“Nay, Gerson, it seemeth to me that when the light of inspiration cometh to me thou must share it, for, after all, it is thy knowledge and thy faith that is in me. There hath come to me lately something of the illumination thou hast told me to expect, Gerson Brandt. There are days when it is as if I stood on the threshold of heaven. My heart is lifted up with a strange joy. I hear harmony in the rustling of the leaves in the trees and the flowing of the water under the bridge and the faint night-sounds that come to mine ears when the village hath gone to sleep. Long after the curfew-bell hath sounded I open my casement and look out into the sky. It is then I feel the vastness of the universe, and yet know that God hath not forgotten me.” As Walda spoke her face was radiant with new joy, and Gerson Brandt knew she was even then far removed from him. “Thou lookest from thy casement every night? Dost thou gaze at the moon?” he asked. “Yea, Gerson Brandt, I look long at the moon.” “Walda, that is a habit maidens have when they think not of God but of man. Thou hast in thy thought no human being?” “There is often a light in the inn; it shineth from the window of him whom we not long ago called the stranger in Zanah. It bringeth him into my mind, and I thank God for his coming to the colony.” Walda’s words smote the school-master. A faint color came into his thin cheeks. He steadied himself against the desk. “It is not thy duty to pray for the stranger. The elders can do that,” he declared. “Nay, but he hath helped me much. He hath brought me strength.” “Beware lest that strength become thy weakness.” There was a tremor in Gerson Brandt’s voice, and his manner puzzled the girl. “Thou dost speak in riddles,” she said. “Thou knowest his world could not touch me. When I gaze from my window I am glad, indeed, that the bluffs shut me out from all the wickedness of the life beyond the colony.” “I beg thy pardon, Walda. It was an unworthy suspicion that crossed my mind. Surely to-day Satan is close to me. And when thou gazest at the moon dost thou think of any one else?” “Of my father, Gerson Brandt, and always of thee.” “And how do I come to thee in thy thoughts, Walda?” “Thou comest as one that is ever dear to me. Since thou didst first take me on thy knee thou hast shared with my father all the earthly love of my heart. Have I not often told thee so?” “Thou didst never think of me as nearer to thine own age than thy father? Do I always appear so old to thee?” “Truly, thou dost seem like my father.” In her voice was an infinite tenderness, and the school-master, with a tremor in his voice, answered: “And yet I am but fifteen years thy senior.” “But thou lovest me as if I were thy daughter. I have always felt that thou didst give me something more than the neighborly regard in which all the people of Zanah hold one another.” Gerson Brandt made no answer. “Thou dost love me as if I were thy daughter?” she repeated.