e moods she was
not above the methods of an inexperienced though natural flirt. She
kept close to him whenever opportunity afforded; and she was forever
playfully, yet passionately underneath the surface, fighting him for
possession of the great black guns. These he would never yield to her.
And so in that manner their hands were often and long in contact. The
more of simplicity that she sensed in him the greater the advantage she
took.

She had a trick of changing--and it was not altogether voluntary--from
this gay, thoughtless, girlish coquettishness to the silence and the
brooding, burning mystery of a woman's mood. The strength and passion
and fire of her were in her eyes, and she so used them that Lassiter had
to see this depth in her, this haunting promise more fitted to her years
than to the flaunting guise of a wilful girl.

The July days flew by. Jane reasoned that if it were possible for her to
be happy during such a time, then she was happy. Little Fay completely
filled a long aching void in her heart. In fettering the hands of this
Lassiter she was accomplishing the greatest good of her life, and to do
good even in a small way rendered happiness to Jane Withersteen. She had
attended the regular Sunday services of her church; otherwise she had
not gone to the village for weeks. It was unusual that none of her
churchmen or friends had called upon her of late; but it was neglect
for which she was glad. Judkins and his boy riders had experienced no
difficulty in driving the white herd. So these warm July days were free
of worry, and soon Jane hoped she had passed the crisis; and for her to
hope was presently to trust, and then to believe. She thought often of
Venters, but in a dreamy, abstract way. She spent hours teaching and
playing with little Fay. And the activity of her mind centered around
Lassiter. The direction she had given her will seemed to blunt any
branching off of thought from that straight line. The mood came to
obsess her.

In the end, when her awakening came, she learned that she had builded
better than she knew. Lassiter, though kinder and gentler than ever, had
parted with his quaint humor and his coldness and his tranquillity to
become a restless and unhappy man. Whatever the power of his deadly
intent toward Mormons, that passion now had a rival, the one equally
burning and consuming. Jane Withersteen had one moment of exultation
before the dawn of a strange uneasiness. What if she had ma