red Emeline. "If she came home with the
family, it was not necessary to call me."

"She drove by herself. She says Brother Strang sent her to you."

Emeline stood up as the Prophet's youngest wife entered that leafy
silence. Roxy, forgetting that these two had never met before, slipped
away and left them. They looked at each other.

"How do you do, Mrs. Strang?" spoke Emeline.

"How do you do, Miss Cheeseman?" spoke Mary French.

"Will you sit down on this log?"

"Thank you."

Mary French had more flesh and blood than Emeline. She was larger and
of a warmer and browner tint--that type of brunette with startling black
hair which breaks into a floss of little curls, and with unexpected
blue eyes. Her full lips made a bud, and it only half bloomed when she
smiled. From crown to slipper she was a ripe and supple woman. Though
clad, like Emeline, in black, her garment was a transparent texture over
white, and she held a parasol with crimson lining behind her head. She
had left her bonnet in her conveyance.

"My husband," said Mary French, quiet and smiling, "sent me to tell you
that you will be welcomed into our family."

Emeline looked her in the eyes. The Prophet's wife had the most
unblenching smiling gaze she had ever encountered.

"I do not wish to enter your family. I am not a Mormon."

"He will make you wish it. I was not a Mormon."

They sat silent, the trees stirring around them.

"I do not understand it," said Emeline. "How can you come to me with
such a message?"

"I can do it as you can do it when your turn comes."

Emeline looked at Mary French as if she had been stabbed.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" said Mary French. "But wait till he seems to
you a great strong archangel--an archangel with only the weakness of
dabbling his wings in the dirt--and you will withhold from him nothing,
no one, that may be of use to him. If he wants to put me by for a while,
it is his will. You cannot take my place. I cannot fill yours."

"Oh, don't!" gasped Emeline. "I am not that sort of woman--I should
kill!"

"That is because you have not lived with him. I would rather have him
make me suffer than not have him at all."

"Oh, don't! I can't bear it! Help me!" prayed Emeline, stretching her
hands to the wife.

Mary French met her with one hand and the unflinching smile. Her flesh
was firm and warm, while Emeline's was cold and quivering.

"You have never loved anybody, have you?"

"No."

"But you have tho