“Why!” she said, amazed, “you never told me!” “I don’t tell you everything nowadays, ‘Thalia,” he said, briefly. In those two visits to the Shakers, Lewis Hall had been treated with great delicacy; there had been no effort to proselytize, and equally there had been no triumphing over the accession of his wife; in fact, Athalia was hardly referred to, except when they told him that they would take good care of her, and when Brother Nathan volunteered a brief summary of Shaker doctrines--“so as you can feel easy about her,” he explained: “We believe that Christ was the male principle in Deity, and Mother Ann was the female principle. And we believe in confession of our sins, and communion with the dead--spiritualism, they call it nowadays--and in the virgin life. Shakers don’t marry, nor give in marriage. And we have all things in common. That’s all, friend. You see, we don’t teach anything that Christ didn’t teach, so she won’t learn any evil from us. Simple, ain’t it?” “Well, yes, after a fashion,” Lewis Hall said; “but it isn’t human.” And Brother Nathan smiled mystically. “Maybe that isn’t against it, in the long run,” he said. They came to the community in the spring twilight. The brothers and sisters had assembled to meet the convert, and to give a neighborly hand to the silent man who was to live by himself in a little, gray, shingled house down on Lonely Lake Road. It was a supreme moment to Athalia. She had expected an intense parting from her husband when they left their own house; and she was ready to press into her soul the poignant thorn of grief, not only because it would make her FEEL, but because it would emphasize in her own mind the divine self-sacrifice which she wanted to believe she was making. But when the moment came to close the door of the old home behind them, her husband was cruelly commonplace about it--for poor Lewis had no more drama in him than a kindly Newfoundland dog! 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.