He was full of practical cares for his tenant, and he stopped even
while he was turning the key in the lock, to "fuss," as Athalia said,
over some last details of the transfer of the sawmill.
Athalia could not tear herself from arms that placidly consented
to her withdrawal; so there had been no rending ecstasies.
In consequence, on the journey up to the community she was
a little morose, a little irritable even, just as the drunkard
is apt to be irritable when sobriety is unescapable. . . .
But at the door of the Family House she had her opportunity:
she said, dramatically, "Good-night--_Brother Lewis_."
It was an entirely sincere moment. Dramatic natures are not
often insincere, they are only unreal.

As for her husband, he said, calmly, "Good-night, dear,"
and trudged off in the cool May dusk down Lonely Lake Road.
He found the door of the house on the latch, and a little
fire glowing in the stove; Brother Nathan had seen
to that, and had left some food on the table for him.
But in spite of the old man's friendly foresight the house
had all the desolation of confusion; in the kitchen there
were two or three cases of books, broken open but not unpacked,
a trunk and a carpet-bag, and some bundles of groceries;
they had been left by the expressman on tables and chairs
and on the floor, so that the solitary man had to do some
lifting and unpacking before he could sit down in his
loneliness to eat the supper Brother Nathan had provided.
He looked about to see where he would put up shelves for
his books, and as he did so the remembrance of his quiet,
shabby old study came to him, almost like a blow.