life was devoted the priest’s mission among crowded alleys and fever-stricken lanes seemed luminous and grand.  A moral suicide, with no redeeming feature.  The barns bursting with fatness, the comfortable houses, gain added to gain—­to what end?  I was beginning to give very short answers indeed to his questions, and was already meditating a foray through the rest of the house, when the door opened slowly and a lady-abbess entered.  She was stiff and stately, with the most formal neckerchief folded precisely over her straitened bust, a clear-muslin cap concealing her hair, and her face, stony, blue-eyed and cold—­a pale, frozen woman standing stately there.

“Bessie Stewart?” said I.  “She is here—­I know it.  Do not detain her.  I must see her.  Why all this delay?”

“Dost thou mean Sister Eliza?” she asked in chilling tones.

“No, nobody’s sister—­least of all a sister here—­but the young lady who came over here from Lenox two months ago—­Bessie Stewart, Mrs. Sloman’s niece.” (I knew that Mrs. Sloman was quite familiar with some of the Shakeresses, and visited them at times.)

Very composedly the sister took a chair and folded her hands across her outspread handkerchief before she spoke again.  I noticed at this moment that her dress was just the color of her eyes, a pale, stony blue.

“Sister Eliza:  it is the same,” in measured accents.  “She is not here:  she has gone—­to Watervliet.”

Can this be treachery?  I thought, and is she still in the house?  Will they hide from her that I am here?  But there was no fathoming the woman’s cold blue eyes.

“To Watervliet?” I inquired dismally.  “How? when? how did she go?”

“She went in one of our wagons:  Sister Leah and Brother Ephraim went along.”

“When will they return?”

“I cannot say.”

All this time the man was leaning back against the wall, but uttered not a word.  A glance of triumph shot from the sister’s eyes as I rose.  But she was mistaken if she thought I was going away.  I stepped to the window, and throwing it open called to Hiram, who was still sitting in his wagon, chewing composedly a bit of straw.  He leaped out in an instant, and leaning out to him I rapidly repeated in an undertone the previous conversation:  “What would you do?”

“Ten chances to one it’s a lie.  Tell ’em you’ll set there till you see her.  They can’t shake us off that way.”

I drew in my head.  The pair still sat as before.  “Well,” said I, “as I must see her, and as you seem so uncertain about it, I will wait here.”

And again I took my seat.  The sister’s face flushed.  I had meant no rudeness in my tone, but she must have detected the suspicion in it.  She crimsoned to her temples, and said hastily, “It is impossible for us to entertain strangers to-day.  A brother is dying in the house:  we are all waiting for him to pass away from moment to moment.  We can submit to no intrusion.”