For a moment Everett felt he was, indeed, a hypocrite. He was not an egotist, but his hopes, which a moment before had been cast down by the girl’s extraordinary rapture, now rose, for he perceived that he had, indeed, gained an influence over her.
“I want to talk to you, Walda,” Everett said, after he had thought for a moment. “Come with me down to the shore of the lake, where there is a log that makes a comfortable seat.”
Walda hesitated.
“Nay, Stephen, I must hasten to Marta Bachmann’s grave.”
“Don’t you think that sometimes it may be better to talk with the living than to pray with the dead?” Everett asked. “I thought you were interested in my welfare. Don’t you know that a few words from you may change my whole life?”
“If I could lead thee towards heaven it would be my duty to speak with thee.”
“Well, you can lead me to heaven.”
Everett parted the low branches of the trees so that Walda could pass through, and as she stepped into the little path to the water’s edge one of her long, fair braids caught upon a twig. She turned her face backward as she felt the sharp pull, and Everett, thanking his stars for a lucky fate that appeared to be attending him on this particular evening, disengaged the shining hair. He pretended to be very clumsy, and his head was brought close to Walda’s. The slightest trace of embarrassment showed itself in the manner of the prophetess of Zanah as she smoothed the braid and adjusted her cap. She walked forward rather hastily, and Everett pointed out the log, at one end of which the limbs made a graceful back for the rustic seat.
“Let me help you over these stones,” said Everett, and, taking her hand, he led her to the log. He placed her comfortably, and, standing beside her, told her to look at the wavering shadows in the water.
“All is peace here, Stephen,” the girl said, looking up at him. “In Zanah there is rest for the weary spirit. Couldst thou not be contented here always?”