"Jack, will you come into the
Mormon Church?"
Long had Hare shrunk from this question which he felt must inevitably
come, and now he met it as bravely as he could, knowing he would pain his
friend.
"No, August, I can't," he replied. "I feel--differently from Mormons
about--about women. If it wasn't for that! I look upon you as a father.
I'll do anything for you, except that. No one could pray to be a better
man than you. Your work, your religion, your life-- Why! I've no words
to say what I feel. Teach me what little you can of them, August, but
don't ask me--that."
"Well, well," sighed Naab. The gray clearness of his eagle eyes grew
shadowed and his worn face was sad. It was the look of a strong wise man
who seemed to hear doubt and failure knocking at the gate of his creed.
But he loved life too well to be unhappy; he saw it too clearly not to
know there was nothing wholly good, wholly perfect, wholly without error.
The shade passed from his face like the cloud-shadow from the sunlit
lane.
"You ask about Mescal," he mused. "There's little more to tell."
"But her father--can you tell me more of him?"
"Little more than I've already told.
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