But Stephen did not move. He knew that he might touch Ellen, knew that she half expected to be kissed, and he believed that a sense of honor restrained him. In reality prevision governed him; he knew that the present must sometimes be sacrificed to the future.
"You'll write once a week," he said more as a command than as a request. "You'd better put your letter into the form of a report of what you've been doing."
"I promise," said Ellen.
Fetzer escorted her to the train and bade her farewell with regret for the loss of a congenial companion. For the loss of Ellen's help she was not at all concerned, though she had no intention of engaging any one to take her place. She would do all Ellen's work herself. Life in the Lanfair house would henceforth be very simple. Keener than her one consuming passion was now a consuming dread. Her husband's term was almost out and the Lord to Whom she prayed had but one more year to convert him and take him home; otherwise there was only one course for her.
Ellen took the seat indicated by the porter, with an air which declared that travel in parlor cars was not a new experience. She was determined not to seem puzzled or frightened or even over-pleased by the fortunes which dazzled her.
Having no knowledge upon which to base dreams of the immediate future, she turned after some vague speculations to the past. Her early life, she realized, was now behind her; she could not but feel, though she reproached herself, a deep relief. Her relatives were all troubled and she would have been glad to help them, but she knew no way. To live at Matthew's—how impossible! To become the leader of a band of religious women—how unthinkable! To her, religion was Grandfather's religion. To marry Amos!—most impossible of all! She would never marry; she would devote herself to her profession; she would apply herself with the most intense diligence, and would make Dr. Lanfair proud of her. She leaned back and closed her eyes, determined to become indispensable to him in a far greater degree than Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane together. Her admiration for his keenness of mind, his learning, his goodness of heart was unbounded.
When she was shown into her room in the third story of an old dormitory, her pathway seemed to be literally of gold. Flooded with late sunlight, the room faced west and north and looked out over the beautiful campus and the lake. She set down her satchel and walked to the window and stood looking out, comparing this scene with the scene of her first adventure, Mrs. Lebber's house overhanging the deep chasm of the railroad yards, its grime and the shower of sharp particles which fell upon her cheek at night. Here were roofs and towers showing above broad tree-tops; yonder was a stretch of heavenly blue water.
Presently she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Was it all a dream? The thick beating of her heart frightened her. She forgot her father's urging, her own unabated effort, Miss MacVane's assistance; it seemed to her that this happiness was Lanfair's gift. She began to put her small properties in their places, to examine wardrobes and bureau and desk.
As the weeks passed, she made friends slowly. She was not frightened by the complex life of the University, though at first it confused, nor by the long task before her; but she was shy in the company of youthful feminine creatures of all varieties of appearance, natures and histories. She had been associated with comparatively few persons and she was not accustomed to sharing her thoughts. The men students were entirely negligible; she knew that she was the object of their friendly curiosity, but she made no response to overtures for acquaintance.