Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been granted her for weeks.

“Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?” asked Lassiter.

“Are they?”

“I reckon so.  Little Fay there—­she sees things as they appear on the face.  An Indian does that.  So does a dog.  An’ an Indian an’ a dog are most of the time right in what they see.  Mebbe a child is always right.”

“Well, what does Fay see?” asked Jane.

“I reckon you know.  I wonder what goes on in Fay’s mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an’ wantin’ to know more, meets with strange falseness from you?  Wait!  You are false in a way, though you’re the best woman I ever knew.  What I want to say is this.  Fay has taken you’re pretendin’ to—­to care for me for the thing it looks on the face.  An’ her little formin’ mind asks questions.  An’ the answers she gets are different from the looks of things.  So she’ll grow up gradually takin’ on that falseness, an’ be like the rest of the women, an’ men, too.  An’ the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin’ to love me when you don’t.  Things aren’t what they seem.”

“Lassiter, you’re right.  A child should be told the absolute truth.  But—­is that possible?  I haven’t been able to do it, and all my life I’ve loved the truth, and I’ve prided myself upon being truthful.  Maybe that was only egotism.  I’m learning much, my friend.  Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes.  And—­and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal.  How much, how little, I couldn’t say.  My heart is almost broken.  Lassiter.  So now is not a good time to judge of affection.  I can still play and be merry with Fay.  I can still dream.  But when I attempt serious thought I’m dazed.  I don’t think.  I don’t care any more.  I don’t pray!...Think of that, my friend!  But in spite of my numb feeling I believe I’ll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God.  I’m on the rack now; I’m senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that.  Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor.  I’m waiting the hour.”

“It’ll soon come, Jane,” replied Lassiter, soberly.  “Then I’m afraid for you.  Years are terrible things, an’ for years you’ve been bound.  Habit of years is strong as life itself.  Somehow, though, I believe as you—­that you’ll come out of it all a finer woman.  I’m waitin’, too.  An’ I’m wonderin’—­I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?”

“Lassiter!...My dear friend!...It’s impossible for us to marry!”

“Why—­as Fay says?” inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence.

“Why!  I never thought why.  But it’s not possible.  I am Jane, daughter of Withersteen.  My father would rise out of his grave.  I’m of Mormon birth.  I’m being broken.  But I’m still a Mormon woman.  And you—­you are Lassiter!”