She followed him, and for a moment they neither of them spoke; he fumbled about in the warm darkness for a match, and lifting the shade, lighted the lamp on the table; then he looked at her. “Athalia,” he said, in a terrified voice, “I am—I am a Shaker!”
“No—no—no!” she said. She grew very white, and sat down, breathing quickly. Then the color came back faintly into her lips. “Don’t say it, Lewis; it isn’t true. It can’t be true!”
“It is true,” he said, with a groan. He had sunk into a chair, and his face was hidden in his hands. “What are we going to do?” he said, hoarsely.
“Why, you mustn’t be!” she cried; “you can’t be—that’s all. You can’t STAY if I go!”
“I must stay,” he said.
There was a stunned silence. Then she said, in an amazed whisper:
“What! You don’t love me any more?”
Still he was silent.
“You—don’t—love—me,” she said, as if repeating some astounding fact, which she could not yet believe.
He seemed to gather his courage up.