“Walda, that is a habit maidens have when they think not of God but of man. Thou hast in thy thought no human being?”
“There is often a light in the inn; it shineth from the window of him whom we not long ago called the stranger in Zanah. It bringeth him into my mind, and I thank God for his coming to the colony.”
Walda’s words smote the school-master. A faint color came into his thin cheeks. He steadied himself against the desk.
“It is not thy duty to pray for the stranger. The elders can do that,” he declared.
“Nay, but he hath helped me much. He hath brought me strength.”
“Beware lest that strength become thy weakness.” There was a tremor in Gerson Brandt’s voice, and his manner puzzled the girl.
“Thou dost speak in riddles,” she said. “Thou knowest his world could not touch me. When I gaze from my window I am glad, indeed, that the bluffs shut me out from all the wickedness of the life beyond the colony.”
“I beg thy pardon, Walda. It was an unworthy suspicion that crossed my mind. Surely to-day Satan is close to me. And when thou gazest at the moon dost thou think of any one else?”
“Of my father, Gerson Brandt, and always of thee.”
“And how do I come to thee in thy thoughts, Walda?”