“Thank you.”
Mary French had more flesh and blood than Emeline. She was larger and of a warmer and browner tint—that type of brunette with startling black hair which breaks into a floss of little curls, and with unexpected blue eyes. Her full lips made a bud, and it only half bloomed when she smiled. From crown to slipper she was a ripe and supple woman. Though clad, like Emeline, in black, her garment was a transparent texture over white, and she held a parasol with crimson lining behind her head. She had left her bonnet in her conveyance.
“My husband,” said Mary French, quiet and smiling, “sent me to tell you that you will be welcomed into our family.”
Emeline looked her in the eyes. The Prophet's wife had the most unblenching smiling gaze she had ever encountered.
“I do not wish to enter your family. I am not a Mormon.”
“He will make you wish it. I was not a Mormon.”
They sat silent, the trees stirring around them.
“I do not understand it,” said Emeline. “How can you come to me with such a message?”
“I can do it as you can do it when your turn comes.”
Emeline looked at Mary French as if she had been stabbed.