little Fay had become a religion.

"Does oo love my new mower?" repeated Fay.

Lassiter's answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.

"Why don't oo marry my new mower an' be my favver?"

Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter the was the
first he had been unable to answer.

"Fay--Fay, don't ask questions like that," said Jane.

"Why?"

"Because," replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meet
the child's gaze. It seemed to her that Fay's violet eyes looked through
her with piercing wisdom.

"Oo love him, don't oo?"

"Dear child--run and play," said Jane, "but don't go too far. Don't go
from this little hill."

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 a