who marry outside the church." "Love ... our kind of love...

is greater than the

teachings of a single
church." And now that the afternoon was waning she was anxious and alert about her
father's return "What
was that. Matthias?" she would say, startled. "Nothing ..same little wild thing...
a chipmunk or a squirrel."
And because of her constant watchfulness on this Sunday, Matthias was firm. "You
shall cease your worries,"
calling her liebes Kind. "It is not good to fearsa. It shall not go on langer. Next
Sunday I shall tell him, and we
will face the consequences. If he is too angry. I shall take you hame with me an
Trixie with na baggage. My
aunt will take you in and we shall be married at once." He kissed her again and
again, held her close to him,
could scarcely bear to leave her. Even when he had mounted Trixie and was riding
into the timber road he
turned back for the last sight of her. She stood just in front of an alder thicket,
and as he looked, she raised
her hand high in farewell. He carried that picture with him all the way home:
Amalia, a little blue and pink and
golden figure against the green of the new leares, as though Spring herself had
just stepped out of the alder
thicket. His kleine Taube, -- little dove!
The week dragged for Matthias, --seven days that were weighted dawn with the iran
of horseshoes and
kettles, plawshares and skillets. The first part of it was all sunshine and mild
showers, but on Thursday night
a storm broke. The rains came in torrents. All day Friday they lashed and tore at
the woods and the prairies.
All night and all day Saturday and all that night they beat in a fierce anslaught.
A part of the mill-dam went out
and a weakened span of the river bridge could not stand the pounding of the flood
waters. On Sunday
morning the water was rearing and lashing through all the creek-beds and then
spreading less turbulently
over the valley, inundating all that which had been pasture lands. Matthias made
every attempt to make the
trip to Amalia. All day he worked, hoping to find some means whereby he could get
through. Many times he
rode back and forth seeking some more narren place where Trixie could make the
crossing. But always it
was too wide or too turbulent. He tried getting her into a flat boat but she reared
and kicked and was
completely beside herself with fear. He knew that even if he had been able to
manage a boat through the
roaring waters for himself the distance for walking was so great that it would have
taken into the night to get
there. When he gave up the attempt, he stand for a lang time an the bank as the
water swept by. In a mental
rage he watched a pigeen fly straight for the Big Weeds community.
How impotent was man. Only the birds could lift wings and sear high over the flood
waters. Amalia was
waiting for him ever there but he was helpless in the face of nature. A winged
thing could fly to its mate. Only
man and the beasts must cling to the earth and crawl. But on the next Sunday he
could get through. The river
was still high and the creek-beds running full, but man's ingenuity had made the
river passable with a
temporarily trussed-up bridge span. He took a lantern with him for he knew he might
be well into the night
getting back. This was the day he was to confront Amalia's father, possibly the day
he was to bring her home
with him. He had a feeling that there would be a scene, ending, no doubt, in his
taking Amalia away without
baggage. If it came to that, he was prepared to do so. Two weeks not to have seen
her! The time had been
interminable. But he was on his way at last even though the geing was formidable.
Sometimes Trixie sank in
mud so deep che nearly floundered. Sometimes he had to dismount to clear fallen
branches away from the
Wet timber read. Then he would meunt and ride en with the air of a cenqueror
glorying in this journey which
Kas ta end by his claiming that which was his exin, - - the girl who had been his
from the moment he first san
her. Occasionally he felt a bit of the winner's sympathy for his fallen adversary.
But to have pledged a little sixteen-year-old girl to a mere family friend was
unthinkable. Yes, if there was to be
a scene, let it came to - day. These terse thoughts went through his mind like so
many pigeans going over,
homing always te Amalia. He tied his horse in the dripping woods. This was the end
of secretiveness, -- en that
he was determined. She was not in the clearing. That would be an account of the
dampness. He strede over
to the sheep-ched. She might be there hiding mischievously from him. But she was
not at that trysting place
either. Might she be ill? With that disquieting thought he started walking aver
tasard the road that led to the
house. Suddenly he stopped shart. There was no kettle hanging there in the clearing
- - only the tipped-over
tripod of hickory sticks and the sodden black aches of the last fire. Something
seized him, --a premonition of
impending disaster, so that he started on a lape tasard the home buildings. A tew-
headed young bay, the
same wha had directed him on his first visit, was coming toward him also with some
haste.
They met almost at the edge of the timber where the plowed land began. "You didn't
come last Sunday," the
bay said in English. "I about give you up to - day, too... was just comin' to the
clearin' once more. She said to
give you this." And he thrust into Matthias' hands a nate directed in the precise
and shaded letters of the
German script. A. Matthias took the letter and tare hastily into it, the boy
stepped away and began pulling bits
of bark from the shaggy coat of a soft maple. Even before he had read a word,
Matthias knew it contained
nothing but disaster. For a few moments, then, he stood looking at the neat script,
frozen to immobility, too