Ellen bent her head upon her breast.
"I won't cut the trees, Ellen. I was mad to think of it. I don't know what got into me. I've sent word to Umbesheiden."
She made no answer.
"And Millie shall never speak to you that way again."
She seemed to be struggling in a rising sea. Matthew was fond of her; she guessed by some obscure instinct that he had altered and developed, that he was fonder of her than of Millie. She was tired, the journey before her seemed interminable and beyond her strength. But she shook her head.
"No," she said, "I'm not going to give up."
When Matthew reached Ephrata he went to the livery stable and got his horse and drove slowly to the farm. Tired and depressed, he longed to sit quietly and hold his son in his arms.
But his kitchen seemed to be filled with Esther, rocking at the end of a busy day while Millie prepared supper. She held little Matthew and sang to him a coarse English song. In the change from one civilization to another she, like many other young persons, had seized upon that which was least worthy. Matthew was about to reprove her when he recollected that little Matthew was still too young to be harmed. Before he could be hurt, Millie would have to arrange some other way of running her house.
After supper he walked to the Kloster where his eye fell upon a scene grown familiar to him during long evenings. The light from the brass lamp shone upon Grandfather's white beard and upon the golden hair of Amos bent above "The Mystic Dove." Sometimes Grandfather cast an approving look upon Amos and sometimes Amos cast a stealthy glance at Grandfather.
Matthew sat down where his father had once sat. He crossed one knee over the other and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. There was in his heart a new and irritating undercurrent of astonishment—how could human beings live like this?