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 thought you did?” “I was engaged before I came here.” “And the engagement is broken?” “We quarrelled.” Mary French breathed deeply. “You will forget it here. He can draw the very soul out of your body.” “He cannot!” flashed Emeline. “Some one will kill him yet. He is not understood at his best, and he cannot endure defeat of any kind. When you come into the family you must guard him from his enemies as I have constantly guarded him. If you ever let a hair of his head be harmed—then I shall hate you!” “Mrs. Strang, do you come here to push me too? My uncle's family, everything, all are closing around me! Why don't you help me? I loathe—I loathe your husband!” Mary French rose, her smile changing only to express deep tenderness. “You are a good girl, dear. I can myself feel your charm. I was not so self-denying. In my fierce young girlhood I would have removed a rival. But since you ask me, I will do all I can for you in the way you desire. My errand is done. Good-by.” “Good-by,” said Emeline, restraining herself.