The green silence should have helped her to think, but she found herself waiting--and doing nothing but waiting--for what might happen next. She likened herself to a hunted rabbit palpitating in cover, unable to reach any place of safety yet grateful for a moment's breathing. Wheels rolled southward along the Galilee road. Meeting was out. She had the caprice to remain where she was when the family wagon arrived, for it had been too warm to walk to the Tabernacle. Roxy's voice called her, and as she answered, Roxy skipped across the brook and ran to her. “Cousin Emeline,” the breathless girl announced, “here comes Mary French to see you!” Emeline stiffened upon the log. “Where?” Roxy glanced behind at a figure following her across the meadow. “What does she want of me?” inquired Emeline. “If she came home with the family, it was not necessary to call me.” “She drove by herself. She says Brother Strang sent her to you.” Emeline stood up as the Prophet's youngest wife entered that leafy silence. Roxy, forgetting that these two had never met before, slipped away and left them. They looked at each other. “How do you do, Mrs. Strang?” spoke Emeline. “How do you do, Miss Cheeseman?” spoke Mary French. “Will you sit down on this log?” “Thank you.” 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.”