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.
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