the habit of seclusion from neighborhood and church life had grown upon them
gradually and almost unconsciously.

For a long time after his wife's death Holcroft had felt that he did not wish
to see anyone who would make references to his loss.

He shrank from formal condolences as he would from the touch of a diseased
nerve. When the minister called, he listened politely but silently to a
general exhortation; then muttered, when left alone, "It's all as he says, I
suppose; but somehow his words are like the medicines Bessie took--they don't
do any good."

He kept up the form of his faith and a certain vague hope until the night on
which he drove forth the Irish revelers from his home. In remembrance of his
rage and profanity on that occasion, he silently and in dreary misgiving
concluded that he should not, even to himself, keep up the pretense of
religion any longer. "I've fallen from grace--that is, if I ever had any"--was
a thought which did much to rob him of courage to meet his other trials.
Whenever he dwelt on these subjects, doubts, perplexities, and resentment at
his misfortunes so thronged his mind that he was appalled; so he strove to
occupy himself with the immediate present.

Today, however, in recalling the past, his thoughts would question the future
and the outcome of his experiences. In accordance with his simple, downright
nature, he muttered, "I might as well face the truth and have done with it. I
don't know whether I'll ever see my wife again or not; I don't know whether
God is for me or against me. Sometimes, I half think there isn't any God. I
don't know what will become of me when I die. I'm sure of only one
thing--while I do live I could take comfort in working the old place."