He knew then what was coming; he had wondered indeed, that this talk should be so long in reaching her; but he waited silently, soothing her. “They say, whoever my mother was, you couldn’t have married her—that Christina is your first wife, and the temple records show it. And oh, Daddy, they say it means that I am a child of sin—and shame—and it made me want to kill myself.” Another passion of tears and sobs had overwhelmed her and all but broken down the little man. Yet he controlled himself and soothed her again to quietness. “It is all wrong, child, all wrong. You are not a child of sin, but a child of love, as rightly born as any in Amalon. Believe me, and pay no heed to that talk.” “They have been saying it for years, and I never knew.” “They say what is not true.” “You were married to my mother, then?” He waited too long. She divined, clear though his answer was, that he had evaded, or was quibbling in some way. “You are the daughter of a truly married husband and wife, as truly married as were ever any pair.” And though she knew he had turned her question, she saw that he must have done it for some great reason of his own, and, even in her grief, she would not pain him by asking another. She could feel that he suffered as she did, and he seemed, moreover, to be pitifully and strangely frightened. When Follett came riding back that evening he saw that Prudence had been troubled. The candle-light showed sadness in her dark eyes and in the weighted corners of her mouth. He was moved to take her in his arms and soothe her as he had seen mothers do with sorry little children. But instead of this he questioned her father sharply when their corn-husk mattresses had been put before either side of the fireplace for the night. The little man told him frankly the cause of her grief. There was something compelling in the other’s way of asking questions. When the thing had been made plain, Follett looked at him indignantly. “Do you mean to say you let her go on thinking that about herself?” “I told her that her father and mother had been rightly married.” “Didn’t she think you were fooling her in some way?” “I—I can’t be sure—” “She _must_ have, or she wouldn’t be so down in the mouth now. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” “If only—if only she could go on thinking I am her father—only a little while—” Follett spoke with the ring of a sudden resolution in his voice. “Now I’ll tell you one thing, Mister man, something has got to be done by _some one._ I can’t do it because I’m tied by a promise, and so I reckon you ought to!” “Just a little time! Oh, if you only knew how the knives cut me on every side and the fires burn all through me!” “Well, think of the knives cutting that girl,—making her believe she has to be ashamed of her mother. You go to sleep now, and try to lie quiet; there ain’t anything here to hurt you. But I’ll tell you one thing,—you’ve got to toe the mark.”