She tried to imagine the lover in the play going from balcony to balcony, sighing the same impassioned love-tale to woman after woman; or to imagine him with many wives at home, to whom would be taken the news of his death in the tomb of his last.

So she thought of the play and not of the ball, stepping the dances absently, and, when it was all over, she fell asleep, rejoicing that, before their death, the two dear lovers had been sealed for time and eternity, so that they could awaken together in the Kingdom.
They went home the next day, driving down the valley that rolled in billows of green between the broken ranges of the Wasatch and the Oquirrh.

It was no longer of the Kingdom she thought, nor of Brigham and his wives; only of a clean-limbed youth in doublet and hose, a plumed cap, and a silken cloak, who, in a voice that brought the tears back of her eyes, told of his undying love for one woman--and of the soft, tender woman in the moonlight, who had trusted him and let herself go to him in life and in death.
The world had not ended.

She thought that, in truth, it could not have ended yet; for had she not a life to live?
.