Gerson Brandt sat alone in his school-room. His elbows were propped on the worn lid of his black, oaken desk, and his chin was supported in the palms of his hands. His face had a worried look. The lines about his mouth had deepened within the last few days, and his heavy brows were drawn together. He was wondering what could have happened to the precious Bible. Now that he had become accustomed to the changes brought about in the routine of his daily life by the illness of Wilhelm Kellar, he sorely missed the pleasant task of each day making a letter or two upon the pages of the Sacred Word. It had been his joy and his recreation, after the long school sessions, to turn to his pens and his colored inks. Line by line he had wrought the delicate traceries with many a thought of Walda and many a prayer for her well-being. He had dwelt so long in the faith that inspired Zanah that he had felt in the hope of her inspiration a peculiar satisfaction and contentment. He was a poet and a dreamer, so he found it not hard to believe that this girl of Zanah would be given a special power not vouchsafed to many souls that come into the great domain of sin. It was a week since the loss of the Bible had been discovered. It was apparent to him, whose nature was sensitive to every suggestion, that the people of Zanah for some reason distrusted him, and imputed blame to him because of the mysterious disappearance of the volume that might have brought the colony the price of many rolls of flannel and many bottles of wine. The Herr Doktor that very day had been to see him about devising some means by which more effective search could be made for the Bible. Notwithstanding Wilhelm Kellar’s illness, the room up-stairs had been thoroughly searched. With Schneider standing by, he had been obliged to submit to the humiliation of unlocking each drawer and turning out upon the floor all his few personal possessions. From his bed in the alcove Wilhelm Kellar had anxiously watched every movement, and had shown keen disappointment when the big volume could not be found. Mother Werther had been present, and had scrutinized each article as it was put back in its accustomed place in the old-fashioned chest of drawers. One thing alone she failed to examine, and that was his old leather portfolio, much worn with long years of constant use. In this portfolio was concealed his one forbidden possession—the sketch of Walda made years before, when she was scarcely more than a child. Zanah permitted not the image of anything on earth to be kept by a faithful colonist; but he had treasured this, made in a moment of weakness and loneliness. He had eased his conscience with the thought that he had drawn not the woman of the future, but the prophetess who would some day guide his people.