Katy Gaumer

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.

CHAPTER XVIII
A SILVER CHALICE

She hurried now into the Hartman kitchen, alarmed because she had been so long away. Cassie grew daily worse, a little less able to make the journey from her bed to the settle in the kitchen, a little more preoccupied, a little more silent. Katy's attentions troubled her, she did not like to have a hand laid upon her shoulder or an arm thrown round her. Once, when she had insisted upon going about the house, she had fainted, and Katy had sent in terror for the doctor, and Cassie had been put to bed in her little room. When she had recovered in a measure, she told Katy where she would find in the drawers of one of the great bureaus certain clothes for her laying away. It was not a cheerful position which Katy held!

To-day Cassie had stayed in her bed, her cheek on her hand, her eyes closed. Often she lay thus for hours. She did not seem to think, often she did not seem to breathe. The atrophy of Cassie's mind and heart were almost complete.

Katy, opening the door softly, so as not to rouse Cassie if she slept, found the kitchen as she had left it, dark and silent and warm. She did not stop to take off the scarlet shawl which she had worn when she went to satisfy herself that her hoard was still in the putlock hole, but climbed at once the steep, narrow stairway which led to the rooms above. Her body ached for rest, but there was still bread to be set and the fire to be fixed for the night. There awaited Katy, also, a more difficult experience than these.

Upstairs, also, all was dark and quiet. Katy tiptoed across the hall to look in upon the invalid. With hands resting on the sides of the door, she peered in. She could see the outlines of the bureau and the narrow bed; she thought that she heard the even, regular breathing of the sleeper, and she was about to turn and go down the steps. Then a startling suspicion halted her. The bedcovers seemed to hang straight and even to the floor, the pillows to stand stiffly against the headboard; there was, after all, it seemed suddenly to Katy, no sound of breathing. For an instant she clung to the door frame, her back to the room, then she turned slowly and compelled herself to take the few short steps to the bed. There she felt about with her hands. The covers were smooth; instead of the hand or cheek of Cassie Hartman, she touched the starched ruffles of a fresh pillowcase.

"Cassie!" cried Katy in wild alarm.

There was no answer. Striving to make her voice sound louder, but only succeeding in uttering a fainter whisper, Katy cried again.

"Cassie! Where are you?"

Still there was no answer.

Frantically Katy fumbled about for a match. The room was in order, a smooth towel covered the bureau, the bed was freshly made as though for a stranger. Katy stared stupidly about her until the match burned her fingers and she was left in the darkness which seemed to close in upon her and smother her. The great house with its tremendous length and breadth, its many rooms, their blackness, the dark closets in the eaves into which one could accidentally shut one's self and die—the great house took shape about her, dim, mysterious, terrible. Strange forms seemed to be here in the room crowding upon her. Though she was aware that it threatened her, and though she tried desperately not to yield it entrance to her consciousness, the horrible recollection of John Hartman's face as he sat in his buggy on the mountain road, of the still whiteness of the faces of her own dead, crept slowly upon her. Must she go through this house searching for her mistress? She dared not go for aid, when Cassie might be lying in some corner helpless or dying. Cassie could scarcely get out of her bed alone. Where had she gone? Who had made up this bed?

Then, in time to save her reason, Katy heard a faint voice addressing her from a distant corner of the great house.

"Katy!"

Katy moved slowly along the dark hall.

"Ach, where are you?"

"Here," answered the faint voice.

Supporting herself against the wall, Katy crept along. At the end a door opened into the house proper, that seldom visited temple to the gods of order and cleanliness. The door now stood open.

"Are you sick?" gasped Katy. "Where are you? Did you fall?"

"No," came the slow answer. "I am here. You can make a light."

Falteringly Katy obeyed. On a bracket at the end of the hall hung a lamp; this she lighted with a great clattering of globe against chimney. Then, lifting the lamp, she carried it into the room from which the voice proceeded. Her scarlet shawl was still about her, her hair was disorderly from the squire's embrace, her eyes were wild and startled. She was a strange contrast to the room in which she stood.

Here was the great high bed with its carved posts, each terminating in a pineapple; here the interesting steps on which one mounted to the broad plateau of repose; here the fine curtains and the rich carpet,—all as Katy had left them after the last careful sweeping and dusting and polishing. But the bed had been disturbed; in it lay the mistress of the house, white and sick, but full of satisfaction over having accomplished her pitiful purpose.

Katy's wild eyes questioned her.

"It was time for me to come," announced Cassie, solemnly.

"It was time for you to come!" repeated Katy. "What do you mean?"

"My time has come," explained Cassie. "You are to go for the preacher."

Katy clasped her hands across her breast. She remembered now the bureau in which the white underclothes and the black dress were kept. She began to cry.

"Oh, no! I will go for the doctor! You shouldn't have done this! You have made yourself worse! I will get you the medicine the doctor gave you, then I will run for him."

"You will go for the preacher," directed Cassie, wearily. "My time has come."

Katy looked wildly about her, but found no help either in the thick carpet or the heavy hangings. She was afraid to go, yet she did not dare to stay. Cassie sank a little deeper into her pillows, the shadows under her eyes seemed to darken, the covers moved with her throbbing heart.

"Go!" she commanded thickly.

Katy ran down the steps through the kitchen and out to the gate. The preacher lived nearer than the doctor; a single knock and his window was lifted.

"Cassie Hartman must see you!" cried Katy. "She is very low. Bring the doctor and come quickly."

Without staying to hear whether there were any questions to be answered, Katy flew back into the dark kitchen and up the narrow stairs. Cassie lay with her eyes closed, her hands folded across her breast.

"The front door should be opened, and there should be a light," she gasped.

"I cannot leave you!"

"Go!" said Cassie.

Again Katy flew to obey. David should be sent for; must she remind them that David should be sent for? It seemed to Katy that any observer could see her obsession in her face.

"You know where my things are, Katy," whispered Cassie.

"Yes, I know! But you are not going to die!"

"My time has come," said Mrs. Hartman. "Everything is attended to and written out in the desk. You can tell the squire."

"I will," faltered Katy, standing between the tall pillars at the foot of the bed. She remembered the squire's face as he came to tell her grandmother that Grandfather Gaumer was dead; she thought of David and David's face when he should be told. David would be alone in the world; surely, though he had all its riches, he would care! Surely his mother had a message for him. The preacher was a newcomer; he did not know David; he should give him no message from his mother! And Dr. Benner should give him no message from his mother. Katy clasped her hands a little more closely and looked down upon Cassie.

"And David?"

Cassie's eyelids quivered, but she made no reply.

"Some one must send for David!"

When Cassie still made no answer, Katy came round the corner of the bed and stood by the pillow.

"Suppose"—Katy stammered and faltered—"suppose—shall anything be said to David if—if—"

"David will find everything ready," said Cassie, wearily. "He will find everything in order."

Katy leaned over the pillow. Cassie could not know what it was to die, to go away forever; Cassie could not know how one wept and mourned when those whom one loved had died; could not know how one remembered every word, cherished every caress. David had no one else, and David was young; David could not be so hard of heart as he seemed or Cassie so stony. There was hardly a person in Millerstown who would have ventured to oppose Cassie, or to persuade her against her will. But all the characteristics of Katy's youth had not vanished; still, seeing a goal, she moved toward it, disregarding obstacles. It seemed to her that she heard the gate swing open and shut, heard the sound of voices, of rapid footsteps. The preacher and the doctor were coming, and probably other Millerstonians would come with them. She took Cassie by the hand and was terrified by its chill.

"Do you not leave your love for David?" she asked, crying.

Cassie looked up at her with no other expression than slight astonishment, as though Katy's language were strange. Cassie loved nothing that could turn and rend her. John had turned and had rent her, but in David's case she had had a care for herself, from misery there she had sternly and bravely defended herself. This bright-eyed Katy with her light step and her pretty ways had disturbed her, had set her to dreaming at night of a house filled with children, of growing boys and girls who would have loved their mother and cherished her.

And here this same Katy hung above her, clung to her, would not, thought poor Cassie, would not let her die as she had planned! She did not know that hardness of heart was in her a more terrible hurt than any offense which love could have brought. In her weakness she felt a sudden quiver of life in that heart of stone; it seemed as though it melted to water.

But she would not yield. She tried to draw her hand away from the grasp which held it; she closed her eyes; she remembered how she had defended herself against grief. But she could not get her weak hand away, could not shut out the sound of Katy's voice.

"What shall I tell David? Let me tell David something from his mother. Why, David loves you! David will grieve for you! Oh, please!" She lifted Mrs. Hartman's white hand and held it against her cheek, as though she would compel a blessing. "Oh, please let me tell David something!"

But no word was spoken, no tears stole out from under the closed lids. The lids quivered, opened and closed; beyond that slight motion there was nothing. Already the preacher and the doctor were ascending the steps. To both the serious condition of the invalid was evident. The doctor told Katy in his dictatorial way that she should not have allowed Mrs. Hartman to leave her bed. The doctor always spoke to Katy with irritation, as though he could not quite escape the recollection of promises made and forgotten.

Cassie lay quietly with her hands clasped once more on her breast. Her eyes were open now; she spoke clearly in a weak voice, the self-control, fostered through years, serving her still. She signified that she wished her pastor to give her the communion, for which purpose he had brought with him his silver flask and chalice and paten. These he spread out on the little table at the head of Cassie's bed.

On the other side of the bed stood Katy, with wide, tearful eyes and white cheeks. The scene was almost too solemn for endurance; the great catafalque of a bed with its white valances and draperies, the dark shadows in the corners of the room, the deep silence of the night, the brightly illuminated, earnest faces of the doctor and the preacher. But all seemed to make Katy's eyes more clear to see, her heart more keen to remember. Her thoughts went back over all the solemn services she had witnessed, the watch-night services of her childhood, the communion services, the hour of her grandmother's passing. She remembered the clear nights when she had run through the snow with Whiskey and had been at once so unhappy and so happy. How foolish to be unhappy then when she had everything! She remembered even that morning, long, long ago, when John Hartman had frightened her. Surely, as her grandmother said, she must have imagined that rage! She was nothing to John Hartman.

The minister had poured the wine from the flask into the chalice, and had broken the bread. He lifted the chalice and the light flashed from its bright surface.

"Drink ye all of it," he began gravely in his deep voice.

Then Katy heard no more. She put her arm tightly round the tall post of the bed and clung and clung to it as though a great creature or a great wave threatened to drag her from her feet. She looked far away across the wide bed, through the walls of the great house, over the village and the fields to the church on the hill. She was a child again in a red dress, and she had run unsteadily out the brick walk from her grandmother's kitchen door to the gate, out to the blessed, free, forbidden open road. She had talked to herself happily; she had stopped to pull leaves which still lingered on the Virginia creeper vines on the fences.

Presently, when she had trotted past the first field, the open door of the church had attracted her. She had been taken to church a few times; she remembered the singing—even that early had the strange performance of Henny Wenner fascinated her; she now turned her steps toward the delightful place. In the church an interesting man was at work with a little trowel and beautiful soft mortar, and she had watched him until she had grown sleepy, whereupon, with that feeling of possession in all the world which had been hers so keenly in her childhood, she had laid herself down on the soft cushion of a pew.

When she woke the interesting little man with his trowel was no longer in the church. Another man had taken his place before the hole in the church wall, and spying her suddenly had driven her out with anger. She had not thought of it for years; they had persuaded her that she had dreamed it; had told her that if John Hartman had ever spoken to her sharply, it was only to send her home where she belonged, that he could have against her no unkindly feeling.

But now it came back, strangely illumined. John Hartman had driven her away angrily, and John Hartman had held in his hand a silver cup, the shape of the one which the preacher held to Cassie's pale lips, but larger, handsomer. Upon it the sun had flashed as the lamplight flashed now upon this smaller cup.

At first Katy only remembered vaguely that there had been trouble about the communion service, that it had disappeared, that dishonest Alvin's dishonest and crazy father had taken it. The thought of Alvin brought to her mind a new set of sensations, confusing her.

"He held it in his hand," whispered Katy to herself. "Then he pushed it into the hole, quickly. I saw him do it!"

She leaned her head against the tall bedpost, and did not hear the command of the doctor to bring water.

"Katy!" said he, again, a little more loudly.

Still Katy did not stir. The preacher looked up also, and his communion service now over, came quickly with an alarmed glance at Katy round the great bed and took her by the arm. Her muscles were stiff; she had only one conscious thought—to cling to the thing nearest to her. The minister unclasped her hand and half carrying her, half leading her, took her down to the kitchen and laid her upon the settle. When he had taken the water to the doctor, he came back, to find Katy sitting up and looking about her in a dazed fashion.

"You had better lie down," bade the preacher.

Katy shook her head. "I cannot lie down."

"This has been too much for you," went on the preacher kindly. "My wife is coming now to stay. You cannot do anything more for poor Mrs. Hartman. If I were you I would go home. When the rest come I will walk down the street with you."

Katy looked at him with somber eyes and did not move.

"This house is no place for you, Katy."

Katy shivered; then she got to her feet. She remembered her aching desire to console David, her vague plans; she saw again the shining, silver chalice, the startled, terrified face of David's father as she tugged at his coat.

"No," agreed Katy with a stiff tongue. "You have right. This house is no place for me."

CHAPTER XIX
THE SQUIRE AND DAVID TAKE A JOURNEY BY NIGHT

From the dim end of the long hall, a short figure advanced to meet the two men. It was not Katy, who had resigned her place, but Bevy, who had come to stay until the funeral was over. Bevy shook hands with David solemnly, looking up at him with awe, as the owner of farms and orchards and this great house and unreckoned bank stock. She had spread his supper in the kitchen, and the squire sat with him while he ate. Then the two men went upstairs together.

In Cassie's room a light burned faintly. The squire turned it higher and then looked at David.

"Shall I go down, David?"

"No," said David.

The squire crossed the room slowly and laid back the cover from Cassie's face; then both men stood still, looking first at the figure on the bed, then at each other. Cassie had always been beautiful, but now an unearthly loveliness lighted her face. Her dark hair was braided high on her head; her broad forehead with its beautifully arched brows seemed to shed an actual radiance. David had never observed his mother's beauty, but now, in the last few months, he had wakened to aspects to which he had been blind. He had seen beautiful women; he could compare them with his mother as she lay before him. He looked at her hands, still shapely in spite of the hard toil of her life, folded now across her quiet breast; he noted the shape of her forehead; he saw the smile with which she seemed to be contemplating some secret and lovely thing.

Upon the squire the sight of Cassie made a deep impression. Tears came into his eyes, and he shook his head as though before him lay an unfathomable mystery. He felt about her as he might have felt about some young person cut off in youth. Here was extraordinary promise, here was pitiful blight. The squire had observed human nature in many unusual and pathetic situations, here was the most pathetic of all. The Hartmans could not be understood.

Then the squire, glancing at David, went out and closed the door and left him with his mother.

In dumb confusion, David stood by the great bed. More vaguely, the squire's puzzle was his also. His mother had had an empty life—it should not have been empty. He could not understand her, he could not understand his father. They had put him away from them. The old resentful, heart-breaking misery came back; he had no people, he had no one who loved him. Then resentment faded and grief filled him. Like a lover, refused, rejected, he knelt down beside the great bed.

"Oh, mother!" cried David, again and again. "Oh, mother, mother!" Then the old, unanswered, unanswerable cry, "Speak to me!"

From the great bed came no sign. David rose presently and laid back the cover over the smiling lips and turned the light low and went down to join the squire. Composedly he made plans with him for the funeral. The squire announced that he and Bevy had come to take up their abode unless David wished to be alone. The squire looked at David, startled. In the last year David had grown more than ever like his parents; he had his mother's features and his father's deep gray eyes and thickly curling hair.

"When you are through your school, you must settle down in Millerstown," said the squire. "There ought to be little folks here in this house."

David's heart leaped, then sank back to its place. He had cured himself of Katy Gaumer; such flashes were only meaningless recollections of past habit.

"I am thinking of studying law," he told the squire. "That will keep me in school three years more. And then I couldn't practice law in Millerstown."

"The Hartmans are not lawyers," said the squire. "The Hartmans are farmers. You would have plenty to keep you busy, David."

If old habit caused David to look for Katy Gaumer, David's eyes were not gratified by what they sought. Neither before his mother's funeral nor afterward did she appear. Bevy had removed her few belongings from David's room before he returned; there remained in the Hartman house no evidence of her presence. Bevy said that Katy was tired, that she lay all day on the settle in her uncle's kitchen. Bevy longed to pour out to David an account of Katy's treatment at the hands of Alvin Koehler, prospective church member though he was. But she had been forbidden by the squire to open her lips on the subject; and, besides, David Hartman, the heir to all this magnificence, could hardly be expected to take an interest in one who had demeaned herself to become his mother's servant. Nevertheless, a wild scheme formed itself in Bevy's mind.

"Sometimes Katy cries," reported Bevy sentimentally to David. "It seems as though this brought back everything about her gran'mom and everything. Yesterday she was real sick, but to-day she complains better again. Katy has had a good deal of trouble in this world."

David frowned. He was going back to college in the morning; his bag was already packed. Katy had been in the house until the time of his mother's death; she should have asked him to come to see her. Old habit tempted him to play once more with fire.

"I would like to see Katy," he said now to Bevy.

"Well!" Bevy faced him with arms akimbo, her little eyes sparkling. "I will tell Katy that she shall come here once this evening."

"No," answered David, who had got beyond the simple ways of Millerstown. "Ask her whether I may come to see her this evening."

"Of course, you can come to see her!" cried Bevy. "I will just tell her you are coming."

But Bevy returned with an astonishing message. Bevy was amazed at Katy's temerity. She had planned that she would suggest to Edwin's Sally that she and Edwin go to bed and leave the kitchen to David and Katy.

"She only cried and said you should not come. Sally said I must leave her alone. She said the squire said and Edwin said that Katy must be left alone. Katy is not herself."

In June David returned to Millerstown with trunks and boxes to stay for the summer, at least. Upon his face a fresh record was written. He looked older, his lips were more firmly set. His last term had been easy; he had permitted himself holidays; he had visited New York, had seen great ships, had climbed great buildings, had learned, or thought that he had learned, that money can buy anything in the world. He had talked for defiance' sake with the pretty girl who had told him so sweetly long ago that the college town was glad of his presence. The pretty girl smiled upon him even more sweetly; it was clear to David's eyes that his blunder was nothing to her. He talked to other girls; it was equally clear that they were glad to forget any blunders of the past. He had not yet made up his mind what he would do with this great world which he could buy. Its evil was as plain to him as its good, but he meant to have all of it. It was as though David gathered together the pipe and cards flung into the tree-tops from the Sheep Stable.

It was late in the afternoon when he arrived in Millerstown. Main Street lay quiet and golden in the sunshine. It was supper time and the Millerstonians were indoors. Few persons saw him come, and those few stood in too great awe of him to invite him to their houses. He met Katy Gaumer as he turned the corner sharply, and Katy gasped and looked at him somberly, standing still in a strange way to let him pass. She answered his greeting without lifting her head. Old habit made David grit his teeth.

Upon her doorstep sat the little Improved New Mennonite, her supper finished. She was prettier than ever. By nature a manager, she had reduced Alvin's financial and other troubles to their simplest terms, and there was now hope of a happy issue from them. Alvin himself, though at peace, was not exactly happy. He had been held so diligently to his work, he had been compelled to dress so plainly that he was much depressed in spirit. Red neckties were now anathema; masculine adherents of the sect of the Improved New Mennonites, indeed, abjured neckties altogether, and Alvin feared that the black one to which he was reduced would presently also be taken from him. In her practical way Essie had long since decided that the rented house in the village could not be considered as an abode, but that the little house on the mountain-side must be returned to.

To the side of the little Mennonite came David when he had opened the windows of his house. The place was desolate. The baffling sense of his mother's presence, even the consciousness of his father's, so long past, were intolerable. He would not endure this discomfort. He was young, ought to have happiness, would have it. Essie Hill was lovely to look at, she admired him, she was a woman; he would go and talk to Essie. He wished that he had brought her a present, but he could order one for her. If he stayed in Millerstown this summer Essie would be a pleasant diversion.

From the doorstep Essie looked up at him. Then, as he prepared to sit down beside her, she drew away, blushing primly.

"I am going to be married," said she. "I think I ought to tell you."

David grew suddenly pale. If a pigeon had turned from his caress to attack him with talons, if a board from his walk had arisen to smite him, he could not have been more astounded.

"To whom?" said he.

"I am going to marry Alvin."

"Alvin who?" asked David, bewildered.

"Alvin Koehler."

Then was David's pride wounded! He wished Essie well with a steady voice, however, and went on to the post-office and back to his house and sat down on the dark back porch. How he hated them all, these miserable people, but how he hated most of all Alvin Koehler. It was not, he remembered, the first time that Alvin had been preferred to him. He thought again of William, gibbering and praying in the corner of the almshouse garden. God had put him there. It was a proof that God existed that he had punished Alvin's father. And Alvin should be punished, too. David knew of the mortgage among his father's papers. It was only by his father's grace that the Koehlers had been allowed to live so long on the mountain-side. That house should continue in their possession no longer. Other schemes for revenge came into his mind. He sat miserably, his head buried in his hands as though he were a tramp waiting for food instead of the heir of the house come home to take possession.

He did not hear the sound of a step on the brick walk. Suddenly, a girl screamed lightly and he lifted his head, then sprang to his feet.

"What is it?" he cried to the ghostly figure. "Who are you?"

"I didn't mean to scream," said Katy Gaumer. "I didn't see you at first and I was frightened. I thought it was some stranger."

"It is I," said David, gruffly. Katy's figure had seemed like an apparition in the dim light; he had been horribly startled.

"I want to see you, David," said Katy, hesitatingly. "I have something I must talk to you about."

"I'll make a light inside."

"I'd rather talk here," said Katy. "I'll sit here on the step. I don't believe any one will come."

David offered her a chair. The blood was pounding in his temples, his wrists felt weak.

Katy had already seated herself on the low step. David sat on a chair on the porch; he could see her as she propped her elbows on her knees and made a cup for her chin with her hands. David breathed deeply; old habit was reasserting itself. Then he saw that Katy was trembling; to his amazement he heard her crying.

"You aren't well, Katy!"

"Yes," said Katy. "But I have a duty to do. It is hard. It nearly kills me."

David's thoughts leaped wildly from one possibility to another. What had she done? What could she have done? Here was Katy in a new light, weeping, distressed.

"What is it, Katy? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"I am afraid to tell you." Katy turned her white face toward him. "But I must tell you. It has been on my mind day and night. I have tried to think of another way, but I cannot."

"But what is it?"

"When I was a little girl and lived with my grandfather and grandmother, I used to run away, and one day I ran away to the church. Alvin Koehler's father was there plastering the wall, and I watched him, and after a while I went to sleep in a pew. When I woke up Alvin's father was gone, but your father was there, David."

David gave a great start.

"You cannot say anything to me against my father!"

"But I must tell you, David. You will have to decide what is to be done. I haven't told the squire or any one, but you must know. It has been on my mind all this time. I can't rest or sleep any more. I went up to your father and he spoke roughly to me, and then I ran out and went home to my grandmother. She laughed at me and said your father was only chasing me home where I ought to be. After a while I believed it. Then Alvin Koehler's father got up at the funeral and talked about the communion set and I didn't believe such a thing for a minute, not a minute. Alvin is not—is not—very honest—and I never believed it."

"You didn't believe what?" said David with a dry throat. "What in this world are you talking about?"

"I didn't believe for a minute that your father would have anything to do with taking the communion set. I—"

"He didn't have anything to do with it," cried David. "What nonsense is this?"

Katy covered her face with her hands. She went on mechanically as though she had prepared what she had to say.

"Before your mother died and the preacher came to give her communion, he lifted the cup high in the air and the light shone on it. Then I remembered everything that I had forgotten, how I had run away to the church and everything, and I knew that your father had the shining cup in his hand when I ran up to him. That was what I wanted—the shining cup. He was there with it in his hand; it is as plain as if it were now."

"I do not believe you!"

To this Katy returned no answer.

"Why didn't you tell it long ago?"

"I didn't remember this part till that night," said Katy, patiently. "But I couldn't come and tell you then! I have thought over this and prayed over it. If I could bear it for you, I would, David. But I can't."

"I do not believe you," said David. "You imagined it. What could my father have wanted with the communion service? What could he have done with it?"

"There was a hole in the wall and he pushed it in quickly."

"A hole in the wall!"

"Alvin's father was mending the wall. There used to be a window there. I asked the squire about the window. Alvin's father was closing it up."

Into David's mind came a sickening recollection of the wild-eyed, desperate figure which had risen to shout out the terrible accusation.

"I do not believe it," he said again. "You have always helped Alvin Koehler. You helped him dishonestly in school. You are trying to help him now."

Katy's head bent a little lower over her knees.

"He does not even have sense enough to care for you or to be grateful to you."

Katy rose from her place on the low step. With a gasp she started down the walk.

"What are you going to do about it?" cried David, hoarsely.

"Nothing," answered Katy.

"You are going now to tell the squire!"

"No," said Katy, "I am not going to tell any one."

"Then why did you come here?" David followed her to the gate. "You have made trouble, you are always making trouble. If you are not going to do anything about it, why did you come here?"

"I had to tell you," insisted Katy, woefully. "Can't you see that I had to tell you?"

"It is not true," said David again. "If you think I will do anything against my father's name you are mistaken. You—"

But Katy had gone. He heard the familiar click of the gate, he heard her steps quicken. She was running away as from a house of plague.

Then David hid his face in his arms and sat long alone on the porch. He saw his father's stern face. His father had gone about—this there was no denying—like a man with a heavy load upon his heart. But that he should have had anything to do with the theft of a communion service, that he should even have touched it, that he, himself, knowing the truth, should have allowed another to be suspected—this was monstrous.

With rapid step David went up and down the porch. He would go away from Millerstown forever, that was certain. He would sell his house, his farms; he would shake the dust of the place from his feet. But first he would clear the mind of Katy Gaumer from this outrageous suspicion and make it impossible for the slander to travel farther. As he made his plans, he stood still at the top of the porch steps, his head bent. Then he lifted his head with a sudden motion. There was for an instant a strangeness in the air, a sense of human presence. David felt blessed in his endeavor.

A few moments later he opened the door of the squire's office.

The squire, busy with his favorite occupation, the planning of a journey, sat with his feet comfortably elevated on the table. He let his chair slam to the floor and came forward to meet his guest.

"Well, David, now you are a graduate! Let me look at you! Now you are to stay with us. Why, David!" The squire stared at the countenance before him. "Are you in trouble?"

"Yes," answered David.

With the squire in his chair behind the desk, himself on the old settle, David told his story.

"Katy Gaumer came to the house this evening and told me a strange thing. She says that she saw my father with the communion cup in his hand the day that the service disappeared from the church."

"The communion cup?" repeated the squire, startled almost out of his wits. "What communion cup?"

"The one that disappeared."

The squire gasped.

"Katy saw him!" Here was Katy again, Katy who had seemed to them all to be such a promising child, Katy who was determined to go away to school, Katy who helped young rascals from her poverty, Katy who now would not study, who refused to do anything but sit dismally about! "Katy Gaumer," he repeated. "Our Katy?"

"Yes, Katy Gaumer," said David. "She says she was a little child and that she ran away from her grandmother to the church and saw my father put the silver cup into a hole made by plastering up the window."

"Impossible!" cried the squire. "Nonsense! Humbug! The girl is crazy. It couldn't be!"

David looked at him and drew a deep breath.

"That was what I said. Then I thought of Koehler, and of how he had gone mad, and I knew my father would wish it investigated."

An electric shock tingled the squire's sensorium. He remembered the contorted face, the trembling hands, the terrible earnestness with which Koehler made his attack upon the dead man.

"What is your plan, David?" he asked.

"I thought we might get the key of the church and go out there and look about. It's bright moonlight and I believe we can see without making a light. I don't believe I can sleep until I have been out there and have looked about. I suppose we will have to get a key from the preacher."

"I have a key," said the squire. "But let us wait till to-morrow, David."

"I must go to-night," insisted David.

Only once were words exchanged on the journey. The two men went out the village street, past Grandfather Gaumer's, where a hundred sweet odors saluted them from the garden and where Katy lay weeping on her bed, to the path along the pike, between the open fields.

"You knew my father," said David. "Such a thing could not have been possible."

"I knew him from a boy," answered the squire heartily and honestly. "Such a thing could not have been possible."

"Had Koehler ever made this accusation before the time of my father's funeral?"

"He made it to the preacher after the service disappeared, but the preacher told him he must be still."

"Could Koehler have had any motive for taking it himself?"

"He was a poor man," answered the squire. "But he was simple and honest—all the Koehlers were."

"What do you suppose became of it?"

"I have always supposed that some one sneaked in while Koehler was away for a minute. A tramp could easily have walked in."

"Did my father never say that he had been in the church that afternoon?"

"Not that I know of."

The church door opened easily and quietly, the church was dim and silent. The tall, narrow windows, fitted with clear glass, let in the light of the moon upon the high pulpit, the oaken pews, the bare floor. The pulpit and the Bible were draped with protecting covers of white which made the church seem more ghostly and mysterious. Katy Gaumer in certain moods would have been enchanted.

Together the two men looked at the smooth wall beside the pulpit.

"It doesn't seem as if that wall could ever have been broken," said David in a low voice. "Was the window there?"

"Yes," answered the squire. "There was a window there. But William Koehler was a fine plasterer. The window went almost from ceiling to floor."

"We would have to have a pickaxe and other tools. And we would have to ask for permission to open it. And all Millerstown would have to know," said David.

The squire pondered for an instant. "We would if we opened it from this side. But the Sunday School is built against the other side, and there there is only a little thin wainscoting to break through. It could be taken out and put back easily. There are tools here in the church somewhere."

The squire returned to the vestibule and opened the door of a cupboard.

"Here is a whole basket of tools. I do not like to make a light or every one will see. Millerstown is wonderful curious." The squire's light tone sounded strangely in the silence of the church, strangely to David and strangely to himself. "Don't you think, David"—the squire had his hand on the knob of the Sunday-School room door—"don't you think we had better wait till to-morrow?"

"No," answered David.

The squire passed on into the little Sunday-School room and David followed him.

"It's brighter here." The squire measured the wainscoting with his eye. "The old window ought to be about here. Sit down, David."

David obeyed, trembling.

"I don't believe I could open it," said he.

"Of course not!" answered the squire, cheerfully. "Do not worry, David. That silver has been melted this long time."

The squire thrust a chisel into a crevice and lifted out a section of wainscoting, then another. When three or four narrow strips were removed, he thrust his hand into the aperture. The moonlight grew brighter as the moon cleared the upper boughs of the old cherry trees outside the Sunday-School building; it shone upon a curious scene, the old man at his strange task, the young man watching so eagerly.

"There can't be anything here," said the squire, cheerfully. "There can't be. This might just as well be made into a book cupboard for the Sunday School; it is wasted space. It's queer we never thought of that. You see the church wall is four bricks thick here, and William's wall only one brick. It—"

The squire ceased suddenly to speak. His exploring hand had only now reached the bottom of the deep hole; it came into contact with a substance different from the fallen rubble which he expected to touch. David heard his voice die away, saw him start.

"What is it, sir?"

"There is something here," answered the squire.

David looked at the yawning hole with what courage he could muster. The squire thrust in his hand a little deeper, and groped about. Then, from the pit from which John Hartman might have lifted them easily had not all thought been paralyzed, he drew in their gray bag a pitcher, black with tarnish, and a silver plate, and set them on the floor beside him, and then a silver chalice. Still feeling about, he touched a paper and that, too, he lifted out and laid on the floor with the silver vessels.

Then, silently, he and David looked at each other.

CHAPTER XX
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

David did not answer. His face was in the shadow, only his tightly clasped hands were illuminated by the bright moonlight. His mind was confused, he could not yet coördinate his impressions. There was Katy Gaumer's story, there was Koehler's terrible accusation; here was this damning proof of both. He felt again that rising, protesting pride in his father, he felt a sickening unwillingness to go on with this investigation, which seemed to mean in his first confusion only an intolerable humbling of himself before Alvin Koehler, the effeminate, the smiling, the son of a madman and a thief. Poor David groaned.

At once the squire rose with a troubled sigh.

"We'd better put these things back and drive in a few nails to hold the wainscoting. We'll surely meet some one if we carry them into town and then the cat would be out of the bag."

David agreed with a nod.

"And here is this paper!" The squire started. Perhaps they were nearer an explanation than they thought. "Put it in your pocket, David."

David thrust the paper into his pocket with a sort of sob. The squire laid the precious vessels back on the rough floor of the little pit and put the wainscoting in place. A few light taps with a hammer and all was smooth once more as it had been for fifteen years. Then he led the way into the dim church.

"Come, David!"

David did not answer. He had sat down once more on the low bench. His thoughts had passed beyond himself; he sat once more beside his father's body here in the church. He experienced again that paralyzing horror of death, the passionate desire to shield his poor father from the curious eyes of Millerstown, his rage at the wild, dusty figure in the gallery. He remembered William Koehler as he had seen him later in the corner of the poorhouse garden, waving his arms, struggling like some frantic creature striving to break the bonds which held him. He saw the face of Alvin, empty, dissatisfied, vain. He remembered the little house, its poverty, its meanness. He remembered how he had called upon God to prove Himself to him by punishing Alvin Koehler's father. David was proud no more.

"Come, David!" urged the squire again, returning; and this time David followed him, through the church, out into the warm June night. Cinder was being dumped at the furnace, the sky flushed suddenly a rosy red, then the glow faded, leaving only the silvery moonlight. It was only nine o'clock; pleasant sounds rose from the village, the laughter of children, the voice of some one singing. Millerstown was going on in its quiet, happy way. At Grandfather Gaumer's all was dark; the house stood somberly among its pine trees; the garden still breathed forth its lovely odors. The two men proceeded into the little office of the squire, and there the squire lit his lamp and both sat down.

Trembling, David drew from his pocket the paper which the squire had found with the silver vessels. John Hartman had expected that long before the silver service was discovered the threatening letter would be destroyed. But here it lay in his son's hand, its fiber intact. It had caused John Hartman hideous suffering; it was to hide it that he had given his life's happiness; here now it lay in the hand of David. Slowly David unfolded the yellowed sheet and looked at it.

The squire, startled by a cry, turned from the door he was locking against possible intruders. David's blond head lay on the squire's desk, the paper beside it.

"What is it, David?"

David held out the paper, his face still hidden. The squire felt for his spectacles, his hand shaking. Here now was the explanation of this strange mystery, a mystery thought to be forever inexplicable. Why had John Hartman done this thing? The squire held his breath in suspense.

But the squire read no answer to his questions. The paper, old and yellowed and flabby to the touch, could be scrutinized forever, held to the light, magnified, but it told nothing. On it only a few words were legible, a portion of those written by John Hartman as he sat by the roadside in his misery long ago.

"My dear little boy." "My poor Cassie." There was one fragment of a sentence. "What shall I—" and there all ended.

The squire looked at the paper solemnly. The mystery had only thickened.

"He was in some trouble, poor Hartman was," said he. "He was in great trouble. I wish he had come to me in his trouble." Again and again the squire turned the paper over in his hand, still he found nothing but the few, scattered words.

"I think I will ask Katy to come over," said he. "Perhaps she can remember something more of this."

David did not lift his head to answer; he did not hear what the squire said. He tried desperately to control himself, to decide what must next be done. When Katy came in with the squire, he was startled almost out of his senses and sprang up hastily. Of all the ignominy of his life Katy had been a witness.

Katy had not gone to bed to stay, but had only hurled herself down once more upon her oft-used refuge. It was evident that she had shed many tears. The squire drew her to a seat beside him on the settle and kept hold of her. It was always natural for any one who was near Katy to find her hand or to touch the curls on her neck or to make her more comfortable with one's arm. To David, as she sat by the squire, she was an impregnably fortressed and cruel judge.

Again Katy told her story—all her story, her running away, her talking with William Koehler, her falling asleep, her sight of the shining cup.

"You say he pushed it in, Katy?"

"He had it in his hand and he dropped it in quickly. Then he—he sent me away. I am sure I ought not to have been in the church; it was all right for him to send me away. I remembered it all but the shining cup. If gran'mom was alive, she could tell you how I came running home."

"And you never told any one?"

"I spoke often of his having sent me home," explained Katy. "But I never remembered about the shining cup until the preacher came to see David's mother. Then I couldn't tell David,—I couldn't tell him! But perhaps it isn't there; perhaps even if he had the cup in his hand he hadn't anything to do with the other; perhaps—"

"The silver is there," said the squire sadly. "We found it in the bottom of the pit."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Katy.

David looked at her coldly. She sat with her curly head hidden against the squire's shoulder. David wished that she would go, that she would remove herself far from him, forever. He had suffered this evening to the limit of endurance.

"You did your duty," said he in the tone learned at college. "You needn't feel any further responsibility."

Thus propelled, Katy rose and checked her tears and passed out of the squire's office.

When she had gone, David took up his burden manfully, though somewhat savagely. David was proud once more, but the pride was that of honor, not of haughtiness. John Hartman had had a code of honor; it was that which had broken his heart. Millerstown had a similar code of honor. By inheritance or by observation had David learned the way of a just man.

"Now," said he, "we will find Alvin."

"To-night, David?"

"Yes, to-night."

"But Alvin will know nothing!"

"But we will find Alvin."