Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no known
relative. Jane's love redoubled. It was the saving brightness of
a darkening hour. Fay turned now to Jane in childish worship. And
Jane at last found full expression for the mother-longing in her
heart. Upon Lassiter, too, Mrs. Larkin's death had some subtle
reaction. Before, he had often, without explanation, advised Jane
to send Fay back to any Gentile family that would take her in.
Passionately and reproachfully and wonderingly Jane had refused
even to entertain such an idea. And now Lassiter never advised it
again, grew sadder and quieter in his contemplation of the child,
and infinitely more gentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold,
inexplicable sensation of dread when she saw Lassiter watching
Fay. What did the rider see in the future? Why did he, day by
day, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in prophetic
assurance of something to be?
No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman power
of foresight, saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening
shadows that were soon to crowd and gloom over him and her and
little Fay. Jane Withersteen awaited the long-deferred breaking
of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that had come to
her in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt and fear,
subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless nights and
tortured days.
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