“But you don’t know.”
“Well, I do know—so just you straighten out that face. I do know, I tell you. Now don’t cry and I’ll fix it all right, I promise you.”
“But you don’t even know what the trouble is.”
“I do—it’s about your father and mother—when they were married.”
“How did you know?”
“I can’t tell you now, but I will soon. Look here, you can believe what I tell you, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Well, then, you listen. Your father and mother were married in the right way, and there wasn’t a single bit of crookedness about it. I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t know and couldn’t prove it to you in a little while. Say, there’s one of our wagon-trains coming along here toward Salt Lake next Monday. It’s coming out of its way on purpose to pick me up. I’ll promise to have it proved to you by that time. Now, is that fair? Can you believe me?”
She looked up at him, her face bright again.
“Oh, I do believe you! You don’t know how glad you make me. It was an awful thing—oh, you are a dear”—and full upon his lips she kissed the astounded young man, holding him fast with an arm about his neck. “You’ve made me all over new—I was feeling so wretched—and of course I can’t see how you know anything about it, but I know you are telling the truth.” Again she kissed him with the utmost cordiality. Then she stood up to arrange her hair, her face full of the joy of this assurance. The young man saw that she had forgotten both him and his religious perplexities, and he did not wish her to be entirely divested of concern for him at this moment.