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. “Hush, thou saucy bird,” Walda commanded. She went to the cage and playfully shook her finger at the chaffinch. “See, he knoweth there is reason to be glad,” she declared. “Verily he hath much wisdom.” “Piepmatz is something of a philosopher,” remarked Everett. “He makes the best of his imprisonment. Like the people of Zanah, he appears to care little for the great world.” “He hath taught me many a lesson of submission,” said Walda. “Still, his tiny heart is easily touched by worldly things,” said the school-master. “He hath shown a dangerous inclination to take up the song the stranger hath whistled.” “Let me see whether you have forgotten the worldly song.” It was Everett who spoke. Going to the cage he whistled the minor strain of the love-song. Piepmatz proudly imitated him. “You see, I might have been a good school-master if fate had not decreed otherwise,” said Everett, addressing Gerson Brandt. “What is thy work in the world?” asked Walda. “Since my thoughtless plea kept thee here I have often wondered about thy daily labors. At first I thought thou didst tend the sick, but once I heard thee say that thou hadst not yet begun that labor.” “So far I have not done any one thing,” Everett confessed, with a feeling of shame. “How dost thou spend thy days?” the school-master inquired. Everett hesitated before answering. In all his life it had never occurred to him to think how his days were spent. “Since I left college I have travelled a great deal,” he replied, evasively. “And hast thou seen the whole world?” asked Walda. Wonder was written on her face. “I have seen much of it.”