In his buggy he was tempted to lash his horse, but that would bring him home the sooner. It was out at last, the dreadful conclusion he had been approaching for a long time. It was said aloud and he was not struck dead. He laughed like a drunken man.
Then, at the top of the hill, he heard a sound and paused. A great wind had begun to blow and the oak trees were roaring like the sea. It seemed to him that there was a message for him, but he could not interpret it. He felt suddenly weak and leaned against the side of the buggy.
In the cottage Grandfather lifted his hands toward heaven. The hope of his sisterhood was definitely ended, and now the prop of his secular congregation was gone.
"They are their father's children," he said in a whisper. "You are all I have left, Amos." He looked suddenly at Amos with new appraisement. In the loud confusion of Matthew's and Amos's speech he had lost Amos's confession. "You're all I have; you are trustworthy. I am not left desolate."
CHAPTER XXVII
ELLEN'S DREAMS COME TRUE
When Ellen reached Harrisburg, Fickes awaited her. To him Fetzer had made a brief statement of Ellen's changed prospects and he said, as he guided the car over the smooth streets, that he wished her well and that he would miss her. He drew up at the front door, as was suitable to her altered fortune. She had inspired only friendliness; there was no one in the house who, thus far, did not wish her well.
She saw Stephen reading in the library whither he had often summoned her and where he had heard of Grandfather and the dim Saal and the lambs at play and the singing oaks. He had been made acquainted with Mrs. Sassaman and Mrs. Lebber and had drawn from Ellen's reluctant lips the unpleasant story of Mr. Goldstein. He understood now Edward Levis's life and its disappointments and frustrations, and saw clearly all that he would have been able to do for him. He understood also Levis's daughter and her possibilities, which he believed to be unlimited. Now, alas! his philanthropic impulse was strengthened by other impulses, even more potent, though as yet unacknowledged to himself.
Ellen had begun to view her past history with detachment, and she had described for him the vagaries of her early associates not only with humor, but with tenderness.