of which was the practice of self-control.

But, of course, that night they had it out. . . . When they came into
the sitting-room after supper she flung the news into his pale face:
_she wished to join the Shakers_. But she must have his consent,
she added, impatiently, because otherwise the Shakers would not
let her come.

"That's the only thing I don't agree with them about,"
she said, candidly; "I don't think they ought to make
anything so solemn contingent upon the 'consent' of any other
human being. But, of course, Lewis, it's only a form.
I have left you in spirit, and that is what counts.
So I told them I knew you would consent."

She looked at him with those blue, ecstatic eyes,
so oblivious to his pain that for a moment a sort of impersonal
amazement at such self-centredness held him silent.
But after the first shock he spoke with a slow fluency that pierced
Athalia's egotism and stirred an answering astonishment in her.
His weeks of vague misgiving, deepening into keen apprehension,
had given him protests and arguments which, although they
never convinced her, silenced her temporarily.
She had never known her husband in this character.
Of course, she had been prepared for objections and entreaties,
but sound arguments and stern disapproval confused and annoyed her.
She had supposed he would tell her she would break his heart;
instead, he said, calmly, that she hadn't the head for Shakerism.

"You've got to be very reasonable, 'Thalia, to stand