These sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many dark hours, took Gerald by surprise.

‘I don’t think it’s any good going away now, mother, at the last minute,’ he said, coldly.

‘You take care,’ replied his mother. ‘You mind YOURSELF—that’s your business. You take too much on yourself. You mind YOURSELF, or you’ll find yourself in Queer Street, that’s what will happen to you. You’re hysterical, always were.’

‘I’m all right, mother,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to worry about ME, I assure you.’

‘Let the dead bury their dead—don’t go and bury yourself along with them—that’s what I tell you. I know you well enough.’

He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The mother sat bunched up in silence, her beautiful white hands, that had no rings whatsoever, clasping the pommels of her arm–chair.

‘You can’t do it,’ she said, almost bitterly. ‘You haven’t the nerve. You’re as weak as a cat, really—always were. Is this young woman staying here?’

‘No,’ said Gerald. ‘She is going home tonight.’

‘Then she’d better have the dog–cart. Does she go far?’

‘Only to Beldover.’

‘Ah!’ The elderly woman never looked at Gudrun, yet she seemed to take knowledge of her presence.

‘You are inclined to take too much on yourself, yourself Gerald,’ said the mother, pulling herself to her feet, with a little difficulty.

‘Will you go, mother?’ he asked, politely.

‘Yes, I’ll go up again,’ she replied. Turning to Gudrun, she bade her ‘Good–night.’ Then she went slowly to the door, as if she were unaccustomed to walking. At the door she lifted her face to him, implicitly. He kissed her.

‘Don’t come any further with me,’ she said, in her barely audible voice. ‘I don’t want you any further.’

He bade her good–night, watched her across to the stairs and mount slowly. Then he closed the door and came back to Gudrun. Gudrun rose also, to go.

‘A queer being, my mother,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ replied Gudrun.

‘She has her own thoughts.’

‘Yes,’ said Gudrun.

Then they were silent.

‘You want to go?’ he asked. ‘Half a minute, I’ll just have a horse put in—’

‘No,’ said Gudrun. ‘I want to walk.’

He had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely mile of drive, and she wanted this.

‘You might JUST as well drive,’ he said.

‘I’d MUCH RATHER walk,’ she asserted, with emphasis.

‘You would! Then I will come along with you. You know where your things are? I’ll put boots on.’

He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. They went out into the night.

‘Let us light a cigarette,’ he said, stopping in a sheltered angle of the porch. ‘You have one too.’

“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words, “it can only be as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?”

“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said Ferrier, with such emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give him food and drink, and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!”

“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the great wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed led them to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting them.

“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.”

This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease — every impediment which Nature could place in the way — had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up as if by magic. In the country there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw were never absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.