FAITH AND UNFAITH
Dyer startled Jane. He dismounted with his rapid, jerky motion, flung the bridle, and, as he turned toward the inner court and stalked up on the stone flags, his boots rang. In his authoritative front, and in the red anger unmistakably flaming in his face, he reminded Jane of her father.
"Is that the Larkin pauper?" he asked, bruskly, without any greeting to Jane.
"It's Mrs. Larkin's little girl," replied Jane, slowly.
"I hear you intend to raise the child?"
"Yes."
"Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?"
"No!"
His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling that some one else was replying for her.
"I've come to say a few things to you." He stopped to measure her with stern, speculative eye.
Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest childhood she had been taught to revere and love bishops of her church. And for ten years Bishop Dyer had been the closest friend and counselor of her father, and for the greater part of that period her own friend and Scriptural teacher. Her interpretation of her creed and her religious activity in fidelity to it, her acceptance of mysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this Bishop. Bishop Dyer as an entity was next to God. He was God's mouthpiece to the little Mormon community at Cottonwoods. God revealed himself in secret to this mortal.
And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing affront to her consciousness of reverence by some strange irresistible twist of thought wherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And the train of thought hurdled the rising, crying protests of that other self whose poise she had lost. It was not her Bishop who eyed her in curious measurement. It was a man who tramped into
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