“Nay, but I have waited, sister, until, having eyes, you should see, and ears, you should hear, till you should understand that, going in and out before this great people, it is necessary for me to seek wisdom in counsel, and, above all, of a woman who hath a finer sense than man.  And it has been revealed to me, sister, that this may only be if thou shouldst give the counsels of thy mind and the smile of thy beauty to me alone and to none other, for that which is divided is not to be accepted for the building up of the Church.”

“You would have me believe that you have waited many years with the virtue of patience before you say this?  Understand yourself better.  It was not patience; it was fear.  You have known perfectly well always that I would never have listened to such a proposal for a moment.  It has been fear and prudence that have hitherto kept you silent.  What is it that has made you speak now?”

With sharp decisive tones she chid him as children are chidden in anger, but childish as he often was, he had yet other elements in his character; his blue eyes gave an answering flash that was ominous; the droop of his attitude stiffened.

“That which is ordained by the Lord is ordained, sister, and it causeth me grief to know that this revelation, which I told thee many years since, is yet to be received of thee as a grievous thing, nevertheless—­”

“Nevertheless,” she repeated in a mocking tone, as one weary of foolishness, “what nevertheless?  Let us talk on some better subject, Mr. Smith, and after this be kind enough to have no dreams or revelations about me.  Dream of your Church, if you like.  I cannot hinder your people’s credulity, and I hope that you will continue, as you have begun, to lead them in the main by righteous paths.  And have your dreams and visions about yourself, if you must, for I sometimes think that you cannot be much madder than you are now, but be kind enough to leave me out of them, for I am going away.”

She had now made him very angry.  He was standing with flushed face, quivering with uncertain impulses of rising wrath, yet he still struggled for self-control.

“Sister Susannah Halsey, it is not meet that you should make a mock of that which is sacred”—­he gave a gasp here of stifled anger, and there was a perceptible note of wounded affection beside the louder one of offended vanity—­“of that which is above all sacred,” he stuttered, “it is not meet—­meet—­to mock—­to mock.”  The veins on his forehead were standing out and growing purple.

She had often heard of Joseph Smith’s power of rage, before which all the Saints quailed.  She saw it now for the first time.

She rose up, trying now a tone of gentle severity.  “I spoke lightly because your words appeared to me childish and silly, but the more in earnest you were, Mr. Smith, the more need there is you should have done with a thought that could lead to no good.  I am no elect lady.  Why do you deceive yourself?  I have told you before that I do not even believe in your religion.”