The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees;
The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the hushing of the corn
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.”
The hint of the desert sadness died out in the girl's eyes as he declaimed his gospel.
“Oh,” she cried softly, “that's beautiful—beautiful.”
“That's the Litany of a Pagan, Donna,” he answered. “One has to believe to understand when he goes to church in a city, but if you're a Pagan like me, you only have to understand in order to believe.”
“I am,” she interrupted passionately, “I'm a Pagan and the daughter of a Pagan. My father was a Sun Worshiper—like you.”
“Tell me about yourself and your people,” he said, and Donna told him the story with which the reader is already familiar. He questioned her carefully about Sam Singer and the man who had murdered her father and despoiled him of his fortune.
“Who was this tenderfoot person?” he asked. “Didn't Sam Singer know his name?”
“No. We never knew the man's name. When my father left for the desert he merely told mother that he was going to meet an Eastern capitalist at Salton. Sam says the only name my father called the man was Boston.”
“Boston?”
Donna nodded.