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 wholly put me aside.”
“But I believe you are sick. Your hands are so hot, and your eyes look so unnatural. You must let me—”
“Now, now—haven’t I learned to tell sickness from the glow of a holy purpose?”
“You’re sure you are well?”
“Better than for fifteen years.”
She let herself be convinced for the moment.
“Then please tell me something. Must a man who comes into our faith, if he is baptised rightly, also marry more than one wife if he is to be saved? Can’t he be sure of his glory with one if he loves her—oh, very, very much?”