As the brothers and sisters parted at the door of the sitting-room
Brother Nathan plucked at the Eldress's sleeve; "Is she
very wretched--Lydia? Where is she now, Eldress? Poor Lydy!
poor little Lydy!"


The fortnight of Athalia's absence wore greatly upon
her husband. Apprehension lurked in the back of his mind.
In the mill, or out on the farm, or when he sat down among
his shabby, old, calf-skin books, he was assailed by the memory
of all her various fancies during their married life.
Some of them were no more remarkable or unexpected than this
interest in Shakerism. He began to be slowly frightened.
Suppose she should take it into her head--?

When her fortnight was nearly up and he was already deciding whether,
when he drove over to Depot Corners to meet her, he would take Ginny's
colt or the new mare, a letter came to say she was going to stay
a week longer.

"I believe," she wrote--her very pen, in the frantic down-hill slope
of her lines, betraying the excitement of her thoughts--"I believe
that for the first time in my life I have found my God!" The letter
was full of dashes and underlining, and on the last page there was
a blistered splash into which the ink had run a little on the edges.

Lewis Hall's heart contracted with an almost physical pang.
"I must go and get her right off," he said; "this thing is serious!"
And yet, after a wakeful night, he decided, with the extraordinary
respect for her individuality so characteristic of the man--