It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope. Little Fay’s brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother—the childish, mystic gloom—had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Withersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possession infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion. “Does oo love my new muvver?” repeated Fay. Lassiter’s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative. “Why don’t oo marry my new muvver an’ be my favver?” Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter this 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.”