There was a few moments’ pause.  “What was it?” she asked.

“Newell began to rise from the bed.  He did not sit up or move himself, but he was raised slowly into the air, still reclining as though upon his pillow.  The invisible hands of angels bore him upwards.”

Susannah knit her brows.  “Did you see the angels?  I don’t understand.”  And then more vehemently she asked, “What was it that you did see?”

“Nay, friend, it was not vouchsafed to us to see the blessed spirits, but surely they must have lifted him, for he rose, soaring upwards, as thou hast seen the thistledown ascend gently, almost as high as the roof of the room.  As we gazed in great astonishment, and the women fainted for fear, he sank again as slowly till he rested upon his bed, and he opened his eyes and spoke to us of the wonderful vision of light which he had seen, and then he arose in perfect health and walked.”

Susannah sat silent for a minute or two.  Her husband was also silent, wrapped in contemplation.  Then Susannah said, “You are very tired, Angel.  You were overwrought last night, even before you were called to the Knights’; you had better go to sleep now.”

She darkened the window against the coming of the dawn that her husband might sleep in the day instead of the night.  She herself went downstairs with the earliest stir of footsteps.  Because of a whim that seized her, she helped to prepare the breakfast that was to be served to the household at sunrise, and then she partook of it heartily, looking out of a southern window as she ate, watching the red sun ascend behind the naked boles of the elms.  She was glad that the new day had come.  Her heart ached not so much with pure grief now as with mocking laughter.  Her husband was mad, quite mad, or else—­and this was the more bitter belief—­he had seen that she was in danger of disaffection, and had told this lie to dupe her, thinking that because she was a woman she would be impressed by it.  As the sincerity of Angel’s look came before her she said to herself that if that were the case no doubt Joseph Smith had invented the story, and laid it upon Angel’s conscience to tell it.  That or madness was the only explanation.

CHAPTER XII.

It was long after the day of her departure before Ephraim again set out to find Susannah.  An illness to which he was subject first came upon him, and then, when days were past and he was able to leave his bed, conflicting reports concerning Susannah had been brought to the house, and Ephraim’s courage failed.  Why should he go if by seeing her he could neither give her pleasure nor do her good?  It was natural that report, dwelling on what it could understand rather than on what was incomprehensible, should magnify Susannah’s love for Halsey.  No man in New Manchester who in the past month had chanced to catch sight of any maid holding secret parlance with any lover but now swore stoutly that that maid had been Susannah.