"Tay and tranquillity!" Lewis said, with an amused laugh.
But as they went along the grassy street this sense
of tranquillity closed about them like a palpable peace.
Now and then they stopped and spoke to some one--always an
elderly person; and in each old face the experiences that life
writes in unerasable lines about eyes and lips were hidden
by a veil of calmness that was curiously unhuman.
"It isn't canny, exactly," Lewis told his wife, in a low voice.
But she did not seem to hear him. She asked many questions
of Eldress Hannah, who had taken them in charge, and once
or twice she burst into impetuous appreciation of the idea
of brotherhood, and even of certain theological principles--
which last diverted her husband very much. Eldress Hannah showed
them the dairy, and the work-room, and all there was to see,
with a patient hospitality that kept them at an infinite distance.
She answered Lewis's questions about the community with
a sad directness.
"Yee; there are not many of us now. The world's people say we're
dying out. But the Lord will preserve the remnant to redeem
the world, young man. Yee; when they come in from the world
they cast their possessions into the whole; we own nothing,
for ourselves. Nay; we don't have many come. Brother William
was the last. Why did he come?" She looked coldly at Athalia,
who had asked the question. "Because he saw the way to peace.
He'd had strife enough in the world.
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