a respect that may be called foolish or divine, as you happen
to look at it--he decided not to go. If he dragged her away
from the Shakers against her will, what would be gained?
"I must give her her head, and let her see for herself that it's
all moonshine," he told himself, painfully, over and over;
"my seeing it won't accomplish anything." But he counted
the hours until she would come home.

When she came, as soon as he saw her walking along the platform looking
for him while he stood with his hand on Ginny's colt's bridle, even before
she had spoken a single word, even then he knew what had happened--
the uplifted radiance of her face announced it.

But she did not tell him at once. On the drive home, in the dark
December afternoon, he was tense with apprehension; once or twice
he ventured some questions about the Shakers, but she put them aside
with a curious gentleness, her voice a little distant and monotonous;
her words seemed to come only from the surface of her mind.
When he lifted her out of the sleigh at their own door he felt
a subtle resistance in her whole body; and when, in the hall,
he put his arms about her and tried to kiss her, she drew back
sharply and said:

"No!--PLEASE!" Then, as they stood there in the chilly entry, she burst
into a passionate explanation: she had been convicted and converted!
She had found her Saviour! She--

"There, there, little Tay," he broke in, sadly; "supper is ready, dear."
He heard a smothered exclamation--that it was smothered showed how
completely she was immersed in a new experience, one of the details