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"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?"
The divine instincts of maternity, the sweet attractions of human love, were thrown down and stamped under foot in the mud of this man's mind; and at each peroration, exhorting his hearers to shake off Satan, a strong convulsive shiver ran through the assembly. "Bessie is certainly not here: possibly she's still at Watervliet," I whispered to; Hiram as the concluding hymn began.
And then, you see, ef on Sunday she isn't there, you can go over to Watervliet, or we'll search them houses whichever you choose." There seemed no help for it but to take Hiram's advice. We drove homeward through the Shaker village, and drew up at the house again.
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