affairs of the society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines.  Martha was not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex.  Finally, when the infirmities of Father Ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed to renew in their persons the primitive form of Shaker government as established by Mother Ann.  They were to be the father and mother of the village.  The simple ceremony which would constitute them such was now to be performed.

“Son Adam and daughter Martha,” said the venerable Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, “if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your fitness.”

“Father,” replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, “I came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil fortune, as I had no hope of good.  Even my wishes of worldly success were almost dead within me.  I came hither as a man might come to a tomb willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness for the sake of its peace and quiet.  There was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be my sister in our new abode.  We are brother and sister, nor would I have it otherwise.  And in this peaceful village I have found all that I hope for—­all that I desire.  I will strive with my best strength for the spiritual and temporal good of our community.  My conscience is not doubtful in this matter.  I am ready to receive the trust.”

“Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,” said the father.  “God will bless thee in the office which I am about to resign.”

“But our sister,” observed the elder from Harvard.  “Hath she not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?”

Martha started and moved her lips as if she would have made a formal reply to this appeal.  But, had she attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth and womanhood, might have gushed from her heart in words that it would have been profanation to utter there.

“Adam has spoken,” said she, hurriedly; “his sentiments are likewise mine.”

But while speaking these few words Martha grew so pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful or horrible in her situation and destiny.  It required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve to sustain the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the Beet as these were.  They had overcome their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections.  One, when he joined the society, had brought with him his wife and children, but never from that hour had spoken a fond word to the former or taken his best-loved child upon his knee.