He struggled numbly with the visualization of fever, brushing his
hot hand across his eyes and trying to see which was real--
the geranium-sweet south chamber or the chilly house on Lonely Lake Road.
Athalia had given him pain in that same way--just for her own pleasure.
Poor little Tay! He was afraid it would hurt her, some day, when she
realized it; well, when she came to herself, when she got through her
playing at Shakerism, he must not let her know how great the pain
had been; she would suffer too much if she should understand his misery:
and Athalia didn't bear suffering well. . . . But how long she had been
getting over Shakerism! He had thought it would only last six months,
and here it was a year! Well, if Nathan's reading of the Prophecies
was right, then Athalia would never get over it. She ought never
to get over it. Then what would become of the farm and the sawmill?
And instantly everything was unreal again; he could hear the hum
of the driving-wheel and the screech of the saw tearing through a log;
how fragrant the fresh planks were, and the great heaps of sawdust--
but the noise made his head ache; and--and the fire didn't seem hot. . . .

It was in one of those moments when the mists thinned, and he knew that
he was shivering over the stove instead of basking in the sunshine in his
mother's room that smelled of rose-geranium leaves, that Athalia came in.
She looked conscious and confused, full of a delightful embarrassment
at being for once alone with him. The color was deep on her cheeks,
and her eyes were starry.

"Eldress asked me to bring your mail down to you, Brother Lewis,"
she said.

"Thalia!" he said; "I am so glad to see you, dear; I--I seem
to be rather used up, somehow." The mists had quite