David and the squire had not gone far in their search for Alvin before David's mind changed. He did not care to seek him at the house of the little Improved New Mennonite or to ask the squire to take the long walk to Alvin's house on the mountainside. It would be better to follow the squire's suggestion and wait until morning.
"Then we will drive out to the poorhouse and see Koehler himself. He is the one to see. You'd better stay here to-night with me."
David shook his head. He wished to be alone; he had set a task for himself. Perhaps some letter or document had escaped him among those in his father's safe, some letter or document which could throw light on the strange past.
But David found nothing. He entered again into his great house, locked its doors, and opened the iron safe. There he read through ledgers and day books and mortgages and deeds in vain. He found nothing but the orderly papers of a careful business man. He looked again at the letter upon which the secret had been written, he held it up between him and the lamp, but the original writing was gone forever. It had been a letter,—of that there was no doubt,—his father's writing followed the spaces of a margin, but the text of the letter was gone.
In the morning the two men drove out the country road to the almshouse. The fields were green, wild roses and elder were in bloom, the air was sweet. A man could ask nothing better of fate than to be given a home and work in such a spot.
"They say Koehler has grown quieter," said the squire. "He doesn't rave and pray this long time."
David did not answer. If another had visited such shame upon him, it would have been a long time before he would have grown quiet. David was now pale, now scarlet; he moistened his lips as though he were feverish. Reparation must be made, but what adequate reparation could be offered? Of money there was plenty, and Alvin, alas! could be satisfied with money; Alvin would probably never understand the awful hurt which had been done him. But his father—how could reason be returned to him?
In his corner in the almshouse garden they found William. The almshouse was a pleasant place with shady lawns and comfortable porches upon which old men could smoke their pipes and old women could sit knitting or shelling peas, or helping in other ways with the work for the large family. William Koehler never sat with the rest. He worked all day and then went back to his room like any self-respecting laborer. He was disinclined to speak; he was happiest on long, sunny days when he could be in the garden from dawn till twilight.
Now he was on his knees, weeding his cabbage plants. Another man would have done the work quickly with a hoe, but not so William. The delightful labor lasted longer if he pulled each weed by hand. Frequently he paused, to press down the soil a little more solidly about the roots of a plant or to say what sounded like an encouraging word. Thus had he been accustomed to talk to his chickens and his bees.
When the squire and David approached, he looked up from his work with a frown. At David he merely glanced; at the squire he stared. When he recognized him, he smiled faintly and rose from his knees.