They found the farmer sitting alone, shading his forehead.  Rhoda kissed his cheeks and whispered for tidings of Dahlia.

“Go up to her,” the farmer said.

Rhoda grew very chill.  She went upstairs with apprehensive feet, and recognizing Mrs. Sumfit outside the door of Dahlia’s room, embraced her, and heard her say that Dahlia had turned the key, and had been crying from mornings to nights.  “It can’t last,” Mrs. Sumfit sobbed:  “lonesome hysterics, they’s death to come.  She’s falling into the trance.  I’ll go, for the sight o’ me shocks her.”

Rhoda knocked, waited patiently till her persistent repetition of her name gained her admission.  She beheld her sister indeed, but not the broken Dahlia from whom she had parted.  Dahlia was hard to her caress, and crying, “Has he come?” stood at bay, white-eyed, and looking like a thing strung with wires.

“No, dearest; he will not trouble you.  Have no fear.”

“Are you full of deceit?” said Dahlia, stamping her foot.

“I hope not, my sister.”

Dahlia let fall a long quivering breath.  She went to her bed, upon which her mother’s Bible was lying, and taking it in her two hands, held it under Rhoda’s lips.

“Swear upon that?”

“What am I to swear to, dearest?”

“Swear that he is not in the house.”

“He is not, my own sister; believe me.  It is no deceit.  He is not.  He will not trouble you.  See; I kiss the Book, and swear to you, my beloved!  I speak truth.  Come to me, dear.”  Rhoda put her arms up entreatingly, but Dahlia stepped back.

“You are not deceitful?  You are not cold?  You are not inhuman?  Inhuman!  You are not?  You are not?  Oh, my God!  Look at her!”

The toneless voice was as bitter for Rhoda to hear as the accusations.  She replied, with a poor smile:  “I am only not deceitful.  Come, and see.  You will not be disturbed.”

“What am I tied to?” Dahlia struggled feebly as against a weight of chains.  “Oh! what am I tied to?  It’s on me, tight like teeth.  I can’t escape.  I can’t breathe for it.  I was like a stone when he asked me—­marry him!—­loved me!  Some one preached—­my duty!  I am lost, I am lost!  Why? you girl!—­why?—­What did you do?  Why did you take my hand when I was asleep and hurry me so fast?  What have I done to you?  Why did you push me along?—­I couldn’t see where.  I heard the Church babble.  For you—­inhuman! inhuman!  What have I done to you?  What have you to do with punishing sin?  It’s not sin.  Let me be sinful, then.  I am.  I am sinful.  Hear me.  I love him; I love my lover, and,” she screamed out, “he loves me!”

Rhoda now thought her mad.

She looked once at the rigid figure of her transformed sister, and sitting down, covered her eyes and wept.

To Dahlia, the tears were at first an acrid joy; but being weak, she fell to the bed, and leaned against it, forgetting her frenzy for a time.