He thought that he should never stand upright again.  He went always before his own mental vision bent over like his grandfather, his face inclined ever downward towards his miserable future.

Still, as he sat after William had gotten him up in the morning, bowed over pitifully in his chair, there was at times a strange look in his eyes as he watched Charlotte moving about, which seemed somehow to give the lie to his bent back.  Often Charlotte would start as she met this look, and think involuntarily that he was quite straight; then she would come to her old vision with a shock, and see him sitting there as he was.

At last there came a day when the minister and one of the deacons of the church called and asked to see Charlotte privately.  Barney looked at them, startled and quite white.  They sat with him quite a long while, when, after many coercive glances between the deacon and the minister, the latter had finally arisen and made the request, in a trembling, embarrassed voice.

Charlotte led them at once into the unfinished front parlor, with its boarded-up windows.  Barney heard her open the front door to give them light and air.  He sat still and waited, breathing hard.  A terrible dread and curiosity came over him.  It seemed as if his soul overreached his body into that other room.  Without overhearing a word, suddenly a knowledge quite foreign to his own imagination seemed to come to him.

Presently he heard the front door shut, then Charlotte came in alone.  She was very pale, but she had a sweet, exalted look as her eyes met Barney’s.

“Have they gone?” he asked, hoarsely.

Charlotte nodded.

“What—­did they want?”

“Never mind,” said Charlotte.

“I want to know.”

“It is nothing for you to worry about.”

“I know,” said Barney.

“You didn’t hear anything?” Charlotte cried out in a startled voice.

“No, I didn’t hear, but I know.  The church—­don’t—­think you ought to—­stay here.  They are—­going to—­take it—­up.  I never—­thought of that, Charlotte.  I never thought of that.”

“Don’t you worry anything about it.”  Charlotte had never touched him, except to minister to his illness, since she had been there.  Now she went close, and smoothed his hair with her tender hands.  “Don’t you worry,” she said again.

Barney looked up in her face.  “Charlotte.”

“What is it?”

“I—­want you—­to go—­home.”

Charlotte started.  “I shall not go home as long as you need me,” she said.  “You need not think I mind what they say.”

“I—­want you to go home.”

“Barney!”

“I mean what—­I say.  I—­want you to go—­now.”

“Not now?”

“Yes, now.”

Charlotte drew back; her lips wore a white line.  She went out into the front south room, where she had slept.  She did not come back.  Barney listened until he heard the front door shut after her.  Then he waited fifteen minutes, with his eyes upon the clock.  Then he got up out of his chair.  He moved his body as if it were some piece of machinery outside himself, as if his will were full of dominant muscles.  He got his hat off the peg, where it had hung for weeks; he went out of the house and out of the yard.