Walda went to the chest of drawers, and, taking her knitting from a little basket, sank upon a low chair, from which she could get a glimpse of her sleeping father. Everett felt that she had dismissed him. He took up his hat and said:
“You told me I might call you Walda, so I shall say, Good-night, Walda.”
“Will you not say, ‘Good-night, Stephen’?” he asked.
“Why wouldst thou have me say thy name again?” she inquired.
For the twentieth time Everett was embarrassed.
“Because it is the custom of friends to speak one another’s names,” he explained.
“At least you will repay me for my long stay here in the colony by speaking my name now and then,” he insisted, hypocritically.
There was the barest shadow of a smile on the lips of the future prophetess of Zanah. “Good-night, Stephen,” she said; and because he could find no excuse for lingering longer in the quaint room under the eaves, he went away.
Wilhelm Kellar’s health mended slowly. Some days he felt strong enough to be lifted out upon the chintz-covered lounge in the large room, but every attempt to hasten convalescence appeared futile, and after a morning spent out of bed he always felt a reaction. On one of his best days he lay on the lounge, which had been pushed into the bay-window. Above his head hung Piepmatz. When Everett came to make the first call of the day, the bird was trilling his one bar of the doxology, with long breaks now and then between the notes. Walda was trimming a plant that stood on the table near which sat Gerson Brandt. The school-master watched the future prophetess intently, and at first he did not notice Everett’s entrance.
“My patient must be better,” said Everett, passing to the window, and Walda, turning from the table, answered:
“We are happy, indeed, to-day. My father hath already begun to think about his work in the colony.”
“You must not be too ambitious,” said Everett, drawing a stool to the foot of the lounge and placing himself where he could study the old man’s face.
“I have declared a half-holiday that I may celebrate the return of health to Brother Kellar,” said Gerson Brandt, smiling upon his old friend, who lay, weak and prostrated, among the pillows. At this point Piepmatz abandoned the doxology and burst into a flood of song.