“Sir, thou art addressing the prophetess of Zanah with the vain title used in the world outside. If thou must speak to her, thou shouldst call her Walda Kellar.” Everett was embarrassed. He stood gazing at the girl, who smiled upon him quite naturally. “Yea, thou shouldst call me Walda,” she said. “Thou knowest that in the Bible the men and women addressed one another by their simple names.” “Then, if I am to follow the custom of Zanah, you must call me not stranger, but Stephen,” he said. And she answered: “Yea, Stephen, already thou seemest scarcely a stranger.” He felt a sudden quickening of the pulses when the girl spoke to him by his given name, so seldom used, for he was little burdened by kinsmen and the intimacies of ordinary companionship. Stephen Everett had always been a man who forbade those with whom he came in contact to take liberties with him, yet he had the quiet friendliness that kept for him the constancy and devotion of all who knew him. His name, spoken by the prophetess of Zanah, had, however, a sound that suddenly glorified it. As he stood there he could think of nothing to say, and she passed on, leaving him to look after her, and to feel in a new and peculiar manner that the world had changed for him. He saw that she walked with a firm step and a light freedom of movement that gave her a rare grace. She moved slowly, so that the little child could keep pace with her, and he was grateful for the chance duty that gave him a longer glimpse of her. She passed through the wooden gate which cut off the vineyard. Presently he saw her disappear among the trees at the end of the village street, and a sense of loneliness swept over him. He who had always been glad of the opportunity to enjoy his own society felt something of the homesickness of the soul. VII