She wore the simple Shaker afternoon dress of drab alpaca; an
irreproachable muslin surplice encircled her straight, spare shoulders, while
her hair was almost entirely concealed by the stiffly wired, transparent
white-net cap that served as a frame to the tranquil face. The face itself was
a network of delicate, fine wrinkles; but every wrinkle must have been as
lovely in God's sight as it was in poor unhappy Susanna Hathaway's. Some of
them were graven by self-denial and hard work; others perhaps meant the giving
up of home, of parents and brothers or sisters; perhaps some worldly love, the
love that Father Adam bequeathed to the human family, had been slain in Abby's
youth, and the scars still remained to show the body's suffering and the
spirit's triumph. At all events, whatever foes had menaced her purity or her
tranquillity had been conquered, and she exhaled serenity as the rose sheds
fragrance.
"Do you remember the little Nelson girl and her mother that stayed here all
night, years ago?" asked Susanna, putting out her hand timidly.
"Why, seems to me I do," assented Eldress Abby, genially. "So many comes and
goes it's hard to remember all. Did n't you come once in a thunder-storm?"
"Yes, one of your barns was struck by lightning and we sat up all night.
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