so can the daredevil boys he's hired. But they've little responsibility. Can we risk having our homes burned in our absence?”
Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as the blood left it.
“Carson, you and the others rent these houses?” she asked.
“You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours.”
“I know?... Carson, I never in my life took a day's labor for rent or a yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold.”
“Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that.”
“Look here, Carson,” went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheeks were burning. “You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move your families up to my cabins in the grove. They're far more comfortable than these. Then go to work for me. And if aught happens to you there I'll give you money—gold enough to leave Utah!”
The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could ever have equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what he felt for Jane Withersteen. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter!
“No, it won't do,” he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. “Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don't know, and there's not a soul among us who can tell you.”
“I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you let me aid you—say till better times?”
“Yes, I will,” he replied, with his face lighting up. “I see what it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And if better times ever come, I'll be only too happy to work for you.”
“Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day, Carson.”
The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, and the last habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the meanest. Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. The broad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor. Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as the hand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside the village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered the unfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of four called Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a creature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly.
“Muvver sended for oo,” cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, “an' oo never tome.”
“I didn't know, Fay; but I've come now.”
Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips; her eyes were violet blue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children of Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen's friends, she loved them all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and the Mormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild, lonely child.
“Muvver's sick,” said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the hut.
Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.
“Mrs. Larkin, how are you?” asked Jane, anxiously.
“I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now.”
“You haven't been here all alone—with no one to wait on you?”
“Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in.”
“Did you send for me?”
“Yes, several times.”
“But I had no word—no messages ever got to me.”
“I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill and would you please come.”
A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as she fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plait and weave a web. Jane Withersteen knew it now, and in the realization further coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her ancestors.
“Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad,” said Jane. “But may I not do something for you—a turn at nursing, or send you things, or take care of Fay?”
“You're so good. Since my husband's been gone what would have become of Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak to you. This time I thought surely I'd die, and I was worried about Fay. Well, I'll be around all right shortly, but my strength's gone and I won't live long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you've been asking me to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?”
“Indeed yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hope the day—”
“Never mind that. The day'll come—sooner or later. I refused your offer, and now I'll tell you why.”
“I know why,” interposed Jane. “It's because you don't want her brought up as a Mormon.”
“No, it wasn't altogether that.” Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand and laid it appealingly on Jane's. “I don't like to tell you. But—it's this: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of Mormons—gossip of your love for Fay and your wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn't take Fay as much for love of her as because of your religious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to marry.”
“That's a damnable lie!” cried Jane Withersteen.
“It was what made me hesitate,” went on Mrs. Larkin, “but I never believed it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you—”
“Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, but never a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me. I love little Fay. If I had her near me I'd grow to worship her. When I asked for her I thought only of that love.... Let me prove this. You and Fay come to live with me. I've such a big house, and I'm so lonely. I'll help nurse you, take care of you. When you're better you can work for me. I'll keep little Fay and bring her up—without Mormon teaching. When she's grown, if she should want to leave me, I'll send her, and not empty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you.”
“I knew it was a lie,” replied the mother, and she sank back upon her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. “Jane Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful to you. But because you're a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don't know
