now began to fear he was proof against all persuasion.  The iron and stone quality that she had early suspected in him had actually cropped out as an impregnable barrier.  Nevertheless, if Lassiter remained in Cottonwoods she would never give up her hope and desire to change him.  She would change him if she had to sacrifice everything dear to her except hope of heaven.  Passionately devoted as she was to her religion, she had yet refused to marry a Mormon.  But a situation had developed wherein self paled in the great white light of religious duty of the highest order.  That was the leading motive, the divinely spiritual one; but there were other motives, which, like tentacles, aided in drawing her will to the acceptance of a possible abnegation.  And through the watches of that sleepless night Jane Withersteen, in fear and sorrow and doubt, came finally to believe that if she must throw herself into Lassiter’s arms to make him abide by “Thou shalt not kill!” she would yet do well.

In the morning she expected Lassiter at the usual hour, but she was not able to go at once to the court, so she sent little Fay.  Mrs. Larkin was ill and required attention.  It appeared that the mother, from the time of her arrival at Withersteen House, had relaxed and was slowly losing her hold on life.  Jane had believed that absence of worry and responsibility coupled with good nursing and comfort would mend Mrs. Larkin’s broken health.  Such, however, was not the case.

When Jane did get out to the court, Fay was there alone, and at the moment embarking on a dubious voyage down the stone-lined amber stream upon a craft of two brooms and a pillow.  Fay was as delightfully wet as she could possibly wish to get.

Clatter of hoofs distracted Fay and interrupted the scolding she was gleefully receiving from Jane.  The sound was not the light-spirited trot that Bells made when Lassiter rode him into the outer court.  This was slower and heavier, and Jane did not recognize in it any of her other horses.  The appearance of Bishop Dyer startled Jane.  He dismounted with his rapid, jerky motion flung the bridle, and, as he turned toward the inner court and stalked up on the stone flags, his boots rang.  In his authoritative front, and in the red anger unmistakably flaming in his face, he reminded Jane of her father.

“Is that the Larkin pauper?” he asked, bruskly, without any greeting to Jane.

“It’s Mrs. Larkin’s little girl,” replied Jane, slowly.

“I hear you intend to raise the child?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?”

“No.”

His questions had been swift.  She was amazed at a feeling that some one else was replying for her.

“I’ve come to say a few things to you.”  He stopped to measure her with stern, speculative eye.