and climbed up into the loft to think it all out alone.
Should he forbid it? He knew that was nonsense; in the first place,
his conception of the relation of husband and wife did not include
that kind of thing; but more than that, opposition would, he said
to himself, "push her in." Not into Shakerism; "'Thalia couldn't
be a Shaker to save her life," he thought, with an involuntary smile;
but into an excited discontent with her comfortable, prosaic life.
No; definite opposition to the visit must not be thought of--but he must
try and persuade her not to go. How? What plea could he offer?
His own loneliness without her he could not bring himself to speak of;
he shrank from taking what seemed to him an advantage.
He might urge that she would find it cold and uncomfortable in those old
frame houses high up on the hills; or that it would be bad for her
health to take the rather wearing journey at this time of year.
But he knew too well how little effect any such prudent counsels
would have. The very fact that her interest had lasted for more
than three months showed that it had really struck roots into
her mind, and mere prudence would not avail much. Still, he would
urge prudence; then, if she was determined, she must go.
"She'll get sick of it in a fortnight," he said; but for the present
he must let her have her head, even if she was making a mistake.
She had a right to have her head, he reminded himself--"but I must
tell those people to keep her warm, she takes cold so easily."

He got up and looked out of the window; below, in the race,
there was a jam of logs, and the air was keen
with the pungent smell of sawdust and new boards.
The whir and thud of the machinery down-stairs sent a faint
quiver through the planks under his feet. "The mill will net
a good profit this year," he said to himself, absently.