Miss Travenion rises quite late on the morning after the Bussey fÊte, dresses hurriedly, and runs down-stairs into the dining-room of the Townsend House, to find that she is at lunch, not at breakfast. There she meets the rest of the Livingston party, who have arisen before her, and are discussing, in semi-excited tones, a piece of news Mr. Ferdie, who has been up and out, has just brought in to them.

"Do you know, Erma, that your gallant of last evening has come to grief?" remarks Oliver in placid triumph after the usual salutations have been exchanged.

"It is an infernal shame!" cries Mr. Chauncey. "They say Lawrence is ruined."

"Ruined! How?" asks the girl, growing pale in spite of herself.

"Why," answers Ferdie, "as near as I can make out, not claiming to be a mining expert, though I have seen enough ore specimens to make me a geologist, since I have been here—this Tranyon, who is a wily old Mormon speculator, and whose company only claims a part of Lawrence's mine, has just obtained an injunction to prevent him working any of it. Consequently, our friend will not be able to extract any more of his ore, and, running short of money, will hardly have the sinews of war for a prolonged legal fight, and Zion's Co-operative Mining Institution, which has plenty of shekels to hire legal talent and pack juries, will have a good deal the best chance. Anyway, that's the talk about town—I give it you as it comes to me."

"But this injunction can be dissolved," says Miss Travenion excitedly.

"Yes, if he puts up a big bond," suggests Livingston, triumphantly.

"Oh, that will not be difficult. Everybody is Captain Lawrence's friend," cries Erma, enthusiastically.

"Everybody is Captain Lawrence's friend until they have to put up their money to aid him," answers Oliver, who seems to get angry at the girl's interest in the matter. "Besides, everybody is not his friend; old Tranyon and I, for instance," he sneers.

"And you link your name with that miserable Mormon?" cries Erma, a flush of defiance coming upon her face. Then she goes on rapidly: "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. This struggle, as I understand it, is that of Gentile against Mormon, and I stand up for my crowd." Here Ferdie cries "Bravo!" and she covers her agitation by a little laugh.

To this, Mrs. Livingston, whose business had been to pour oil upon the troubled waters for the last day or two, says suddenly: "Oliver, I am going shopping. Won't you accompany me?" and the young man, having some little idea that perhaps he is not advancing his cause very much by this battle, rises to go with her. As he goes, he cannot refrain from firing a parting shot.

He says, "Ask Ferdie what mining men say about your friend's prospects." And so goes away, while Miss Travenion turns a face that is anxious upon Mr. Chauncey.

"Well," says the boy, "all agree that, though Lawrence owns the mine, he will be ruined for lack of money to grease the wheels of justice."

"This shall not be!" cries the girl, in so strange a tone of voice that Ferdie gasps, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that it shall not be!" answers Miss Travenion.

Then one of those ideas that are called Quixotic by the world, but which make it nearer to heaven, coming into this young lady's bright mind and generous heart, she looks at her watch and says, "I am going for a walk."

"Take me for an escort?" suggests Ferdinand, who is always happy to promenade the streets by the side of Miss Beauty, for he knows that it makes others envy him.

"No," says the girl shortly, "I am going alone. I have a little business errand," and so departs, straight for the business portion of the town, her eyes big with purpose, though there are tears in them as she mutters, "Alone in his trouble, but I'll help him defeat that villain Tranyon."

Coming back from this journey, excited, dusty and tired, about half-past one, she says to her maid, "Quick! A white gown—something cool—something breezy; I'm excited and warm!" and, curiously enough, trembles a little as she is assisted into a light summer toilet. Then inspecting her watch she murmurs, "Two o'clock. He should be here;" next thinks, "What shall I say to him? I must make this a business interview," and racks her brain for some business to talk about.

A moment after blushes come to her, for she gets to thinking of her remark about fairy tales of the night before, and mutters to herself, "Good heavens! Will he think me unwomanly?" and once or twice hopes he will not come, and looking at her watch finds it is after two, and is very much disappointed that he has not called.

So, after a time, getting very much excited over this matter, Erma goes down into the general parlor of the hotel, where she will be compelled to receive Harry Lawrence, for at that time the Townsend House had very few rooms en suite. But at the door, chancing to see a sparkling thing on the third finger of her left hand, she gasps, "My!" and tears it off. Then she laughs, "How lucky! He might have thought it an engagement ring, and Oliver's horrid fib a truth," and so pockets the bauble, going to the window of the room to look out upon the sidewalk and see if her swain is in view.

She is interrupted in this by the gentleman himself, for Captain Lawrence comes in, a flush of excitement upon his brown cheeks, dragging with him by the arm Ferdie, who seems nervous also: as he well may be, for Harry is laughing like a frontiersman, and every now and then giving Mr. Chauncey little surreptitious pats and nudges that from his athletic arm are agitating.

"I am glad you have come," says the girl, "for I have a little matter of business to talk to you about. When we were in Ogden the other day, you expended some money for me, which I did not have opportunity to return you. How much was it?" and she is very glad she has thought of this matter since Ferdie is here, and it seems to her to be a reason, if not a very plausible one, for her having asked the captain to call.

To her question Lawrence, after looking for a moment astonished, says, all the while keeping his grip on Mr. Chauncey, who manifests several times a desire to edge out of the parlor:

"Yes, I believe I did spend some money for a telegram for you and a newspaper. It was fifty-five cents."

Then the girl handing him the money, he mutters: "Thank you," and suddenly bursts out, "I am in luck to-day. That is not the only sum I've received. Friends are pouring gold upon me!" in a nervous way which is peculiar in him, for up to this moment he has seemed to Miss Travenion to have an organization capable of standing any shock.

A moment after he appears calmer, and says, "I have a little story to tell you. It is in relation to that Ogden matter. You know that by an accident I was there permitted to save the life of a very generous little beggar"—here he pats Ferdie on the head, who mutters, "Don't," and blushes like a girl. "This little gentleman," continues Harry, "for the slight service I did him in saving his noble little life, has seemed to me unusually grateful. He has sent me presents—a gold-headed cane and a silver-mounted revolver; but hearing that I was—in what you might call hard luck, this generous boy, who has not yet learned that it is not always best to squander your money upon friends, sent to me to-day fifteen thousand dollars."

"Oh, what a whopper! My allowance is only three thousand a year, and I am always in debt," cries Ferdie with sudden nervousness.

"You didn't send it?" says the captain. Then he mutters slowly, "Have I made a mistake?"

"On my honor as a gentleman," answers the boy. "But, by Jove, I would like to have had it to send you, and more too, for you did save my life, though you don't seem to like to have it mentioned."

"This is very curious," gasps Harry. "I have made a mistake. There was fifteen thousand put to my credit to-day, only an hour ago, at Walker Brothers. I made inquiry, and they said it had come as a cashier's check from Bussey's National Bank, on which I knew that your party had letters of credit. I could think of no one else who would consider himself under obligation to me,—at least, no one willing to do me such a good turn."

Then he goes on, "I must look elsewhere for the friend in need," and as he says this, some movement of the girl seems to draw his eyes, and he looks at her and notes that she is very red, and her eyes are feverish, and her small foot in its little slipper and openwork stocking, is patting the floor at the rate of about one hundred a minute.

Suddenly he gives a start, and a great red flush comes over his face, for just at this moment Louise comes in, crying, "Erma, here is your letter of credit returned from the bank!" and with a childish idea of showing the general importance and wealth of the family to the Western stranger, remarks: "I peeped in her envelope, and Miss Extravagance has drawn fifteen thousand dollars to-day."

Then she pauses, astounded at the effect of her words, for Erma, who has risen hurriedly to receive the paper, gives a sudden cry, and sinks into a chair, covering her face with her hands, and Ferdie has suddenly ejaculated, "By Ginger!" and would giggle did not the captain's manner awe him.

The next second Harry Lawrence takes the paper from Louise, saying gently, "I'll give this to Miss Travenion. My business with her will be over in five minutes," and Miss Livingston, who, for a child, has quite a quick perception of social affairs, taking the hint, gives him the document and goes silently away.

Glancing at it, a debit of fifteen thousand dollars of this day's date is indorsed on the back, and he grows very pale, for he knows. Then coming toward the girl, who has half risen to meet him, he says: "Ferdie, there is a good angel in the room, my boy,—one of the kind that make men think earth is very near to heaven. Now, you just run down and play billiards, and I will join you in a few minutes, and don't you say a word of what I have told you to any one in this world."

"On my honor," whispers Chauncey, for there are two tears in Lawrence's eyes that impress him very greatly. Then he suddenly cries, "Erma, you're a brick!" and leaves the captain gazing at Miss Travenion, who is pale as death also.

As he does so, Lawrence suddenly comes to the girl, and says very tenderly: "God bless your noble, generous heart!"

But suddenly he seems to Erma to grow taller and tower over her, and he shakes his head and brushes his hair back from his brow, as if he were a fevered lion, and cries hoarsely: "This must not be! Men in the West do not take money from women!"

"But you need it. What is it to me? A few gewgaws, and jewels, and dresses, and I have more of them than I want. Take it to regain your own—to smite down this wretch Tranyon—then repay it to me."

"No, that is impossible," he answers, slowly. "This money shall be returned to you before bank hours this afternoon. But the good will that prompted it—I'll keep that, if you please, until I die." And supreme gratitude and undying love also are in his eyes, for he cannot keep them from speaking, though he may, perchance, control his tongue.

"But you need it. You must take it. It is necessary for your success," gasps the girl.

"I cannot take it, but I will succeed without it," he cries. "I cannot afford to lose. I must win! It is not money I am fighting for, but——"

"What?"

"What I will never tell you till I have money enough to prevent men calling me an adventurer—a fortune hunter—if I win it." And his eyes speaking to her again, she knows what he means.

A moment after, she turns to him, and says considerately:

"If I cannot aid you in this way I can in another, which I hope you will accept. My father will be here this evening. He is a very rich man. He will be more than happy to go upon your bond, to raise the injunction, which, I understand, has crippled you."

"No," says Harry, curtly. "No favors from your father of such financial magnitude."

"Why not?" queries Erma, who has made up her mind that Lawrence must be aided in some way.

"Because your father, the first time he sees me, must think me a man who can fight his own battle in this world—a man worthy to be—" He checks himself, and drives the words that are on his tongue back into his throat.

"At all events," mutters Erma, "you must see my father. He is a man of great business sagacity. His advice will aid you. Promise that you will come to-morrow and see him."

"I go to Tintic to-morrow."

"Promise!" and, being desperate, the young lady now forgets herself and whispers, "for my sake."

Then she suddenly feels her soft hand crushed in a frontier grip as he answers:

"For your sake I'd promise anything!" and, a moment after, he raises the white patrician fingers and kisses them with that reverence and chivalry that good men, who have long lived apart from good women, oft-times feel for their sweethearts, likening them unto their mothers. Then he murmurs, "Good-bye!"

But the girl cries, "Don't forget to-morrow. I will tell papa to be in at eleven o'clock. He will advise you how to conquer that Tranyon. See! a rosebud for good luck," and smiles on him. "I will pin it in your button-hole."

"No," he stammers, "let me carry it in my hand. Good-bye!" almost snatching the flower from her, for he is desperately afraid of himself, for gratitude and love have made this young lady's beauty irresistible to him.

Hurrying from this interview, Lawrence thinks, "God help me. It was hard to keep my heart from her," then mutters morosely, "I'll not be called an adventurer,—an heiress hunter. Her million stands up between us more colossal than ever." Though a moment after, he says determinedly: "By Heaven!—No one else shall ever have her—my angel!"

At this moment he hears behind him, "A word with you, sir!" and turning, sees Mr. Oliver, who has just noticed the end of the parlor interview with agony and rage.

"Certainly. Half a dozen," answers Lawrence. Then he laughs and says, "I am so happy I could even give you five minutes."

"Very well,—come with me," whispers Ollie, and getting to a retired part of the hallway he turns upon the captain and remarks oracularly and severely, "I forbid you to call again upon the young lady who is under my charge."

"Your authority?"

"Her father's."

"The young lady under your charge," remarks the Western man sarcastically, "hinted to me last evening that you told fairy tales; that you have no authority whatever in the matter; that she is her own mistress."

"The young lady," returns Livingston, pulling down his cuffs in a nervous manner, "knows that her father wishes me to control her life till she marries me." Then getting excited, he bursts forth, "Good Heavens! You don't suppose that Ralph Travenion, who was in his day the greatest club man and swell in New York, would permit his child to marry a frontier Vigilante like you,—almost a mur—" Here Mr. Livingston suddenly checks himself and shrieks out desperately and wildly, "Don't strike me! I was once to have studied for the ministry!"

"Oh, very well," says Harry, laughing. "As to the young lady's father, he can say to me what he pleases. I am to see him to-morrow by appointment," and he carelessly smells Erma's rosebud, and continues: "But you had better keep a civil tongue. I am too happy to hit you, for if I did, I might kill you; but I'll take you by your aquiline nose and lead you twice around the nearest barroom, if you are not as polite and as mild and as fragrant as this rosebud," and he walks out, leaving Oliver pale with rage and perspiring with agitation—for Lawrence's laughing mood and his remark that he sees Miss Travenion's father by appointment to-morrow, have frightened Mr. Livingston almost to death.

So, coming out from this interview, Harry Lawrence draws his check at Walker Brothers, has it certified, and walks over to Mr. Bussey's Bank, to restore Miss Travenion's money to her letter of credit.

Chancing on his errand to meet Bishop Kruger, that gentleman looks at him and chuckles to himself, remembering the ball of the evening before: "You play a strong game, young man, but I rather think I hold the hand on ye this deal," and being reminded of his promise to Miss Travenion, proceeds to hunt up Mr. Ferdie upon Main Street, remarking, "That cigarette boy will play my next chip for me right 'cute."

He does not tell him this, however, on meeting, but says affably, "How de, Mr. Chauncey? I think I can furnish a leettle amusement for you and your party."

"As you did last night, dancing the double shuffle?" laughs Ferdie, who is not particularly in love with Lot.

"No, I kin do better than that. Your party are out here studying the manners and customs of us natives, I take it. Now, if you will bring your crowd up to the Twenty-fifth Ward meeting to-night, you'll see a Mormon Sunday-school celebration. Please tell Miss Ermie that I will see her thar; I ain't forgot my promise, and her dad's to be in town to-night."

"I'm delighted to hear that! Miss Travenion has been looking anxiously for her father," replies Ferdinand. "I will give her your message, and if you will promise to cut a pigeon wing, I'll come up myself," and with this leaves the genial Lot, who, cursing his impertinence under his breath, mumbles, "Some day, my jumping-jack, your wit may cost you the leettle brains you've got."

After Lawrence has left her, Miss Travenion goes back to her room blushingly happy, and says complacently, "Papa will fix everything. Lawrence will win his mine,—and then—" and her blue eyes seem to look quite confidently into the future, for she has supreme faith in her father.

Every time he had come to New York on his various visits, he had brought happiness to her; she remembers the joy of his arrival, the little fÊtes prepared for her as a school girl, and the magnificent presents lavished upon her from Tiffany's and Kirkpatrick's when she was old enough for such things, and thinking of her absent dear one, she grows anxious as to Mr. Kruger's promise, sending to the office several times to ask if any one has called upon her, or asked for her, but the answer always comes back, "No!" Then she takes to reading Ralph Travenion's last letter to her, a thing she has done a dozen times during the past few days, and while occupied in this, there is a knock on the door, and springing up and tripping lightly to it, she opens it, crying, "Papa! at last!" but is disappointed, for it is only Ferdie's laughing face.

He says to her, "I have not brought your father, but Mr. Kruger wants to see you."

"Indeed? Is he down-stairs?" asks Erma eagerly.

"No, but he gave me a message for you. He has invited us all to go up and see a little Mormon Sunday-school festival."

"What has the Mormon Sunday-school performance to do with me?"

"Oh, nothing; but I thought it would be fun, and Mr. Kruger—Bishop Kruger, I beg his pardon—told me to tell you that he would be there and had not forgotten his promise. Your father will be in town to-night."

"God bless you for the news!" cries the girl, then laughs, "Do you know, I was really becoming anxious. Bishop Kruger has something to tell to me. Thanks for your invitation. I'll go. At what time?"

"About eight o'clock," answers Mr. Chauncey.

But, on arriving at the dinner-table, Miss Travenion finds that the Livingstons have made other plans for the evening. Mr. Bandman, a theatrical celebrity, at that time on his travelling tour, is to appear as Narcisse, and Mrs. Livingston has tickets for the theatre, and is anxious to go.

"I am sorry I cannot accompany you," answers Erma.

"No? Why not?"

"Because Ferdie and I are going to a Mormon Sunday-school festival. Mr. Kruger wishes to see me there. He has received word from my father. My father will be in Salt Lake, probably, to-night."

"Indeed?" says Mrs. Livingston complacently. "I am delighted to hear that; then we can shorten our visit to Salt Lake," for she has grown rather tired of the town, and is anxious to proceed on her journey. "Please give your father my compliments, Erma, and tell Mr. Travenion he must breakfast with me—at ten to-morrow morning." Then she says diplomatically, "Ferdie, wouldn't you like to see Mr. Bandman?"

"Quite well," answers that gentleman; "they say he has a very pretty leading lady."

"Then you had better come with us. I hardly dare trust Miss Travenion to you in a Mormon assemblage. You make careless remarks that excite their rage." She now comes to the point to which she has been working, and suggests: "Oliver, you had better take Erma," and is pleased to hear her son remark: "I will do so with pleasure."

"Thank you," says the girl in so grateful a tone that Mrs. Livingston, who has heard of Captain Lawrence's call during the afternoon, and has been fearful as to its effect in regard to Oliver's chances with the heiress, goes very complacently away from her dinner, and taking Ferdie and Louise, proceeds to the Salt Lake Theatre.

Then Miss Travenion, very much excited, takes carriage, and, escorted by Mr. Oliver Livingston, drives to the Sunday-school festival in the little Mormon meeting-house of the Twenty-fifth Ward.

"Papa will be in town to-night," she says in happy tones. "Fancy, I have not seen him for eight months. And Mr. Kruger says he is well."

"I shall be very happy to see him, also," returns Livingston cordially. "I have not met a man in this crude community yet to whom I cared to talk. Your father's old Unity Club anecdotes will seem to me like an echo of New York."

"I am glad to hear that papa's small talk pleases you," laughs the young lady, and a moment after says: "We are here."

Assisting her from the carriage, Oliver cries to the hackman: "Be back in an hour!" for a carriage at a Mormon ward meeting is so unusual that it attracts the attention of the crowd of Latter-Day Saints who are entering the building. Then he adds: "You need not stop in front of this place. Just draw up about a quarter of a square from here!"

And the man driving away, they mingle with the crowd, and are scarcely noticed again, as Miss Travenion, thoughtful of the place to which she has come, has dressed herself in her most unpretentious gown, and has covered her bonnet and face with a veil so as not to attract attention by any contrast of toilet with the surrounding congregation. The hall is already almost filled, and they only find seats in the back row unoccupied. On these they sit down, and Miss Travenion's eyes go wandering over the assemblage searching for Mr. Kruger.

But they only see a very plain meeting-room, filled with the average hard-featured men and women of this Mormon city, dressed in their best, which means for the women gowns that would be a horror to a French dressmaker, and for the men, clothes that would be a nightmare to a Broadway tailor—and children—lots of them—most of them white-headed, but happy. The stage, moreover, is filled with them, dressed in the best their mothers can put upon them, chiefly bright calicoes and ginghams; some of them looking quite pretty in these, for youth is nearly always beautiful, and Mormon tots are generally as happy as other children. Over their heads hangs a piece of white calico in festoons, bearing this peculiar motto: "Utah's best crop is children."

Miss Travenion has just completed her survey, when the man she is looking for comes from a side door on to the platform, and makes the stereotyped Mormon address for such occasions, but says: "There is a better talker coming after me. I refer to the bishop of this ward, the Counsellor of our President, Bishop R. H. Tranyon, who, after the children have sung a hymn, will hold forth on what is the duty of the up-growing generation of this Sect and people, in order to become true Mormons, in the faith of Joseph Smith and Hyrum, his brother."

But all the time Kruger is speaking his eyes rove around the assembly, as if seeking some one, and finally, lighting upon the graceful form of Erma, he appears satisfied, and triumph and joy coming into his voice, his audience think it is the glory of Zion inspiring him, and applaud him as he sits down; a Mormon girl, just in front of Miss Travenion, remarking, "Bishop Kruger seems to have his talking-coat on this evening!"

After that there is music from a melodeon, and the children sing the Mormon song,

and give it with as much fervor, Erma cannot help noticing, as the Sunday-schools in the East sing the beautiful hymn, "I want to be an angel," on which this is an awful parody.

Then stillness falls upon the audience, for the big gun of the evening is coming—the man who stands upon the right hand of the prophet and obtains his inspiration from him; the man who has expounded to them during a number of years the doctrines of their creed, revealed by the Almighty to Joseph Smith, their founder.

A moment after Kruger announces, a peculiar thrill in his voice, "Bishop Tranyon!"

As he says this, Erma, bending forward to get a better view, clenches her little hands together and thinks to herself, "This is the wretch who is Lawrence's enemy, and would destroy his happiness and mine!"

Then onto the platform comes a figure, wearing his clothes with a grace strange in a Mormon community, and whose broadcloth is finer than the sect is wont to wear, and whose gray eyes are familiar, and whose soft gestures are those she has been longing for—and whose grizzled moustache, now joined to a mighty beard, has caressed her lips. Gazing at him with all her might, something suddenly snaps in the girl's head, for he is speaking, and the incisive, smooth, cynical voice now crying the glory of the Mormon Church, the sanctity of plural, polygamous marriage—the voice now crying out the glory of what she thinks unutterable indignity and degradation to her sex, is that of—God help her!—no, she will not believe it, but still does—her father!

In one awful flash comes to her the thought, "If he is what he is, then what am I?" and merciful insensibility comes with it.

As for Mr. Livingston, he has listened to the preliminary proceedings in a perfunctory, philosophical kind of way, sometimes scoffing inwardly. Then his mind, as the children sing their hymn, running upon other churches, finally comes to his own; he has got to carelessly looking over the choristers, and trying to select from them youths who he thinks would make good altar-boys in his Episcopal Church.

He is hardly awakened from this when Bishop Tranyon is announced, and looking carelessly at him, thinks, "There's something curiously familiar in the old Mormon—he has a little of the New York club style about him. Good gracious! that gesture—where have I seen it?" and rubs his glasses and inspects him more closely. And then, remembering Travenion, the old New York swell, having known him as a boy, and seen him on his visits to New York, Ollie gets excited, for the eyes seem familiar to him, and the voice is the same that he has heard several times in the smoking-rooms of the Unity and Stuyvesant Clubs, though for a moment he cannot reconcile himself to believe what his memory tells him.

But just here, Erma's body falls a dead weight upon him and her head droops on his shoulder.

Looking at her, he sees that she has fainted so quietly that he has not noticed it, and an awful shock coming upon this conventional and orthodox young man, he gasps to himself, "Good Gad, Erma's father!" and is so paralyzed and petrified that he makes no effort to revive the girl, but simply looks on in a horrified kind of wonder as the festival proceeds.

In a daze, he hears the old New York club man play his rÔle of Mormon exhorter and apostle, and do it very well, for he has just brought forward five children of assorted sizes and sexes, and has proclaimed with sanctimonious voice to the uncouth Saints assembled about him: "These are my hostages to the State of Deseret; these are my pledges to the Zion of our Lord!" And taking up the smallest of his family—a babe with Erma's eyes—this evangelist continues: "This tot I have named Brigham after our well-loved President, and Joseph for our first Prophet, and Hyrum after his sainted brother, who was murdered with him—unto the glory of our true religion and the damnation of our unbelieving enemies." So, holding the little one on his arm he cries, "Let us pray!"

And he does pray—so earnestly, so impressively, so tremendously that Oliver, gazing at him with agitated eyes, begins to pray himself, thinking affrightedly: "What shall I do? My God, I am here with a Mormon's daughter!"

Then he would make an effort to arouse the girl to consciousness, and perhaps cause a scene, but he suddenly thinks, "If I disturb the meeting, they may treat me roughly. These infidels do not believe in Gentile interruptions to their religious ceremonies;" and so sits quietly by the side of the unconscious girl, till Bishop Tranyon, of Salt Lake City, ex-Ralph Travenion, the New York exquisite, dandy and club man, finishes his harangue, and the people crowd about the platform and congratulate him on his great speech, to the glory of God and Brigham Young, his prophet.

But looking at Bishop Tranyon now, Oliver thinks he sees the cynic scoff of the Manhattan swell, as if, fight it how he will, he can't keep down a sneer at the religion that he preaches.

Just then, heart-breaking consciousness and recollection coming to the girl, she says in a low, faltering voice, placing a feeble though pleading hand upon his arm, "Take me away!"

In the confusion and hilarity of the festival, the melodeon playing loudly and the children singing that well-known Utah Sunday-school hymn,

unnoticed by all save Kruger, who knows his arrow has struck its shining mark, Oliver gets Erma out of the hall and to the carriage, which fortunately has returned.

Lifting her in, he cries, in feeble agitation, "The Townsend House! Quick!" for he fears his charge will faint again in the carriage. But she is beyond fainting now.

She whispers hoarsely: "You recognized him also?" then wrings her hands, and gasps, "My God! my father!" next bursts out: "That was the reason I did not meet him. That is the reason he never wanted me to come West to live with him—among his concubines he calls wives—he, my father, who once called my mother wife!"

Then to Oliver Livingston comes the opportunity of his life—his one supreme moment to win this woman, who is more beautiful in her agony even than in her joy; for the girl has fallen sobbing on his shoulder, and had he but treated her as if he loved her—aye, even pitied her—she would have given unto him gratitude so potent it might have grown to love, and so made her his.

But his puny heart is too small for such magnanimity, and to her tears and her mutterings, "What will the world think of me now?" he replies: "This is awful. This is a terrible thing for you. It will take you a long time to live this down. You had better retire from society for a time. Prayer and repent—"

And so his opportunity forever leaves him. The girl cuts short his last word with a shudder, then draws herself up, and says, a desperate gleam in her eyes: "Don't dare to talk to me as if the sin of my father was my sin. That kind of innuendo I will not permit!" next mutters: "I asked for sympathy and you gave me a sermon!" A moment after, she says, in measured tones, "We are at the hotel. You need not help me down. The touch of the polygamist's daughter might sully you, Mr. Immaculate!"