The Entablature of Truth had departed with certain little sidewise noddings of his head that seemed to indicate an unalterable purpose.
The girl came to her father, blushing and still laughing confusedly, when the rejected one had mounted his horse and ridden away.
“Oh, Daddy, how funny!—to think of marrying him!”
He looked at her anxiously. “But you wanted to marry Bishop Wright—at least, you—”
She laughed again. “How long ago—years ago—I must have been a baby.”
“You were old enough to point out that he would save you in the after-time.”
“I remember; I could see myself sitting by him on a throne, with the Saints all around us on other thrones, and the Gentiles kneeling to serve us. We were in a big palace that had a hundred closets in it, and in every closet there hung a silk dress for me—a hundred silk dresses, each a different colour, waiting for me to wear them.”
“But have you thought sufficiently—now? The time is short. Bishop Snow could save you.”
“Yes—but he would kiss me—he wanted to just now.” She put both hands over her mouth, with a mocking little grimace that the Entablature of Truth would not have liked to see.
“He would be certain to exalt you.”