community described herein is withheld; but the scenes are pictured with almost photographic fidelity, and the life portrayed is the life actually led to-day by a religious co-operative community in a Western State.

WALDA

“So that is Zanah there at the foot of the hill? It is a pretty village, Hans Peter. Step more quickly with my bag. You are slow, my boy. Remember there is a quarter of a dollar for you in my pocket.”

The tall, broad-shouldered man who spoke took a few strides along the plank walk that led from the railway station to the village of Zanah, half a mile away. Then he stopped to light a cigar while he waited for the fat, short-legged figure that was bending under the weight of a large valise to overtake him. The man was in the early prime of life. When he took off the soft felt travelling-hat he wore, a strongly modelled head was silhouetted against the sky. He looked across the field of purple cabbages to the village that lay in the hush of the summer evening. The gabled roofs of the houses were half hidden by trees, but on a rise of ground the porch and belfry of a little church were plainly visible.

Hans Peter dropped his burden and, imitating the stranger, removed from a shock of straw-colored hair a cap mended with red yarn. The boy wore baggy trousers of blue denim buttoned to a blouse of the same material. The man smiled as he looked at the odd figure.

“Do you hear me, Hans Peter? There is a quarter in my pocket for you. I will find two quarters if you walk faster. Do you know what I say to you?”

The boy replaced his cap, nodded his head, and answered, with a German accent:

“Thou art talking to the simple one, the village fool, sir. But Hans Peter knows thou wouldst give him silver.”

It was the first time that the boy had spoken since the station agent had called him by name and told him to show the stranger to the inn in the village of Zanah, just across the hill. The man gave his guide a sharp look. Hans Peter had a round face that was as blank as if no human emotion had ever been written upon it. His pale eyes had a sleepy look, and yet there was nothing in their expression to indicate lack of intelligence.

“The village fool—nonsense,” said the stranger. “Here is one piece of silver. See if it can’t loosen your tongue.”

“Thy money belongs to Zanah, where no man is richer than another,” said Hans Peter. “I will give it to the Herr Doktor.”

“For a fool you speak well,” said the stranger, casting a glance of curiosity at the boy. “Why are you called the simple one?”

Hans Peter put his hands in his pockets and answered:

“It may be because I talk too much to strangers.”

The man laughed. He had a clear-cut, clean-shaven face, which was almost stern in repose, but when he smiled it was plain that the spirit of youth still dwelt in him.

“Well, Hans Peter, we shall continue our march to Zanah,” he said. “One, two, three. There! We are off at a better pace.”

He took the valise from Hans Peter, who began to trot along at his side. The lad was not taller than a twelve-year old boy, but there was something so strange about him that the man asked him his age.

“One-and-twenty,” replied Hans Peter. “If the Lord had not made me a fool, thou wouldst know that I have a man’s years.”

There was a little quiver in the voice of the village fool, and it touched the heart of the stranger. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, gently:

“Of course, I knew you were not a child. You seemed small beside me; but I should have noticed that you are a man. I am glad to know you first of all in Zanah, for I want you to be my guide while I am among the people, who are said to be different from those I know out there in the world.”

The boy raised his eyes to the western bluffs, which seemed to touch the crimson sky. Then he nodded his head.

“Hans Peter will do what he can,” he promised, “but the colony elders forbid us to talk to those who come from the wicked cities, where people live not according to the ways of God.”

They moved on through the cabbage-field, and the board walk presently led to a grass-grown lane that widened into the village street. The street wavered uncertainly between vine-covered fences which shut in old-fashioned gardens all a tangle of flowers. Back in the gardens were set stone houses with big chimneys and shut-in porches. On benches before the largest houses milk-pans and pewter plates were leaning against the weather-beaten walls. The diamond-paned windows reflected the gold of the sunset.

Up the street the stranger and the boy walked without meeting any one. They came to a straggling stone house with many wings that opened upon trellised verandas. It differed from the other stone buildings in not being surrounded by a fence. Its hinged windows were thrown open and white curtains flapped in the gentle breeze. Here the street broadened into a public square, the centre of which was occupied by a well. Hans Peter paused before the worn steps leading to the front door.

“Sir, this is the gasthaus,” he said.

The man looked up as if in search of a sign, but there was nothing to indicate that it was an inn.

“Where is the landlord?” he asked. “This seems to be a deserted village.”

Hans Peter stared at him.

“Where are the people who live in Zanah?” the stranger inquired, choosing words that the simple one would understand.

“I will go for Diedrich Werther,” the boy said. “It is the sunset hour, and the men and women of Zanah are busy getting all their work done before evening prayer.”

Hans Peter’s German accent reminded the stranger to ask whether it was true that few people in Zanah knew any tongue except the German. He had to make the question very plain, and then Hans Peter said: “It is only the fool of Zanah and the great men like the Herr Doktor that know English.” He appeared to be thinking hard for a moment, and after a pause he explained: “The English makes the wickedness of the world easy to learn. It is only the great men, who can put aside temptation, and the fool, whose soul is accursed, that cannot be harmed by it.”

The man gave the simple one a glance of surprise. He looked into the boy’s face for a moment.

“I am afraid the people of Zanah are not good Americans,” he said. “English is the tongue of the United States, and all should speak it, Hans Peter.”

Hans Peter shook his head.

“Some of our young men have learned the English and they have forsaken the ways of the colony to go out into the world. They have listened to Satan, and Zanah hath seen them no more. Two of our girls ran away. The elders worry much about the people, for it is hard to keep out evil things with the railway so near. We are forbidden to make images of anything on earth, but colored pictures are sometimes brought to Zanah.”

“The elders must have a hard task, indeed, if they would keep out sin, Hans Peter.” The stranger laughed. “I am afraid the great world will swallow up the colony some day.”

“The elders will be guided, sir. Zanah is waiting for Walda Kellar to speak with the voice of prophecy. She will be the inspired one who will guide the people of the colony.”

“Who is Walda Kellar?” asked the stranger. But the simple one was silent. The question was repeated.

“The fool hath talked too much,” said Hans Peter.

“Go call the landlord of the inn,” commanded the stranger, turning to seat himself in a splint-bottomed chair that stood in a corner of the veranda.

Diedrich Werther, the landlord, was slow in answering the summons of his chance guest. When he made his appearance he walked with deliberation. He was a short, stout man, with a red face, and he had a wisp of sandy hair in the middle of his forehead. His trousers, supported by knitted suspenders, were of such generous size that they reached nearly to his arm-pits. He wore a blue shirt and carpet slippers. He received his guest with a lack of hospitality which showed that visitors were of small importance in his estimation. After making a bow, which included the scraping of one of his carpet slippers as he bent his head, he looked at the stranger with unwinking eyes that revealed not the slightest sign of cordiality.

“Do you permit travellers to stay at your inn?” inquired the guest, first in English, but he received no response, and he had to resort to the German picked up in his student days at Heidelberg.

“Ja, ja,” said Werther, and he motioned to Hans Peter to carry the valise inside the inn.

“And can I have dinner here?” the stranger inquired.

The landlord shook his head. Dinner was at mid-day, but a special supper would be made ready after evening prayer. The stranger could rest in the big chair.

The church-bell rang out in solemn tones. It had not sounded twice before the street became alive. From every door issued men, women, and children. Gate latches clicked, and soon a silent, solemn line of villagers passed the inn. From his corner in the porch the stranger looked on unobserved. All the men were more or less like Diedrich Werther. They wore the baggy, ill-fitting trousers and the blue shirt which made the host of the inn of Zanah look like the figures on beer mugs. The women had on gowns of blue calico, straight and full in the skirts, and made with plain, gathered waists, over which were folded three-cornered kerchiefs. Black hoods, with untied strings, covered their hair. Most of the women of Zanah were stout of body and stolid of face. They walked on the opposite side of the street from the men. Among them were many young girls, with the beauty of face that health and innocence give. The church-bell ceased its ringing. Peering out between the vines, the stranger saw the meeting-house on the hill beyond a bridge on the other side of the square where the street began to climb the hill. One by one the villagers passed through its door.

The bell rang again. Into the little square before the inn came a man different from the others. He was tall and spare of figure. His oddly cut clothing fitted his body with snugness. A broad-brimmed, gray felt hat shaded a sensitive face marked with strong lines. Long hair, which fell over the wide collar of his coat, gave him the look of one who belonged to a past generation. Not old, and yet not young, this man of Zanah had an unusual beauty of countenance that bespoke patience and gentleness. At his heels trooped a dozen boys who quickly surrounded the well. Standing on moss-covered stones, they took turns dipping water from a gourd fastened to the curb.

The man of Zanah stood with his face turned in the direction whence he had come. Suddenly he doffed the gray felt hat and waited with uncovered head while three women approached the well. Two were like the many who had gone by within the quarter-hour. The third was young, and her beauty was of such rare quality that the stranger stepped out to the edge of the porch that he might better see her features. She was of more than medium height, and she walked with a majestic bearing. Her face, uplifted to the sky, was lighted by the sunset glow. Over her fair hair, which fell in two long braids below her waist, she wore a cap of white lawn, and the kerchief crossed upon her bosom was white. She appeared to be unconscious of the presence of the man of Zanah until her gown touched him. She turned her head and smiled with such sweetness and such friendliness that the stranger, watching her, felt a pang of envy. The man bent his head reverently, and the children stopped their play to make obeisance to her. When she had passed, the man of Zanah stood motionless for a moment. He was suddenly startled from his reverie by the simple one, who ran from the inn and grasped his hand.

For a third time the bell rang. The man of Zanah patted the fool on the head and turned towards the meeting-house. After he had gone over the bridge, the stranger hastened across the little square to the place where Hans Peter was left standing alone.

“Who is the man that has just gone up the street?” he inquired.

The village fool said it was Gerson Brandt, the school-master.

“And who was the girl—the one with the white cap?”

Hans Peter pretended not to hear.

“Was that the one who is to be your prophetess?”

Hans Peter was silent. There was a look of cunning in his eyes.

“Answer my question, Hans Peter,” said the stranger, with some impatience.

“The elders say wise men ask questions that fools may not answer,” replied the simple one, and then he ran away across the bridge.

II

The village of Zanah awoke at sunrise. Looking from the front window of the inn, the stranger, Stephen Everett, saw the quaint folk moving up and down the little street. In the porches of a near-by kitchen women were preparing breakfast. There was a strange quiet that at first oppressed the visitor from the outside world. The men and women were silent; the children walked with decorous steps; there was no unseemly laughter.

It was a perfect morning of late summer. Beyond flat breadths of fertile fields the bluffs rose gently, and hill-side and plain were dotted with vineyards. Winding roads led through interlocking trees from which birds were taking flight. The flowers, heavily laden with dew, gave out a delightful fragrance. In the sky was the pink flush of dawn, and the morning star still kept watch over the hamlet from which the bustling, every-day world was shut out.

The stranger in Zanah went in to breakfast, which was served in a long, low room that had a sanded floor. While he was standing at the table, upon which the blue-gowned women waited, Adolph Schneider, the head of the colony, came to him. Adolph Schneider showed that he was a man of importance. He was stout and bald. A grizzled fringe of beard encircled his chin, which, on account of his short neck, rested upon his black cravat. He had small eyes, set close together, and he gave the impression that shrewdness was the key-note of his character.

“I am president of the Society of Zanah,” he said, in good English, “and I am come to inquire wherefore thou hast visited the colony in which the Lord’s people try to do his will in all humbleness and meekness.”

The broad-rimmed straw hat that he wore set well down upon his ears: he had the appearance of retiring into it and his black cravat for the purpose of watching the stranger. Everett rose to meet him.

“Chance brought me here,” he said, looking down upon the Herr Doktor. “I am something of a student, and I want to see the books printed in Zanah. Perhaps you will sell some of them to me?”

Adolph Schneider leaned on the stout cane he carried to aid him in the difficult process of walking, for he had gout, which was the result of a long diet of fat meats, sauerkraut, and hot breads. He glanced at Everett with a look of suspicion.

“We have many strangers from the outside world,” he said, “but all come here to buy the blankets and printed cloths of Zanah. We have none who would look into our books.”

His small eyes rested upon the fine face of the stranger, and there was much in it to give any man confidence. The dark eyes had a frank expression, and the lips and chin told that they belonged to one who had command of himself while he was fitted to rule others.

“I have heard that your German books are good specimens of hand-work, and I coveted some of them because I am a collector,” said Everett.

Schneider looked puzzled and repeated the word “collector.” Everett explained about his library, and he was soon talking in the most friendly manner to the Herr Doktor, whom he persuaded to sit at the table and to drink coffee with him. When Everett had finished breakfast, they went into the front room of the inn, where Mother Werther, the landlord’s wife, sat behind a high counter keeping an eye on the dog-eared register and the blue china match-safe. Everett offered cigars to the Herr Doktor, who declined them, but was easily persuaded to try the tobacco that was produced from the pocket of the stranger’s coat. After they had smoked together Everett knew more about Zanah than he had expected to learn, although his direct questions had been parried, and it had required adroitness to obtain any information concerning the colony. The prospect of a sale of books melted the heart of the village president, who explained that he managed the money of the people.

“If thou wouldst see the books, come with me to the school-master,” said Schneider. “Gerson Brandt was an artist before he came into the colony, fifteen years ago. He hath a rare gift in the laying on of colors, and he hath made some of the books of Zanah good to look at.”

They walked along the quiet street, crossed the rustic bridge, and climbed the little hill to the meeting-house, which was a low stone building covered with vines. In place of the steeple a modest little belfry rose above the peaked roof. Beyond the meeting-house, and separated from it by a stone wall, was the school-house, such a rambling, weather-beaten wooden building as any artist would delight in. It was entered from a latticed porch with long seats on either side of the door. There was a garden in front of it—a well-kept garden, with trim walks and well-weeded flower-beds. Over the porch a sturdy rose-bush climbed. The hinged windows were thrown open and the buzz of children’s voices could be heard. Suddenly all sounds were hushed. Everett and the Herr Doktor ascended the wide steps, and as they were about to push open the door a woman’s voice rose in a hymn. It was a voice clear and sweet, and its minor cadence was sustained with wonderful power. The words were German, and the tune was monotonous, but the man from the outside world was strangely moved by the melody. Everett uncovered his head and listened reverently. Adolph Schneider leaned against the door-frame, smoking, as if he did not hear. When the hymn was ended Everett asked, in a low tone:

“Who is the woman that sang?”

“Walda Kellar,” answered the old man. He took several puffs of his pipe and then he added, “She is one called of God.”

The Herr Doktor lifted the latch and stepped into the long school-room, while Everett paused on the threshold. It was a strange scene that met his gaze. Seated in orderly rows, more than one hundred boys faced the school-master, who stood beside his high desk, but Gerson Brandt’s face was turned away from his charges; his eyes were fixed upon a figure that chained Everett’s attention. On the platform stood Walda Kellar. She was turning the leaves of a big Bible which was held before her by the village fool. The girl was as tall and straight as a sapling. The ample folds of her blue print gown did not hide the slender grace of her figure. The white kerchief crossed over her bosom revealed a rounded neck, upon which her beautiful head was well set. Her cap was white instead of black, like the head-coverings worn by the other women, and beneath it her shining hair curled about a broad, low forehead. The face was nobly moulded. Everett could not see each feature, but he knew that a pair of wonderful eyes were the glory of her countenance, which had an expression of exaltation he had never seen before on any face.

Back of the girl, knitting as if all Zanah were dependent upon her for winter mittens, sat a woman of sour visage. As her needles moved she watched the school-master and the girl. When Adolph Schneider entered the room Walda Kellar looked past him, and her eyes met those of the stranger with a look that betrayed no consciousness of his presence, although he blushed like a school-boy. Walda greeted the Herr Doktor with a slight inclination of her head. Then she whispered to the simple one, who closed the Bible, gave it to the school-master, and took his place on a stool near the teacher’s platform.

“Mother Kaufmann, we will go back to the kinderhaus,” said Walda Kellar. She spoke the German so that it seemed the most musical tongue Everett had ever heard. The elder woman rolled up her knitting and put it into the capacious pocket of her gingham apron.

“Gerson Brandt, thy boys are truly well behaved; thou hast done much with them.”

Walda spoke to the school-master, who bestowed upon her a look of gratitude and tenderness.

“It is thou who tamest all that is unruly in the children of Zanah,” he said. And then he walked down the narrow aisle between the rows of tow-headed urchins and flung open the door that she might pass out.

“Come hither, friend Everett,” said Adolph Schneider, advancing to the platform, where he met the school-master. “I want to make you acquainted with Brother Brandt. Brother Brandt might have had that bubble men call fame if he had continued to disobey the law of the Lord, for he made images of the earth and sky, which is forbidden in the commandments. But he forsook his idols before he was one-and-twenty and came into the safe refuge of Zanah.”

“Yet even now I long to behold great pictures,” declared Gerson Brandt, as if he were confessing some secret vice. “It is a quarter of a century since I have looked on one.”

“Tut, tut, Brother Brandt,” said Schneider; “if thou wilt talk of forbidden things, dismiss thy pupils.”

The school-master lifted his hand, and with a benediction sent the tow-headed boys homeward. The village fool alone of all the school remained in his place. With his head bent forward he appeared to be asleep.

“We have come to see thy books,” said Adolph Schneider, when he had taken the only chair in the room and placed his cane against the black-board. “Is that thy Bible that thou hast put so much work upon?” He pointed to the big volume from which Walda had been reading. It had a linen cover neatly sewn upon it, and might have been the wordbook so much thumbed by the pupils.

Gerson Brandt went to the desk, and, putting his hand on the book, answered:

“This is my Bible, and I have been making the letters that begin the chapters. I learned the secret of the colors long ago from a monk. It is no sin to make the Holy Book beautiful, for I have put in it no images, only the letters in colors that are symbolic.”

He spoke as if he were making excuse for some transgression, but the Herr Doktor laughed leniently.

“Surely Zanah hath no fault to find with thy book,” Adolph Schneider said. “I want the stranger to see the letters in it.”

Gerson Brandt opened the Bible, and as he turned the pages Everett, who stood beside him, felt an overwhelming desire to possess the volume. The old German text was printed upon parchment. The pages had broad margins, and the letters beginning the chapters were illuminated with designs so delicate and so minutely worked out that each repaid long study. The coloring was exquisite, and gold, of a brilliancy equalled in few books Everett had ever seen, was applied with a generous hand.

“How long have you worked on it?” he asked.

“Five years,” the school-master said, “and it is not finished yet.” Gerson Brandt loosened the linen that he might display the binding of calfskin. On the front cover was a monogram, but before Everett could decipher the letters the linen was replaced.

“This is a beautiful book,” said Everett, taking it in his hand and turning the pages. “I would give much for it. Will you sell it to me?”

Gerson Brandt’s thin face paled. He stretched out a trembling hand and seized the Bible as he answered, coldly:

“This book was not made to be bartered to any man. It is mine. If there is aught in it that commands thy favor it is because the making of the letters has been a pleasant labor done with all my heart.”

The school-master held the volume close to his breast. The simple one, who had not left his place on the stool, opened his eyes. The Herr Doktor glanced from beneath his bushy brows with a look of surprise.

“Brother Brandt, thou speakest without proper forethought,” said Schneider; “thou knowest that in Zanah all things belong to the Lord and that thou hast not the right to say ‘my’ or ‘mine.’”

A dull red swept over the face of the school-master, and in his eyes was a look that told of rebellion in his soul.

“For the good of Zanah we might be persuaded to sell this Bible,” the Herr Doktor continued. “It is worth a great deal of money, for Brother Brandt hath spent upon it much of the time that belonged to the colony. How much wouldst thou give for it?”

“I should not think of buying the Bible if the artist who illuminated it is unwilling to give it up,” Everett declared. The fear in the school-master’s face touched his heart. For the moment Gerson Brandt had lost the look of youth which strangely sat on features that told of suffering. There was a new dignity in the gaunt figure, clad in its queer garments. Gerson Brandt’s head was thrown back and his lips were tightly closed. The habit of repression, learned in the long years of colony life, was not easily thrown off, and he stood motionless while Adolph Schneider scowled at him.

“Wouldst thou think one hundred dollars too much for the Bible?” the village president inquired. He had risen and was leaning on his cane. “Zanah needs money, for the harvests have been poor. Brother Brandt will sell the book if thou canst pay the price.”

“One hundred dollars is little enough for the Bible,” said Everett; “but we shall not discuss its purchase now.”

“Yet thou wilt buy it if it is offered to thee by Brother Brandt?” Adolph Schneider asked, persistently pressing the subject of the sale.

Everett looked straight at the school-master, and his friendly eyes gave Gerson Brandt confidence.

“I would buy it if it was cheerfully offered by Mr. Brandt,” he replied.

The village fool aroused himself and stretched lazily. Then, taking from his pocket a little yellow gourd, he marked upon it with a big pocket-knife.

As Schneider and Everett left the school-house they saw that something unusual had happened, for a crowd was moving up the street. Women were leaning over fences. Children followed the crowd at a distance.

The Herr Doktor stood for a moment as if uncertain what to do. It was quite impossible for him to hasten, and he was of a phlegmatic nature not easily excited.

“Some one must be hurt,” Everett remarked. “I think they are carrying a man.”

In an instant Hans Peter had run down the hill. The school-master, who had remained in the school-house to put away the precious Bible, came to the door to look out. The crowd had crossed the rustic bridge.

“They are coming here,” Gerson Brandt exclaimed. “Can it be that aught hath happened to Wilhelm Kellar?”

He hastened down the street, and Schneider stepped out on the sidewalk.

“Wilhelm Kellar hath charge of our flannel-mill. He liveth with Brother Brandt,” explained the Herr Doktor. “I trust that no accident hath befallen him.”

It was plain that Adolph Schneider’s anxiety was twofold, and that he thought of the loss which might be unavoidable in case the mill superintendent became incapacitated.

When Everett and the Herr Doktor met the villagers, Gerson Brandt had stopped the crowd and was bending over the rude stretcher upon which lay the unconscious form of an old man.

“Wilhelm Kellar hath been stricken with a sudden illness,” said the school-master. “The apothecary hath worked over him and cannot restore him. Will not the Herr Doktor send for a physician?”

“The nearest chirurgeon is eight miles away,” replied Adolph Schneider. “Let the apothecary bleed Brother Kellar as soon as he is taken to his bed.”

Seeing that the man was emaciated and had no blood to lose, Everett stepped forward.

“I am a physician,” he said. “I will do what I can.”

He directed the crowd to fall back so that the sick man could have more air, and helped to carry the stretcher into an upper room of the school-house.

III

In an upper room of the school-house Wilhelm Kellar lay upon a high-post bedstead that was screened by chintz curtains drawn back so that the air could reach him. His thin, wan face looked old and drawn as it rested on a feather pillow. He was comfortable, he let Everett know, when the physician went to visit him early in the morning after the seizure. His tongue refused to frame the words he tried to utter, but his eyes showed his gratitude. Everett took a seat in the heavy wooden chair at the foot of the bed, which stood in a little alcove. Beyond the alcove the main room stretched out beneath the roof, which gave it many queer corners. Rows of books partially hid one wall. In one corner a high chest of drawers held a pair of massive silver candlesticks. An old desk with a sloping top occupied a little nook lighted by a diamond window; here were quill-pens and bottles of colored ink. This upper room, occupied jointly by Wilhelm Kellar and Gerson Brandt, bore the impress of the school-master, who waited now, leaning on the back of an old wooden arm-chair polished with much use.

“He will be much better,” said Everett. “He may recover from the paralysis, but it will be a long time before he leaves his room.”

Behind the curtains there was something like a groan. The sick man tried to say something, but neither Everett nor Brandt could understand him. Suddenly his eyes looked past them, and there was a smile on his face. Walda entered the outer room and came to her father, kneeling down beside him, apparently unaware that there was any one except themselves present.

“Art thou better, father?” she asked, in the softest tone, and then, burying her white-capped head in the pillow beside him, she murmured something in a low voice. Everett and Gerson Brandt left the two together and went into the larger room, where the physician began to prepare some medicine. Presently Walda’s voice was heard in prayer. The two men waited reverently until the last petition, uttered with the fervency of great faith, had died away.

“The daughter loveth her father; she hath a true heart,” said the school-master. He turned to the little window and looked out. Everett, who was distributing powders among a lot of little papers, went on with his work without making reply. The old hour-glass on the high chest of drawers had measured several minutes before any word was spoken. Then it was Mother Kaufmann who broke the silence. She entered the room with a heavy step, and with a “Good-day, Brother Brandt,” stood for a few moments studying Everett.

“Where is Walda?” she asked. Gerson Brandt made a little gesture towards the alcove.

“She hath no right to come here alone,” the woman replied, with a frown. “She is my care, and she hath done a foolish act. I shall forbid her to leave the House of the Women without me.”

“Walda was drawn hither by anxiety concerning her father,” said Gerson Brandt. “Thou wilt not wound her by a reprimand, Sister Kaufmann?”

The woman went near to him and spoke in guttural German some words that Everett could not catch, but from her furtive looks and glances he knew she was talking of him.

Walda passed through the room. Everett raised his eyes and they met the girl’s glance. Then he bent his head in deferential recognition of her presence. It was only a second that each had gazed at the other, but the man from the outside world felt a heart-throb. He spilled the powder on the tablecloth, and after he had brushed it off he hastily took up his hat. He went down-stairs, Gerson Brandt and Mother Kaufmann following him to ask about his patient. The three stood in the little porch talking of Wilhelm Kellar. From the garden, Walda, who stood among the flowers, watched them as if she would hear every word. Involuntarily she was drawn to the little group.

“Thou wilt tell me the truth about my father,” she said, addressing Everett. She spoke in precise English, with a soft accent and full tone.

“He is seriously ill, but he will recover from this attack,” Everett answered.

The girl folded her hands on her breast in the manner common to Zanah.

“It is my duty to rejoice when death freeth the soul, and yet I cannot think of my father’s illness with aught but sadness,” she said, as a tear trickled down her cheek.

“Thou art showing weakness,” admonished Mother Kaufmann.

“Be not so stern,” said Gerson Brandt. “She hath not yet faced the mystery of death. She is young, and she loveth her father.”

“Always thou dost find excuse for Walda Kellar,” said the woman. “She is near to the day of inspiration, and the things of this world should not touch her.”

Walda Kellar appeared not to hear Mother Kaufmann’s words. Her eyes were fastened upon Everett’s face.

“Thou art not going away from Zanah soon, art thou?” she asked. “Nay, stay to watch my father until he shall be out of danger.” There was such pleading in her tone that it touched the heart of the man of the world. Her beauty cast a spell over him.

“Thou forgettest that the stranger hath much to call him away,” interposed Gerson Brandt. “Thou wouldst not be selfish?”

“Oh, I would not think first of self, and yet I would pray that the stranger might find it in his heart to remain in Zanah to aid him whom I love above all, for, strive as I may, I cannot forget that he is my father.”

She stepped nearer to Everett; her lips quivered.

“It may be many days before your father is entirely well. It will be a privilege to be of service to you,” said Everett, remembering how seldom he had been of any real use in the world. “I will remain until your father is out of danger.”

Mother Kaufmann took Walda by the arm and led her down the hill towards the House of the Women. Everett felt a resentment towards the unsympathetic colony “mother.” For a moment he was angry, and then he tried to make himself believe that he was a fool to waste a thought upon Walda Kellar or any of the villagers. Still he could not stifle his curiosity. A dozen questions rose to his lips, but there was something in the look of the school-master that forbade any inquiries.

The man who belonged to the outside world walked down to the bridge, and, turning, followed the turbulent little creek to a place where there was a deserted windmill beside a broken dam. Here he sat upon a log, for he suddenly made the discovery that it was a warm day. From the mill he could look back into the village and out upon the vineyards and the broad fields that surrounded the picturesque little settlement.

The peaceful scene soothed him. He fell to wondering whether, after all, the colonists might not be wise to bar out the world, but although his thoughts travelled far away to the busy scenes in which he usually moved, they always came back to Walda Kellar.

The novelty of his position rather amused him. He had meant to spend only a day or two in Zanah, and now he had made a promise that meant a sojourn of several weeks, perhaps a month or two. He lighted a fresh cigar and let his thoughts wander back to the friends who were waiting for him in the Berkshire Hills, where he had intended to spend the autumn weeks. He knew that they would concern themselves but little about his absence, for he had always been erratic since, when a school-boy, he was left, long ago, with an ample fortune and an indulgent guardian.

His reflections were suddenly interrupted, for he heard a soft footstep inside the mill. In an instant the fool had darted out, and, running to a tree that formed a foot-bridge across the little stream, he stooped to conceal something in the roots. Everett was interested. It was clear that Hans Peter was executing some commission that would not find favor with the elders. Lest he might excite suspicion, Everett turned his back and looked down the dusty road. The simple one ran lightly past him.

Everett was still facing the road when he saw a girl come towards the mill. She passed the stranger, who was almost hidden by the wild clematis-vine that covered a bush near him. She was pretty, after the flaxen-haired, pink-cheeked type. She went to the tree and took something that looked like a letter from its roots. She opened it, read it hastily, and concealed it beneath the black kerchief crossed upon her breast. With quickened steps she turned back towards the village. Half-way to the bridge she met the fool, who was returning to the mill. They spoke a few words, and the simple one continued on his way.

“So you are back?” said Everett, handing a coin to Hans Peter, who put it in one of his bulging pockets.

“What wouldst thou have me do?” asked the simple one.

“I would have you sit there on the grass and answer my questions, Hans Peter. First, who is the girl?”

“She is Frieda Bergen, a village maid.”

“What was it you put in the tree for her?”

Hans Peter looked aghast. He thrust both hands into his pockets and appeared to be thinking. He was a strange figure, for there was a curious blending of shrewdness and foolishness in his expression as he furtively glanced up at Everett.

“Thou wouldst not tell the elders,” he pleaded, presently, “if I trusted thee? I fear nothing, but I would not make the maid unhappy.”

“Was it a love-letter that you put there for her?”

Everett could not repress a smile. He was beginning to believe that he might find some amusement in watching the people of Zanah. When the fool remained silent he repeated his question.

“I know not what was in the packet, as I carried it for another,” said Hans Peter. “Thou forgettest that thou art talking to the fool of Zanah.”

“Your wisdom makes me lose sight of that fact, Hans Peter. Is not love against the law of the colony?”

“Yea, all except Hans Peter, the fool, hold it a sin to put their affections on the things of this world. The simple one cannot understand aught but that which is of the earth; he cannot reach up to heaven, and so he seeth nothing wrong in love that maketh men and women happy.”

Everett rose and paced up and down the little footpath. “I suppose the elders are always above temptation?” he remarked, stopping before Hans Peter.

The simple one looked almost wise, and, apparently forgetting all prudence, said:

“Karl Weisel, head of the thirteen elders, hath been tempted for many years. He loveth Gretchen Schneider, the daughter of the Herr Doktor President, but he would have to give up his high place in Zanah if he were to marry, and so he preacheth much against the wickedness of loving.”

“And what of Gretchen Schneider?”

“She hath always a bad temper; she spieth on all the youths and maids. Frieda Bergen and Joseph Hoff, who loveth her, fear Gretchen Schneider most of all in Zanah.”

“And what will be the punishment of Frieda Bergen and Joseph Hoff when it is discovered that they love each other?”

“Marriage,” said the simple one, solemnly. “The elders will rebuke them, and if still they love not God above themselves they will be put in the third, or lowest, grade in the colony.”

“And will they ever be forgiven? Will the elders ever restore them to a high place in Zanah?”

Hans Peter made an awkward little gesture.

“When they have found out each other’s faults they may repent; the Lord’s hand may be heavy on them. Then, when they see that love bringeth pain and grief, they may go before the elders, confess that they have erred, and when they have proved that they can serve God with singleness of purpose they will be put in the foremost rank.”

Hans Peter spoke as if he were repeating a lesson often conned, and Everett said:

“You talk not like the simple one, my boy. If I closed my eyes I should think the Herr Doktor himself were speaking to me. But tell me, Hans Peter, among all the married people of the village, how many have failed to repent?”

“Diedrich Werther and Mother Werther alone love much. They are still in the lowest grade, and it is fifteen years since they were married. Most of the men and women of Zanah are in the second grade, but the Herr Doktor and Mother Schneider are among the highest. It is said they hate each other.”

“This has been a half-hour well spent,” said Everett. “You shall have another piece of silver, Hans Peter, and to-morrow you will tell me more about the people of Zanah.”

The simple one rose from his place on the grass, took the coin into his square, fat hand, and slouched away with it. As he disappeared, Everett thought of a hundred things he would have liked to ask about Walda Kellar. Yet, strangely enough, he could not bring himself to speak her name to the village fool.

IV

After giving his promise to stay in Zanah, Everett found that the day dragged. Having finished questioning the fool, he went to the inn, where he ate his noonday dinner in silence. Then he wandered among the lanes and winding roads until it was time for the evening meal, at which two taciturn women waited on him. He made an effort to talk to the women, but they pretended not to understand his German, and insisted upon offering him hot biscuits and honey. He found that he had no appetite, and soon left the table. As he passed through the big room which served as an office, he noticed that Diedrich Werther was not in his usual seat beside a little, round table where at all hours the innkeeper was to be seen smoking his pipe and drinking huge cupfuls of black coffee. Hans Peter occupied his favorite nook on the settle near the fireplace.

Everett went out on the porch, where he took possession of his host’s arm-chair. Naturally his thoughts wandered to Walda. The girl was a mystery to him. Although he was slow to acknowledge it, he knew that she aroused in him an insistent interest. He who cared little for women suddenly found his attention fixed upon a girl who belonged to a class different from any other with which he had ever come in contact. He usually classified all women he met. He found that they were easily divided into comparatively few types. Here was one whose education and whose traditions isolated her. He hoped she would pass by the inn. Impatiently he looked at his watch; the hour for evening prayer was slow in coming. He had risen with the intention of strolling about the square, when he heard the meeting-house bell ring. In a moment the long street again became alive. As the men and women went by on opposite sides, many of them glanced at him. Even the demure, quiet girls allowed their eyes to rest upon him for half a second. One, however, was unconscious of his presence. Frieda Bergen, the village maid who had taken the letter from the tree-trunk at the mill, looked across the grass-grown road to a youth who kept his eyes upon her until the blood mounted to her cheeks and her glance was cast upon the ground.

The school-master walked with his head bowed, as if he were deep in thought, and behind him followed the boys, who forgot to romp and play. He stopped on the rustic bridge. When all the villagers had passed, Walda Kellar came. Her hands were crossed upon her breast, and instead of keeping her eyes upon the ground she had them fixed on the clouds, where the crimson light was turning to purple and gray. On either side of her walked women whom Everett had never seen before. One of them was stout, and had passed her first youth. As Walda walked by Gerson Brandt on the bridge, the school-master and his charges doffed their caps to her. Everett could see that Walda smiled on the man of Zanah, and that she spoke to him. The school-master waited in reverent attitude until the future prophetess disappeared within the church porch. Then he motioned to his pupils to go on, while he turned back towards the inn. With lagging step he came into the village square.

“Hast thou half an hour to spend with one who would speak to thee?” he asked, addressing Everett.

The stranger in Zanah hastened to assure the school-master that he wanted companionship. Without being summoned, Hans Peter appeared with a chair. Gerson Brandt dropped into it as if he were weary, and Everett had a chance to notice that the delicate face was worn and haggard. There was something extraordinarily impressive in the personality of this man of Zanah. His gaunt form was well knit. Meekness and gentleness sat upon a face that denoted an intense nature. The curve of the lip told of unusual will-power, but the eyes revealed the fact that the soul of a dreamer dwelt within the school-master.

“I would talk to thee about Brother Kellar,” he said. “Walda Kellar is concerned lest she hath been selfish in asking thee to stay in the village. The women of Zanah have told her that thou hast much to do in the world and that thou canst ill afford to waste thy time here in the colony.”

Everett forgot his reflections of the previous hour and replied:

“I shall be glad to stay here. It is a privilege to be useful once in a while.”

“Dost thou work much?” asked the school-master. Gerson Brandt folded his thin hands that bore the marks of toil and turned to scrutinize the stranger. “It is long since I left the world,” he added. “I know little of it as it is to-day, but I remember that it was a very busy place.”

Everett could not repress a smile.

“You speak as if the whole world were one great village, and Zanah’s only rival,” he said.

Gerson Brandt laughed, and for an instant his face was young.

“We colonists live shut up in our little valley so closely that we can hardly be called a part of the changing life of America,” he said. “Once I loved the things of the world, and even now I sometimes long for what were once my idols.”

“Your idols?”

“Once I dreamed of being a great artist,” confessed the school-master. “That was when I was a youth in Munich. There came to me a disappointment. Then it was shown to my soul that I must not fix my hopes on the things of earth. I drifted to America. The world was cruel to me. Somehow I found Zanah. My art was a help to the people of the colony. They took me in.”

He spoke simply, but there was a little quaver in his voice, and he turned his head away.

Everett rose and began to pace up and down the porch. The humble tragedy in the life of the man of Zanah touched him and made him feel ashamed of his own paltry aims.

“Do you mean that you illuminated their books?” he asked.

Gerson Brandt shook his head.

“Not at first. I still loved beauty. I yet had ambition, and it was long before I could trust myself to use the colors. I had a hard discipline. For years I have made the designs for the blue calicoes that the mills turn out.”

“By Jove! I don’t know how a man can surrender all his ambitions. I cannot make it out,” Everett exclaimed, pausing before the gentle school-master. “How long have you been in Zanah?”

“Fifteen years. I was two-and-twenty when I came. Some day, before I die, I mean to go out to see what changes have taken place. I know that men are doing marvellous things, for sometimes I talk to strangers. But it is better not to know the world, for it gives a man so many interests he forgets his God.” Gerson Brandt hesitated a moment. “Even under the protection of Zanah it is hard for a man to subdue all the human forces within him,” he added.

“All human forces are not wicked. Such a creed as that is not taught in the New Testament,” said Everett. He felt irresistibly drawn towards the school-master. All the vigorous manhood in him resented the restrictions that Zanah placed upon its disciples.

“There are many that seem not so to me,” assented the school-master, “but Zanah teaches that it is best to fix all one’s thoughts on heaven. Of course we have our restless hours. We who have been touched by the world find it hard to forget. Those whose thoughts have been centred always in Zanah are the happy ones.”

“Walda Kellar is one of the happy ones, is she not?”

Everett felt that the question would be parried, and he hesitated to ask it; but his impulse to speak of the girl who occupied his thoughts gained the mastery. Gerson Brandt’s face reddened.

“There is peace and faith in the heart of her whom the Lord hath chosen to be his instrument,” said the school-master, and, rising, he turned as if to leave the presence of the stranger. He paused and added:

“I came here to talk with thee of Brother Wilhelm Kellar. He is the closest to me of all Zanah, and I would ask thee to tell me the truth concerning him. Hath the Lord called him, or will he be spared to go on with his work in the colony?”

“If no great shock and no unusual strain of work is put on him he may live many years,” said Everett. “He appears to have much vitality, and I expect to see him able to resume his duties within a month.”

“The Untersuchung is but a month off,” said Gerson Brandt, “and it will be a sore trial to him if he is not able to see his daughter anointed prophetess of Zanah.”

Gerson Brandt did not listen to Everett’s reply; he rose and stood upon the steps of the inn with his face turned towards the meeting-house. Down the street came Mother Werther and Walda. The wife of the host of the inn walked with the girl’s hand clasped in hers, and, entering the square, she drew Walda to the place where the school-master stood.

After the manner of the men of Zanah, Gerson Brandt made no sign until Walda had spoken to him.

“Thou wert missed at prayers, Gerson Brandt,” she said, “and because I asked thee to do a service for me. Thou hast talked about my father to the stranger?”

The school-master nodded his head.

“It hath been shown to me that I was selfish in begging thee to stay in Zanah,” Walda said, addressing Everett. “Thou wilt forgive a girl who hath not yet subdued her soul?”

In her presence Everett felt abashed. He saw in her a mysterious mingling of the child, the woman, and the prophetess. As she waited for him to answer her, he had a chance to notice the noble outlines of her face and the perfect poise of her lithe body.

“Do not concern yourself about me,” he said. “I assure you I am glad to stay in Zanah.” As he spoke the rare beauty of the girl again cast a spell over him, and he meant what he said. Mother Werther put her arm about Walda’s waist and would have drawn her inside the door of the inn had not Everett stopped them.

“One moment,” he said. “There is a condition that I should like to make. Your father needs faithful nursing—the watchfulness that only love can give him. If you will take care of him I shall feel that I have the right help and that I shall not have cause to regret that I remained in Zanah.”

“That is a matter thou shouldst put before the Herr Doktor,” said Mother Werther. “Brother Schneider is coming now; speak to him.”

“Is it not customary for members of families here in the colony to nurse one another?” Everett asked the school-master.

“Not unless they are especially appointed to the task,” answered Gerson Brandt.

Adolph Schneider had reached the inn. He greeted Everett with a show of cordiality, and, taking possession of the big arm-chair, lighted his pipe. He began to talk of Wilhelm Kellar’s illness, and to lament the loss of the elder’s aid in carrying on the business of the colony. Then Everett found his chance to request Walda’s attendance at the bedside of her father.

“The Untersuchung is at hand,” said the Herr Doktor, “and it is the time for prayer and meditation. Thou knowest that we believe she will be made the instrument of the Lord, and therefore she should live much alone until the hour when she shall speak with a new tongue.”

Adolph Schneider looked at Everett suspiciously. The man of the world showed that he could outwit the man of Zanah. With an assumption of indifference Everett replied:

“Of course it makes little difference to me. I shall do the best I can to help Wilhelm Kellar back to health, but if you send his daughter to nurse him he is likely to recover twice as rapidly as he would otherwise.”

He resumed his promenade on the porch. As he walked back and forth the president of the colony saw that he was a man of magnificent physique, erect and athletic. With some misgiving he noticed that the stranger had more than the ordinary share of physical beauty, and that he had the indefinable air which belongs to those accustomed to command the best the world has to give.

“It is important that Wilhelm Kellar should be well as soon as it is God’s will to restore him,” said Adolph Schneider. “His sickness is a stroke of Providence we may not question. Still, it behooveth us to aid in his speedy recovery. Walda Kellar shall be sent to nurse her father.”

Everett put his hands behind him and turned his back as if he had not heard. When the Herr Doktor repeated his decision the man of the world said, in a quiet tone:

“Very well. I shall expect to see the new nurse in the sick-room to-morrow.”

V

When Everett went to see his patient the next morning he had a new interest in the case. Mother Kaufmann met him at the door and took him into the queer room under the eaves where, in his little alcove, lay Wilhelm Kellar. The room was exquisitely neat. The little, hinged window at the foot of the sick man’s bed was open, and it let in the fragrance wafted from the garden.

Everett looked around for Walda, but she was not in the room. He was too wise to make any inquiry for her. He went to the bedside, and while Mother Kaufmann leaned upon the foot-board he felt the pulse of the sick man. Wilhelm Kellar cast a questioning look at the physician.

“You are better,” Everett said, in German. “You will be out in a week or two if nothing unforeseen happens.”

He stepped out of the alcove to prepare his medicines in the larger apartment. “Are you the nurse?” he inquired of the woman.

“The Herr Doktor told me to help Walda Kellar, who will come after her hour of prayer,” Mother Kaufmann replied.

Everett left a few directions, and said he would call again. He returned at sundown. The school-master was out on the little porch poring over a yellow-paged book. He let Everett pass him without salutation. The younger man hastened up the narrow stairs. The sick-room appeared quite changed when he entered it. Flowers were arranged in a great blue bowl on the table. In a clumsy-looking cage that hung by the window a chaffinch fluttered back and forth. Plants bloomed in the bow-window at which sat Walda Kellar. The girl’s long, slender hands were busy with her knitting. The folds of her blue gown swept the sanded floor. The kerchief folded on her breast was not whiter than her neck. One of her braids fell over her bosom. She did not hear Everett, as she was looking out upon the western bluffs even while her hands kept the needles flying. He stepped into the room. Walda rose and, putting her finger on her lips, said:

“My father sleepeth.” In rising she dropped her ball of yarn. Everett picked it up, and, slowly winding it, advanced until he was very close to her. As he put the ball in her hand their fingers touched, but the prophetess of Zanah appeared unconscious of the contact. Motioning him to a chair she again took her place at the window. There was a long silence, during which her knitting-needles flashed back and forth. The girl showed no embarrassment; indeed, she seemed to have forgotten him. In Zanah small talk was unknown. Walda Kellar, who was to be inspired of the Lord, had been taught to speak only when she had something to say.

Everett suddenly found himself dumb. He sat opposite Walda, and was as uneasy as a school-boy who has not the courage to bestow the red apple in his pocket upon his pretty neighbor across the aisle. As the minutes went by he began to feel her presence restful. She sat immovable except for her untiring hands. Once or twice she raised her calm eyes and caught the stranger’s gaze resting on her. She appeared not to notice it, and continued her knitting. At last the silence became unendurable, and Everett said:

“It will be a great help to me to have you here to nurse your father.” The girl looked up and did not answer.

“Much depends upon you,” he continued. “It is only with your aid that I can do my best.”

Walda Kellar again raised her eyes. Then, in her soft, deep voice, she said:

“The Lord hath sent thee to Zanah. Thou shalt have all my help. Thou hast already won my gratitude.”

Again a silence fell. Everett leaned back in the splint-bottomed chair and resolved to make the most of his opportunities of being alone with the prophetess. Upon his perch the chaffinch looked out through the bars at the quiet room.

Outside the crimson sky was turning to purple, the fields had become a tender brown, and the bluffs made a dark line to the west. Everett, who gazed at the distant hills, compared the surging world to which he belonged with the peaceful colony of Zanah, the dwelling-place of Walda Kellar. The contrast between his own life and that of the strange girl impressed itself upon him. Now and then he brought his glance back from the far bluffs to look at the fair woman who was oblivious of his presence.

The chaffinch chirped his drowsy notes, and Walda Kellar, looking up at the bird, said:

“What disturbeth thee, Piepmatz?”

The bird turned his restless head back and forth, and Everett imagined that the chaffinch might object to his presence.

“Is that your bird?” he asked, relieved at even the paltriest excuse for again starting a conversation.

Walda stopped her knitting and, smiling, said:

“Piepmatz is my liebchen; he hath a voice as clear as that of a lark. He can whistle tunes; he knows a bar of the doxology.”

Everett went to the cage and whistled softly. The bird chirped his silvery note, and, thus encouraged, the man whistled the strain of a love-song. The bird imitated three notes.

“That is a noble hymn thou art whistling,” said Walda Kellar. “I have heard that there is wonderful music out there in the world, and that they play on strange instruments.”

“And have you never heard an organ or a violin?” asked Everett.

Walda Kellar shook her head.

“And is even the piano barred out of Zanah?”

“Zanah permits no musical instrument. Gerson Brandt keepeth yet a flute that he brought with him from the world, but it is always silent here.”

“Perhaps you will let me sing you the tune you seemed to like?” said Everett. “Some day when I am not afraid of disturbing your father you shall hear it all.”

Wilhelm Kellar stirred in his bed; Walda was at his side in a moment. Everett followed her. Wilhelm Kellar would have spoken, but his tongue still refused to do his bidding. While he was looking up at his daughter and the physician, Mother Kaufmann bustled in.

“How comes it that thou art here alone with the stranger?” she asked, casting an ugly look upon Walda.

“I am here to serve my father,” said the girl, with a sweet dignity. “Dost thou not know that the Herr Doktor hath assigned me here?”

“He is foolish,” snapped Mother Kaufmann.

“What art thou saying, woman?” asked the school-master, who had just passed through the doorway. “Walda is in her father’s care and in my care. It is not thy concern to ask questions.”

The woman scowled and drew her thin lips tightly over her hideous teeth.

“And thou art a second father to Walda, I suppose?” she sneered.

“Yea, and more,” said the school-master.

“Gerson Brandt hath spoken the truth. He is more than father to me in that he is my teacher and my safe counsellor,” said Walda, stepping back towards him.

The school-master’s pale face flushed.

“Thou art always my sacred charge for whom I pray,” said Gerson Brandt, in a soft voice. “For thee and for thy happiness I would do all things in my power.” There was that in his face which told the man of the world all emotion had not died in the heart beating beneath the queer coat of the school-master.

“Ah, and I pray for thee every night when I ask a blessing for my father,” spoke Walda. “I entreat wisdom and strength for thee.”

Gerson Brandt looked into her eyes and a sudden light illumined his face.

“Thou needest much of divine aid for thy work with little children,” the girl added.

“Yea, yea,” the school-master said, as he turned away.

“Yea, yea, didst thou say?” repeated the shrill voice of Mother Kaufmann. “Just remember that thy conversation should be yea, yea and nay, nay.”

Ignoring the elder woman, Everett gave a few directions to Walda. Then he passed out into the darkening evening.

VI

There was labor for all in Zanah. Early in the morning the villagers took their hasty breakfasts in the kitchens and then went out to work in the mills and fields. The children over six years of age were gathered into the school-houses, the boys being accorded more privileges in the way of learning than the girls, who were not permitted to enjoy the instructions of Gerson Brandt. The future “mothers” of the colony were kept many hours in a rambling building, where they were taught all the domestic arts, with but now and then a lesson from the books borrowed from the school-master. In the very centre of the village stood the kinderhaus, where the babes of the colony were tended during the working-hours of their mothers. A wide porch surrounded the kinderhaus on four sides, and a tangled garden of bloom divided it from the street. In a vine-covered arbor, set among the flowers, Walda Kellar was accustomed to spend her hours of meditation during her last month before the Untersuchung. It was not long before Everett discovered this fact; and when Mother Kaufmann relieved the girl in the sick-room he often made excuse to speak to her as she went through the little wicket gate. Outside the sick-room, however, she was always the prophetess of Zanah, aloof in manner and difficult to reach by word.

One day as he wandered down the street, after having assured himself that Walda was poring over a book in the little arbor, he happened to meet Adolph Schneider. Since the day when the stranger had shown a willingness to pay a generous price for any book he might wish to buy from the colony, the Herr Doktor had treated him with a perceptible deference. Adolph Schneider stopped now, and, leaning on his cane, said:

“If thou hast a mind to buy that Bible shown thee by Gerson Brandt, the people of Zanah are willing to sell it to thee. Many times have I meant to speak to thee concerning the barter, but thou knowest that the sickness of Wilhelm Kellar hath interfered with all the business of the colony.”

Everett waited half a moment before he replied. He read in the face of the Herr Doktor craftiness and greed, and he knew he must use tact if he would spare Gerson Brandt the pang of parting with his precious book.

“The Bible is not what I want,” he said. “Some smaller book will do as well for me.”

Adolph Schneider was too shrewd to be easily put off.

“We have found that there is no writing for sale in Zanah. Of all our books there is none that we can part with except the Bible. Zanah is loath to part with that, but the colony hath need of money.”

Again Everett said that he did not wish to make the purchase.

Adolph Schneider was not to be balked. “I will send to the school-master for the book,” he said, “and thou shalt examine it at thy leisure. I will have it taken to the inn.”

Everett walked away towards one of the large vineyards, which was situated on a sunny slope of a hill just beyond the village. Here men and women were silently picking the early grapes. Elders and village mothers kept strict watch of the younger members of the colony. No one appeared to take any notice of the stranger, and he went over to a place where a pile of stones offered him a seat. It was a glorious summer day with a premature promise of the autumn in its golden haziness. Along the edges of the fences stalks of golden-rod here and there stood out among the tall grasses. The fields stretched away in patches of brown and green and yellow. He felt sure that there was no more tranquil spot in all the earth. As the quiet colonists worked among the vines, Everett asked himself if they were really reconciled to the barrenness of their lives. The world, with its delights, its pains, its passions, was barred out, but he wondered whether the men and women found it possible to close their hearts to all human emotion. With heads bowed low the women kept their faithful hands busy, each doing the work allotted to her. Apparently the chagrins of coquetry, the pangs of aspiration, the restlessness of unfulfilled ambition did not touch them; yet, now and then, he caught the girls casting sly glances at the youths who labored near them.

When the afternoon had advanced until the long shadows began to fall upon the fields, Mother Werther appeared, carrying two steaming tin pails fastened to a bar that she balanced deftly. Her appearance was the signal for every one to stop work. She put the pails down in an open space, and, smiling kindly on men and maids alike, said:

“Every man and woman here will be glad of a cup of coffee, I am sure, and this to-day is stronger than any I have boiled for many a week. It is from the Herr Doktor’s own bag.”

There was a merry twinkle in her eye, and Everett was sure he saw her wink at one of the village “mothers” who leaned against a near post that supported a well-stripped vine.