ATHALIA HALL stopped to get her breath and look back over the road climbing steeply up from the covered bridge. It was a little after five, and the delicate air of dawn was full of wood and pasture scents—the sweetness of bay and the freshness of dew-drenched leaves. In the valley night still hung like gauze under the trees, but the top of the hill was glittering with sunshine.

“Why, we’ve hardly come halfway!” she said.

Her husband, plodding along behind her, nodded ruefully. “Hardly,” he said.

In her slim prettiness Athalia Hall looked like a girl, but she was thirty-four. Part of the girlishness lay in the smoothness of her white forehead and in the sincere intensity of her gaze. She wore a blue linen dress, and there was a little, soft, blue scarf under her chin; her white hat, with pink roses and loops of gray-blue ribbon, shadowed eager, unhumorous eyes, the color of forget-me-nots. Her husband was her senior by several years—a large, loose-limbed man, with a scholarly face and mild, calm eyes—eyes that were full of a singular tenacity of purpose. Just now his face showed the fatigue of the long climb up-hill; and when his wife, stopping to look back over the glistening tops of the birches, said, “I believe it’s half a mile to the top yet!” he agreed, breathlessly. “Hard work!” he said.

“It will be worth it when I get to the top and can see the view!” she declared, and began to climb again.

“All the same, this road will be mighty hot when the sun gets full on it,” her husband said; and added, anxiously, “I wish I had made you rest in the station until train-time.” She flung out her hands with an exclamation: “Rest! I hate rest!”

“Hold on, and I’ll give you a stick,” he called to her; “it’s a help when you’re climbing.” He pulled down a slender birch, and, setting his foot on it, broke it off at the root. She stopped, with an impatient gesture, and waited while he tore off handfuls of leaves and whittled away the side-shoots.

“Do hurry, Lewis!” she said.

They had left their train at five o’clock in the morning, and had been sitting in the frowsy station, sleepily awaiting the express, when Athalia had had this fancy for climbing the hill so that she might see the view.

“It looks pretty steep,” her husband warned her.

“It will be something to do, anyhow!” she said; and added, with a restless sigh, “but you don’t understand that, I suppose.”

“I guess I do—after a fashion,” he said, smiling at her. It was only in love’s fashion, for really he was incapable of quite understanding her. To the country lawyer of sober piety and granite sense of duty, the rich variety of her moods was a continual wonder and sometimes a painful bewilderment. But whether he understood the impetuous inconsequence of her temperament “after a fashion,” or whether he failed entirely to follow the complexity of her thought, he met all her fancies with a sort of tender admiration. People said that Squire Hall was henpecked; they also said that he had married beneath him. His father had been a judge and his grandfather a minister; he himself was a graduate of a fresh-water college, which later, when he published his exegesis on the Prophet Daniel, had conferred its little degree upon him and felt that he was a “distinguished son.” With such a lineage he might have done better, people said, than to marry that girl, who was the most fickle creature and no housekeeper, and whose people—this they told one another in reserved voices—were PLAY-ACTORS! Athalia’s mother, who had been the “play-actor,” had left her children an example of duty—domestic as well as professional duty—faithfully done. As she did not leave anything else, Athalia added nothing to the Hall fortune; but Lewis’s law practice, which was hardly more than conveyancing now and then, was helped out by a sawmill which the Halls had owned for two generations. So, as things were, they were able to live in humdrum prosperity which gave Lewis plenty of time to browse about among his grandfather’s old theological books, and by-and-by to become a very sound Hebrew scholar, and spared Athalia much wholesome occupation which would have been steadying to her eager nature. She was one of those people who express every passing emotion, as a flower expresses each wind that sways it upon its stalk. But with expression the emotion ended.

“But she isn’t fickle,” Lewis had defended her once to a privileged relation who had made the accusation, basing it on the fact that Athalia had sewed her fingers off for the Missionary Society one winter and done nothing the next—“Athalia ISN’T fickle,” Lewis explained; “fickle people are insincere. Athalia is perfectly sincere, but she is temporary; that’s all. Anyway, she wants to do something else this winter, and ‘Thalia must have her head.”

“Your head’s better than hers, young man,” the venturesome relative insisted.

“But it must be her head and not mine, Aunty, when it comes to doing what she thinks is right, even if it’s wrong,” he said, smiling.

“Well, tell her she’s a little fool!” cried the old lady, viciously.

“You can’t do that with ‘Thalia,” Lewis explained, patiently, “because it would make her unhappy. She takes everything so dreadfully hard; she feels things more than other people do.”

“Lewis,” said the little, old, wrinkled, privileged great-aunt, “think a little less of her feelings and a little more of your own, or you’ll make a mess of things.”

Lewis Hall was too respectful to tell the old lady what he thought of such selfish advice; he merely did not act upon it. Instead, he went on giving a great deal of thought to Athalia’s “feelings.” That was why he and she were climbing the hill in the dewy silence of this August morning. Athalia had “felt” that she wanted to see the view—though it would have been better for her to have rested in the station, Lewis thought;—(“I ought to have coaxed her out of it,” he reproached himself.) It certainly was a hard walk, considering that it followed a broken night in the sleeping-car. They had left the train at five o’clock in the morning, and were sitting in the station awaiting the express when Athalia had had this impulse to climb the hill. “It looks pretty steep,” Lewis objected; and she flung out her hands with an impatient gesture.

“I love to climb!” she said. So here they were, almost at the top, panting and toiling, Athalia’s skirts wet with dew, and Lewis’s face drawn with fatigue.

“Look!” she said; “it’s all open! We can sit down and see all over the world!” She left the road, springing lightly through the fringing bay and briers toward an open space on the hillside. “There is a gate in the wall!” she called out; “it seems to be some sort of enclosure. Lewis, help me to open the gate! Hurry! What a queer place! What do you suppose it is?”

The gate opened into a little field bounded by a stone wall; the grass had been lately mowed, and the stubble, glistening with dew, showed the curving swaths of the scythe; across it, in even lines from wall to wall, were rows of small stakes painted black. Here and there were faint depressions, low, green cradles in the grass; each depression was marked at the head and foot by these iron stakes, hardly higher than the stubble itself.

“Shakers’ graveyard, I guess,” Lewis said; “I’ve heard that they don’t use gravestones. Peaceful place, isn’t it?”

Her vivid face was instantly grave. “Very peaceful! Oh,” she added, as they sat down in the shadow of a pine, “don’t you sometimes want to lie down and sleep—deep down in the grass and flowers?”

“Well,” he confessed, “I don’t believe it would be as interesting as walking round on top of them.”

She looked at him in despair.

“Come, now,” he defended himself, “you don’t take much to peace yourself at home.”

“You don’t understand!” she said, passionately.

“There, there, little Tay,” he said, smiling, and putting a soothing hand on hers; “I guess I do—after a fashion.”

It was very still; below them the valley had suddenly brimmed with sunshine that flickered and twinkled on the birch leaves or shimmered on sombre stretches of pine and spruce. Close at hand, pennyroyal grew thick in the shadow of the wall; and just beyond, mullen candles cast slender bars of shade across the grass. The sunken graves and the lines of iron markers lay before them.

“How quiet it is!” she said, in a whisper.

“I guess I’ll smoke,” Lewis said, and scratched a match on his trousers.

“How can you!” she protested; “it is profane!”

He gave her an amused look, but lighted his cigar and smoked dreamily for a minute; then he drew a long breath. “I was pretty tired,” he said, and turned to glance back at the road. A horse and cart were coming in at the open gate; the elderly driver, singing to himself, drew up abruptly at the sight of the two under the pine-tree, then drove toward them, the wheels of the cart jolting cheerfully over the cradling graves. He had a sickle in his hand, and as he clambered down from the seat, he said, with friendly curiosity:

“You folks are out early, for the world’s people.”

“Is this a graveyard?” Athalia demanded, impetuously.

“Yee,” he said, smiling; “it’s our burial-place; we’re Shakers.”

“But why are there just the stakes—without names?”

“Why should there be names?” he said, whimsically; “they have new names now.”

“Where is your community? Can we go and visit it?”

“Yee; but we’re not much to see,” he said; “just men and women, like you. Only we’re happy. I guess that’s all the difference.”

“But what a difference!” she exclaimed; and Lewis smiled.

“I’ve come up for pennyroyal,” the Shaker explained, sociably; “it grows thick round here.”

“Tell me about the Shakers,” Athalia pleaded. “What do you believe?”

“Well,” he said, a simple shrewdness glimmering in his brown eyes, “if you go to the Trustees’ House, down there in the valley, Eldress Hannah’ll tell you all about us. And the sisters have baskets and pretty truck to sell—things the world’s people like. Go and ask the Eldress what we believe, and she’ll show you the baskets.”

She turned eagerly to her husband. “Never mind the ten-o’clock train, Lewis. Let us go!”

“We could take a later train, all right,” he admitted, “but—”

“Oh, PLEASE!” she entreated, joyously. “We’ll help you pick pennyroyal,” she added to the Shaker.

But this he would not allow. “I doubt you’d be careful enough,” he said, mildly; “Sister Lydia was the only female I ever knew who could pick herbs.”

“Do you get paid for the work you do?” Athalia asked, practically. Lewis flushed at the boldness of such a question, but the old man chuckled.

“Should I pay myself?” he asked.

“You own everything in common, don’t you?” Lewis said.

“Yee,” said the Shaker; “we’re all brothers and sisters. Nobody tries to get ahead of anybody else.”

“And you don’t believe in marriage?” Athalia asserted.

“We are as the angels of God,” he said, simply.

He left them and began to sickle his herbs, with the cheerfully obvious purpose of escaping further interruption.

Athalia instantly bubbled over with questions, but Lewis could tell her hardly more of the Shakers than she knew already.

“No, it isn’t free love,” he said; “they’re decent enough. They believe in general love, not particular, I suppose.... ‘Thalia, do you think it’s worth while to wait over a train just to see the settlement?”

“Of course it is! He said they were happy; I would like to see what kind of life makes people happy.”

He looked at the lighted end of his cigar and smiled, but he said nothing. Afterward, as they followed the cart across the field and out into the road, Athalia asked the old herb-gatherer many questions about the happiness of the community life, which he answered patiently enough. Once or twice he tried to draw into their talk the silent husband who walked at her side, but Lewis had nothing to say. Only when some reference was made to one of the Prophecies did he look up in sudden interest. “You take that to mean the Judgment, do you?” he said. And for the rest of the walk to the settlement the two men discussed the point, the Shaker walking with one hand on the heavy shaft, for the support it gave him, and Lewis keeping step with him.

At the foot of the hill the road widened into a grassy street, on both sides of which, under the elms and maples, were the community houses, big and substantial, but gauntly plain; their yellow paint, flaking and peeling here and there, shone clean and fresh in the sparkle of morning. Except for a black cat whose fur glistened like jet, dozing on a white doorstep, the settlement, steeped in sunshine, showed no sign of life. There was a strange remoteness from time about the place; a sort of emptiness, and a silence that silenced even Athalia.

“Where IS everybody?” she said, in a lowered voice; as she spoke, a child in a blue apron came from an open doorway and tugged a basket across the street.

“Are there children here?” Lewis asked, surprised; and their guide said, sadly:

“Not as many as there ought to be. The new school laws have made a great difference. We’ve only got two. Folks used to send ‘em to us to bring up; oftentimes they stayed on after they were of age. Sister Lydia came that way. Well, well, she tired of us, Lydy did, poor girl! She went back into the world twenty years ago, now. And Sister Jane, she was a bound-out child, too,” he rambled on; “she came here when she was six; she’s seventy now.”

“What!” Lewis exclaimed; “has she never known anything but—this?”

His shocked tone did not disturb the old man. “Want to see my herb-house?” he said. “Guess you’ll find some of the sisters in the sorting-room. I’m Nathan Dale,” he added, courteously.

They had come to the open door of a great, weather-beaten building, from whose open windows an aromatic breath wandered out into the summer air. As they crossed the worn threshold, Athalia stopped and caught her breath in the overpowering scent of drying herbs; then they followed Brother Nathan up a shaky flight of steps to the loft. Here some elderly women, sitting on low benches, were sorting over great piles of herbs in silence—the silence, apparently, of peace and meditation. Two of them were dressed like world’s people, but the others wore small gray shoulder-capes buttoned to their chins, and little caps of white net stretched smoothly over wire frames; the narrow shirrings inside the frames fitted so close to their peaceful, wrinkled foreheads that no hair could be seen.

“I wish I could sit and sort herbs!” Athalia said, under her breath.

Brother Nathan chuckled. “For how long?” he asked; and then introduced her to the three workers, who greeted her calmly and went on sorting their herbs. The loft was dark and cool; the window-frames, in which there were no sashes, opened wide on the still August fields and woods; the occasional brief words of the sorting-women seemed to drop into a pool of fragrant silence. The two visitors followed Brother Nathan down the room between piles of sorted herbs, and out into the sunshine again. Athalia drew a breath of ecstasy.

“It’s all so beautifully tranquil!” she whispered, looking about her with blue, excited eyes.

“Tay and tranquillity!” Lewis said, with an amused laugh.

But as they went along the grassy street this sense of tranquillity closed about them like a palpable peace. Now and then they stopped and spoke to some one—always an elderly person; and in each old face the experiences that life writes in unerasable lines about eyes and lips were hidden by a veil of calmness that was curiously unhuman.

“It isn’t canny, exactly,” Lewis told his wife, in a low voice. But she did not seem to hear him. She asked many questions of Eldress Hannah, who had taken them in charge, and once or twice she burst into impetuous appreciation of the idea of brotherhood, and even of certain theological principles—which last diverted her husband very much. Eldress Hannah showed them the dairy, and the work-room, and all there was to see, with a patient hospitality that kept them at an infinite distance. She answered Lewis’s questions about the community with a sad directness.

“Yee; there are not many of us now. The world’s people say we’re dying out. But the Lord will preserve the remnant to redeem the world, young man. Yee; when they come in from the world they cast their possessions into the whole; we own nothing, for ourselves. Nay; we don’t have many come. Brother William was the last. Why did he come?” She looked coldly at Athalia, who had asked the question. “Because he saw the way to peace. He’d had strife enough in the world. Yee,” she admitted, briefly, “some fall from grace, and leave us. The last was Lydia. She was one of our children, and I thought she was of the chosen. But she was only thirty when she fell away, and you can’t expect wisdom at that age. That was nearly twenty years ago. When she has tasted the dregs of the world she will come back to us—if she lives,” Eldress Hannah ended.

Athalia listened breathlessly, her rapt, unhumorous eyes fixed on Eldress Hannah’s still face. Now and then she asked a question, and once cried out that, after all, why wasn’t it the way to live? Peace and self-sacrifice and love! “Oh,” she said, turning to her husband, “can’t you feel the attraction of it? I should think even you could feel it!”

“I think I feel it—after a fashion,” he said, mildly; “I think I have always felt the attraction of community life.”

Afterward, when they had left all this somnolent peace and begun the long walk back to the station, he explained what he meant: “I couldn’t say so before the Eldress, but of course there are times when anybody can feel the charm of getting rid of personal responsibility—and that is what community life really means. It’s the relief of being a little cog in a big machine; in fact, the very attraction of it is a sort of temptation, to my way of looking at it. But it—well, it made me sleepy,” he confessed.

For once his wife had no reply. She was very quiet on that return journey in the cars, and in the days that followed she kept referring to their visit with a persistence that surprised her husband. She thought the net caps were beautiful; she thought the exquisite cleanness of everything was like a perfume—“the perfume of a wild rose!” she said, ecstatically. She thought the having everything in common was the way to live. “And just think how peaceful it is!”

“Well, yes,” Lewis said; “I suppose it’s peaceful—after a fashion. Anything that isn’t alive is peaceful.”

“But their idea of brotherhood is the highest kind of life!”

“The only fault I have to find with it is that it isn’t human,” he said, mildly. He had no desire to prove or disprove anything; Athalia was looking better, just because she was interested in something, and that was enough for Lewis. When she proposed to read a book on Shakerism aloud, he fell into her mood with what was, for him, enthusiasm; he declared he would like nothing better, and he put his daily paper aside without a visible regret.

“Well,” he admitted, “I must say there’s more to it than I supposed. They’ve studied the Prophecies; that’s evident. And they’re not narrow in their belief. They’re really Unitarians.”

“Narrow?” she said—“they are as wide as heaven itself! And, oh, the peace of it!”

“But they are NOT human,” he would insist, smiling; “no marriage—that’s not human, little Tay.”

It was not until two months later that he began to feel vaguely uneasy. “Yes; it’s interesting,” he admitted; “but nobody in these days would want to be a Shaker.” To which she replied, boldly, “Why not?”

That was all, but it was enough. Lewis Hall’s face suddenly sobered. He had not stumbled along behind her in all her emotional experiences without learning to read the guide-posts to her thought. “I hope she’ll get through with it soon,” he said to himself, with a worried frown; “it isn’t wholesome for a mind like ‘Thalia’s to dwell on this kind of thing.”

It was in November that she broke to him that she had written Eldress Hannah to ask if she might come and visit the community, and had been answered “Yee.”

Lewis was silent with consternation; he went out to the sawmill and climbed up into the loft to think it all out alone. Should he forbid it? He knew that was nonsense; in the first place, his conception of the relation of husband and wife did not include that kind of thing; but more than that, opposition would, he said to himself, “push her in.” Not into Shakerism; “‘Thalia couldn’t be a Shaker to save her life,” he thought, with an involuntary smile; but into an excited discontent with her comfortable, prosaic life. No; definite opposition to the visit must not be thought of—but he must try and persuade her not to go. How? What plea could he offer? His own loneliness without her he could not bring himself to speak of; he shrank from taking what seemed to him an advantage. He might urge that she would find it cold and uncomfortable in those old frame houses high up on the hills; or that it would be bad for her health to take the rather wearing journey at this time of year. But he knew too well how little effect any such prudent counsels would have. The very fact that her interest had lasted for more than three months showed that it had really struck roots into her mind, and mere prudence would not avail much. Still, he would urge prudence; then, if she was determined, she must go. “She’ll get sick of it in a fortnight,” he said; but for the present he must let her have her head, even if she was making a mistake. She had a right to have her head, he reminded himself—“but I must tell those people to keep her warm, she takes cold so easily.”

He got up and looked out of the window; below, in the race, there was a jam of logs, and the air was keen with the pungent smell of sawdust and new boards. The whir and thud of the machinery down-stairs sent a faint quiver through the planks under his feet. “The mill will net a good profit this year,” he said to himself, absently. “‘Thalia can have pretty nearly anything she wants.” And even as he said it he had a sudden, vague misgiving: if she didn’t have everything she wanted, perhaps she would be happier? But the idea was too new and too subtle to follow up, so the result of that troubled hour in the mill-chamber was only that he made no very resolute objection to Athalia’s acceptance of Eldress Hannah’s permission to come. It had been given grudgingly enough.

The family were gathered in the sitting-room; they had had their supper—the eight elderly women and the three elderly men, all that were left of the community. The room had the austere and shining cleanness which Athalia had called a perfume, but it was full of homely comfort. A blue-and-white rag carpet in the centre left a border of bare floor, painted pumpkin-yellow; there was a glittering airtight stove with isinglass windows that shone like square, red eyes; a gay patchwork cushion in the seat of a rocking-chair was given up to the black cat, whose sleek fur glistened in the lamplight. Three of the sisters knitted silently; two others rocked back and forth, their tired, idle hands in their laps, their eyes closed; the other three yawned, and spoke occasionally between themselves of their various tasks. Brother Nathan read his weekly FARMER; Brother William turned over the leaves of a hymn-book and appeared to count them with noiseless, moving lips; Brother George cut pictures out of the back of a magazine, yawning sometimes, and looking often at his watch. Into this quietness Eldress Hannah’s still voice came:

“I have heard from Lydia again.” There was a faint stir, but no one spoke. “The Lord is dealing with her,” Eldress Hannah said; “she is in great misery.”

Brother George nodded. “That is good; He works in a mysterious way—she’s real miserable, is she? Well, well; that’s good. The mercies of the Lord are everlasting,” he ended, in a satisfied voice, and began to read again.

“Amen!—amen!” said Brother William, vaguely.

“Poor Lydy!” Brother Nathan murmured.

“And I had another letter,” the Eldress proceeded, “from that young woman who came here in August—Athalia Hall; do you remember?—she asked two questions to the minute! She wants to visit us.”

Brother Nathan looked at her over his spectacles, and one of the sisters opened her eyes.

“I don’t see why she should,” Eldress Hannah added.

Two of the old brothers nodded agreement.

“The curiosity of the world’s people does not help their souls,” said one of the knitters.

“She thinks we walk in the Way to Peace,” said the Eldress.

“Yee; we do,” said Brother George.

“Shall I tell her ‘nay’?” the Eldress questioned, calmly.

“Yee,” said Brother George; and the dozing sisters murmured “Yee.”

“Wait,” said Brother Nathan; “her husband—HE has something to him. Let her come.”

“But if she visited us, how would that affect him?” Eldress Hannah asked, surprised into faint animation.

“If she was moved to stay it would affect him,” Brother Nathan said, dryly; “he would come, too, and there are very few of us left, Eldress. He would be a great gain.”

There was a long silence. Brother William’s gray head sagged on his shoulder, and the hymn-book slipped from his gnarled old hands. The knitting sisters began, one after another, to stab their needles into their balls of gray yarn and roll their work up in their aprons.

“It’s getting late, Eldress,” one of them said, and glanced at the clock.

“Then I’ll tell her she may come?” said Eldress Hannah, reluctantly.

“He can make the wrath of man to praise Him,” Brother Nathan encouraged her.

“Yee; but I never heard that He could make the foolishness of woman do it,” the old woman said, grimly.

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—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 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 a community life, or else you’ve got to be an awful fool. You are neither one nor the other.”

“I believe their doctrines,” she declared, “and I would die for a religious belief. But I don’t suppose you ever felt that you could die for a thing!”

“I think I have—after a fashion,” he said, mildly; “but dying for a thing is easy; it’s living for it that’s hard. You couldn’t keep it up, Athalia; you couldn’t live for it.”

Well, of course, that night was only the beginning. The days and weeks that followed were full of argument, of entreaty, of determination. Perhaps if he had laughed at her.... But it is dangerous to laugh at unhumorous people, for if they get angry all is lost. So he never laughed, nor in all their talks did he ever reproach her for not loving him. Once only his plea was personal—and even then it was only indirectly so.

“Athalia,” he said, “there’s only one kind of pain in this world that never gets cured. It’s the pain that comes when you remember that you’ve made somebody who loved you unhappy—not for a principle, but for your own pleasure. I know that pain, and I know how it lasts. Once I did something, just to please myself, that hurt mother’s feelings. I’d give my right hand if I hadn’t done it. It’s twenty-two years ago, and I wasn’t more than a boy, and she forgave me and forgot all about it. I have never forgotten it. I wish to God I could! ‘Thalia, I don’t want you to suffer that kind of pain.”

She saw the implication rather than the warning, and she burst out, angrily, that she wasn’t doing this for “pleasure”; she was doing it for principle! It was for the salvation of her soul!

“Athalia,” he said, solemnly, “the salvation of our souls depends on doing our duty.”

“Ah!” she broke in, triumphantly, “out of your own lips:—isn’t it my duty to do what seems to me right?”

He considered a minute. “Well, yes; I suppose the most valuable example any one can set is to do what he or she believes to be right. It may be wrong, but that is not the point. We must do what we conceive to be our duty. Only, we’ve got to be sure, Tay, in deciding upon duty, in deciding what is right,—we’ve got to be sure that self-interest is eliminated. I don’t believe anybody can decide absolutely on what is right without eliminating self.”

She frowned at this impatiently; its perfect fairness meant nothing to her.

“You promised to be my wife,” he went on with a curious sternness; “it is obviously ‘right,’ and so it is your first duty to keep your promise—at least, so long as my conduct does not absolve you from it.” Then he added, hastily, with careful justice: “Of course, I’m not talking about promises to love; they are nonsense. Nobody can promise to love. Promises to do our duty are all that count.”

That was the only reproach he made—if it was a reproach—for his betrayed love. It was just as well. Discussion on this subject between husbands and wives is always futile. Nothing was ever accomplished by it; and yet, in spite of the verdict of time and experience that nothing is gained, over and over the jealous man, and still more frequently the jealous woman, protests against a lost love with a bitterness that kills pity and turns remorse into antagonism. But Lewis Hall made no reproaches. Perhaps Athalia missed them; perhaps, under her spiritual passion, she was piqued that earthly passion was so readily silenced. But, if she was, she did not know it. She was entirely sincere and intensely happy in a new experience. It was a long winter of argument;—and then suddenly, in early April, the break came....

“I WILL go; I have a right to save my soul!”

And he said, very simply, “Well, Athalia, then I’ll go, too.”

“You? But you don’t believe—” And almost in the Bible words he answered her, “No; but where you go, I will go; where you live, I will live.” And then, a moment later, “I promised to cleave to you, little Tay.”