phrases in which he would tell his revelation on the morrow. He knew
that this must be done tactfully, in spite of its divine source. It
would be a momentous thing to the people and to the priesthood. It was
conceivable, indeed, that members of the latter might dispute it and
argue with him, or even denounce him for a heretic. But only at first;
the thing was too simply true to be long questioned. In any event, his
duty was plain; with righteousness as the girdle of his loins he must
go forth on the morrow and magnify his office in the sight of Heaven.

When the decision had been taken he lay in an ecstasy of anticipation,
feeling new pulses in all his frame and the blood warm in his face. It
would mean a new dawn for Israel. There would, however, be a vexing
difficulty in the matter of the present wives of the Saints. The song of
Lorena came in to him now:--

"I was riding out this morning
With my cousin by my side;
She was telling her intentions
For to soon become a bride."

The accent fell upon the first and third syllables with an upward surge
of melody that seemed to make the house vibrate. He thought perhaps some
of the Saints would find it well to put away all but the one rightful
wife, making due provision, of course, for their support. Lorena's
never-ending ballad came like the horns that blew before the walls of
Jericho, bringing down the ramparts of his old belief. Some of the
Saints would doubtless put away the false wives as a penance. He might
even bring himself to do it, since, in the light of his wondrous new
revelation, it would be obeying the Lord's will.

When Prudence came softly in to him, like a cool little breath of
fragrance from the canon, he smiled up to her with a fulness of delight
she had never seen in his face before.

There was a new light in her own eyes, new decisions presaged, a new
desire imperfectly suppressed. He stroked her hand as she sat beside him
on the bed, wondering if she had at last learned her own secret. But she
became grave, and was diverted from her own affairs when she observed
him more closely.

"Why, you're sick--you're burning up with fever! You must be covered up
at once and have sage tea."

He laughed at her, a free, full laugh, such as she had never heard from
him in all the years.

"It's no fever, child. It's new life come to me. I'm strong again. My
face burns, but it must be the fire of health. I have a work given to
me--God has not