Walda | Page 8

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 man ner 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 some thing 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