For a moment, Erma believes this extraordinary statement, and falters, seeming almost to invite his caresses, at least not to repulse them.

Seeing this, Ralph Travenion mutters, "Thank God, you believe me!" and flies to take her in his arms; but suddenly her dead mother's face seems to the girl to rise between her father and herself. She shudders, turns away from him, and says coldly: "You ask me to believe this monstrous thing,—that for my sake you became a Mormon?"

"Yes, as God is above me!—to make you rich,—to place you above the care of poverty,—to surround you with luxury,—the thing that has been my one thought in life."

"Was that your thought?" cries the girl suddenly, with a face that to him is beautiful as an angel's, but just as that of the angel's God—"was that your thought when you entered into polygamous marriage with those women down there? Oh, don't attempt to deny it!" for he is about to open his lips. "I saw two of them. I was at the Sunday-school meeting of the Twenty-fifth Ward, and beheld your hostages to your faith—five little ones, I believe. One of them, a girl, Mr. Oliver Livingston was kind enough to say, looked like me."

To this, for a moment, he does not reply. Then suddenly, forcing his tongue to do his wish, he repeats: "For your sake I did that also!"

"For my sake?" gasps Erma, astounded, then cries out: "Absurd! Impossible!" and having exhausted tears two days before, mocks him with unbelieving laugh.

"As God is above me!"

"Prove it!"

"I will!" And so, being driven to his defence, and knowing that he is pleading for his own happiness—for this child of his other life is to Ralph Travenion, once club man of New York City, but now Mormon bishop of Salt Lake, the thing he loves best in this world—he begins to tell his story, earnestly, as a man struggling to win the lost respect and esteem of the one woman whose respect and esteem he must have,—pathetically, as a father striving to keep his daughter's love.

His voice trembles slightly as he begins: "In New York, Wall Street practically ruined me. The ample fortune that I had determined to devote to your happiness and your life, Erma, my daughter, had passed from me. I had, after leaving sufficient for your education, but a few thousand dollars to take with me to this Western world. I had promised my old friend to settle a million dollars on you, so that if he kept his contract to make over a like amount to his son, you could wed Oliver Livingston and take the place in New York society to which you had been born. To keep this promise, I left the old life that was pleasant to me, and came, God help me, to this!" He looks about the bare room, with its rough furniture, its uncarpeted floor, its pioneer discomfort, and out through the open window over the long waste that covers the West Tintic Valley. And she looks also, and sees naught but sage brush, unrelieved save by a few floating clouds of dust that, thick and heavy, mark the course of ore-teams from the Scotia mine, making their hot and alkaline way towards the furnaces in Homansville.

Then Ralph iterates, "I came to this life for your sake," a far-away look getting into his eyes, for recollections of his old club life and the friends and companions and chums of other days, and pretty yachting excursions on the Sound, and gay opera and dinner parties and fÊtes at fashionable Newport, come to this exile.

Noting this, some idea of what is in his mind comes also to his daughter, and makes her tender to him, and this change in her face gives him courage.

He goes on, "For your sake I did this!"

"For my sake it was not necessary to be a Mormon."

"To make a fortune it was!" he cries. "I wandered about the Mississippi for a year. At the end of that time, I was poorer than when I left New York. St. Louis and Chicago did not seem to me a quick enough opportunity. I came further West. I had a wild hope of making money in furs, in some stage line, as Indian trader, but found no chance, and so, in pursuit of one will-o'-the-wisp and another, I journeyed on until I found myself in Salt Lake City. Here I saw a fortune for a man of ability. The Transcontinental Telegraph Company was building its line. A contract to supply them with telegraph poles, properly handled, would make me rich. But it could be so handled only by a Mormon, and I joined the Church of Latter-Day Saints,—a stern sect, who will have no wavering disciples, no half-way apostates in its ranks. By that contract I made a considerable sum. Then the building of the Union Pacific Railway came, and by it I made a fortune, because I was a Mormon."

"A Gentile might also have succeeded," suggests his daughter.

"Impossible! As a Mormon, and only as a Mormon, I could hire thousands of Mormon laborers at one dollar and fifty cents per day,—and pay them by store orders on Zion's Co-operative Mercantile Institution, who liquidated them in goods at, practically, fifty cents on the dollar. Mormon labor cost me seventy-five cents per day against Gentile labor at three or four dollars; as a Latter-Day Saint I could command the cheap article. That is why I joined the Mormon Church—for your fortune and your happiness."

"Was it for my happiness that you accepted their infamous creed for the degradation of my sex—that you entered into plural marriage—that you are now surrounded by children of polygamy?" asks the girl, a bitter sarcasm dominating her voice.

"That was to save my life!"

"To save your life? What nonsense!"

"Hush! Listen to me!" and Ralph Travenion speaks very low, as if he almost feared the walls would hear him. "A year after I had joined it, it was spoken unto me by the President that the Church doubted my sincerity because I had not entered into polygamy. To be doubted in those days,—in 1865 and '66,—meant the atonement of blood, such as was carried out on Almon, Babbitt and the Parrishes—it meant being cut off 'below the ears.' Had I died here then, my fortune would have never been accumulated for you. You would not now have a million to give you prestige,—to give you power,—to make you reign beauty as you are. You would not now be called Miss Dividends," and the old man would put his arms about his daughter to caress her, and take her to his heart—for her loveliness has made him, her father, very proud.

But Erma cries to him hoarsely, "What kind of a dividend have you given me? The dividend of shame! Society shudders and turns from me. The Livingstons have already done so."

To this he answers, "My God, what do you mean?" sinking upon a candle-box that does duty as a chair in this uncouth department.

"I mean this," cries Erma, "that when they discovered that I was the daughter of a Mormon, that I had little illegitimate half-brothers and sisters, they fled from me as if I were tainted and left me to the kindness of Bishop Kruger."

"Kruger knows you are here?" This is a wail of anguish from Travenion that makes his daughter start.

She answers him, though the old man's agitation frightens her. "Certainly. He learnt of my coming in New York, and returned on the same train with the Livingstons and myself to Salt Lake City. He——"

But Erma pauses, astonished and horrified, the effect of her simple words upon her father is so tremendous.

He is wringing his hands and muttering, "They have me now. My heart is in their hands!" Then he steps quickly to the door, and she hears him speak to the man who has driven her from Salt Lake. "Take your horses to the stable at Eureka. Feed and water them and be ready to return this evening at seven o'clock."

"I don't see as I can, bishop," answers the driver. "The team won't stand it. They are putty nigh tuckered out now."

"Then be ready to-morrow morning," he says hurriedly, and returns to the room where Erma still sits, and sighs to himself, "I don't suppose it would be much use. If they know you are here, they know that they have my heart in their hands."

"Your heart in their hands? What do you mean by that?" whispers the young lady.

"I mean you! You are my heart,—you. My darling! My pet! My treasure! Who has put peril upon herself because she loved her old papa!" and before she can prevent it, he has her in his arms and is pressing her to his heart, and caressing her, and crying over her the tears of a strong man in his extremity.

And now she struggles not, for his kisses bring remembrance of his other kisses in happier days, in far-away New York, when she has looked for his coming at her school, and afterwards as a young lady has flown to this heart, that she knows has always beat for her.

After a moment, his agitation and words make her ask, "What latent danger is there to me?"

"Nothing immediate," he answers. "Perhaps none at all—perhaps I am a fool; for in 1871 there are many Gentiles in this Territory, and United States troops at Camp Douglas. But I remember! And the thought of what once was, makes me fear what may now be." Then he says suddenly and impressively, as if some new idea alarmed him, "Tell me about your trip from New York. Omit no details. MinutiÆ may mean safety for us both. But first—" And it now being the dusk of the evening, he illuminates the room with the flicker of a coal-oil lamp and the yellow glow of a tallow dip, and places her very tenderly on the only chair in the room.

Seated on this, she tells him her story, he interrupting her now and then to ask pertinent questions, most of them in regard to the actions of Kruger. And getting answers that he doesn't like, he seems to grow more despondent the more her words indicate the Mormon bishop has taken interest in her movements.

But as she tells about Harry Lawrence, and the trouble the injunction on his mine has brought upon the young man, the old man's eyes gleam and he chuckles: "Yes, I rather think I have put that bantam into a business hole he won't get out of!"

He seems so happy and so triumphant over this affair, that Erma, his daughter as she is, almost hates him.

This brings her to her contribution to Harry's bank account, to defeat Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake and Zion's Co-operative Mining Institution, and telling this with some embarrassment and pauses and blushes, she notes her father's face grow long and his features puzzled.

Then, as she describes her visit to the Twenty-fifth Ward meeting, and Oliver Livingston's treatment of her after his discovery that she is the daughter of a polygamist, he mutters sadly: "To see you married to Livingston—a man of your own rank and place in New York society—has been the hope of my old age!"

Here the girl astonishes him. She answers: "Had you been the greatest saint this earth has ever seen, Oliver Livingston would never have had me for his wife. Besides"—and she laughs airily—"I could have Mr. Ollie back at my side in a week. He loves my million well enough to take me for it."

"Then bring him back!"

"Never!"

"Never! Why not?" This last almost savagely.

"Because I will not marry him!"

There is an enthusiasm and determination in the girl's manner that makes this gentleman—who is well accustomed to reading men, and perhaps has had some experience, in his plural marriages, of women—suddenly cry out: "No, you will not wed Livingston because you love another!"

"Who is that?" says the girl, attempting a laugh, but her face becoming very red in the dim light of flickering tallow and kerosene oil.

"Harry Lawrence, who hates Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake so much that I hardly think he will marry the daughter of Ralph Travenion of New York!" returns her father easily.

But Erma does not answer this. She has turned away to the window, and is looking down the hill and over the alkaline plains, and her blushes are only seen by a jack-rabbit who peers at her from behind a sage bush.

Then she faces her father and cries: "No matter what comes, you shall do justice to Harry Lawrence! You shall withdraw your claim to his property!"

"Oh ho!" laughs the Mormon. "Give up what I am on the point of winning? Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake will never do that. That is not his style."

"No," cries the girl; "but my father, Ralph Travenion, of New York, who was once worthy the love of all who knew him, will do justice to a wronged man, because he still loves the daughter who has travelled over two thousand miles to meet him here, and who he says has brought peril upon herself, for love of him!" And looking on him, her eyes grow soft and tender as they used to gaze at him when she was proud of him at party and fÊte in far-away New York, as she murmurs: "What will Ralph Travenion do for his daughter?"

"For his daughter's sake, Ralph Travenion will do anything!" mutters the old man; then says pathetically, almost brokenly: "For God's sake, give me one kiss of your own will! You have spoken to me an hour, and as yet no daughter's kiss!"

With that the girl comes to him, puts her arms about him, and kisses him, as she used to when she was a child, and before she knew he was a Mormon and a polygamist.

"Do with me what you will!" he continues. "What do you want for this young man, who I can see is getting the first place in your heart?"

"Justice!" cries Erma. "I want you to telegraph your lawyer to stipulate that the injunction on his mine be removed."

"And what more?"

"Resign your claim to his property."

"But Kruger also owns stock in the Zion Co-operative Mining Institution."

"Buy his stock!"

"Very well, though you are robbing yourself!" mutters the man. "I'll do it!—if—if you'll forgive me."

"I'll forgive you, if you'll let me lead you away from this awful place—away from sin!" cries Erma.

But here he astonishes and horrifies her, for he whispers to her: "Yes, if we can get away alive!"

"What is to stop us?" falters the young lady.

Before answering her, Ralph takes up the light, walks into the other room, examines it; goes up the ladder, into the loft overhead, and finally inspects the outside of the house; then he returns, saying: "No one is within hearing!" comes up to her, and whispers:

"The Mormon Church!"

"What authority has the Mormon Church over me?" asks the young lady, raising her voice a little.

"Hush! Not so loud!" he returns. "The Mormon Church claims authority over the children, by virtue of their authority over the parent. In ordinary cases they perhaps would not at this late date exercise it, but in my case it is different. I am so prominent. They know to lose me would be a blow to them. At present they have lost several rich members, and they are desperate! And I"—here his lips approach her ear, and form rather than say the words—his voice is so low, his lips so trembling—"and I have been making arrangements to apostatize!"

"God bless you for that!" cries Erma.

To this he whispers: "You don't suppose that I ever swallowed the dogmas of Joe Smith, which I preached as Mormon bishop? I joined them to desert them the moment I had made what money I wanted out of these Latter-Day Saints!" And, forgetting himself, he gives out two or three jeering scoffs. But the next moment his face grows frightened, and he mutters: "I have been"—his voice is very low again—"making arrangements to withdraw all my property from this Territory. I have now in New York, besides the million settled on you, a very large sum of money; but I have also such a block of stock of the Utah Central Railway that, if I sell it to the right parties, the Mormon Church will lose control of the road; that I have not yet been able to remove. But they suspect me!" he goes on dolefully. "I have been asked to immediately pay my tithing, which they figure at one hundred thousand dollars for this year, claiming that I have made a million. I have hidden the stock and I was about to refuse, but your coming here has made that, I fear, impossible."

Then he wrings his hands, and says: "When an apostate is cut off, he is destroyed—root and branch. The family suffer as well as the man, and you—and you, Erma—you!"

"Your stock! Is it near here?" asks the girl eagerly.

"Certainly." Here he whispers to her: "In case of anything happening to me, it is hidden in the level running from Shaft No. 2 in the mine, on this hillside. It is in a tin box under the fourth set of timbers to the right of the incline. Remember it!"

"Why not take it? Leave to-night—fly on horseback."

"Where?"

"To the Pacific Railroad."

He laughs grimly, and taking her to the window, cries: "This is a fine country to get out of!" Then he points over the sage brush and explains: "To the west is the Tintic Valley—thirty miles of alkali; but, beyond it, hills and one spring; then one hundred miles of desert, burning sand, and no water that man or beast can drink. Could we travel over that and live to reach the railroad? To the south,—Mormon settlements on the Servier River—Beaver, Parowan, the very hot-bed of Mormonism. Beyond them, Lee's Ferry on the Colorado!" And he shudders as he mentions the name of John D. Lee, not as yet sacrificed by the Mormon Church, for whom he murdered one hundred and thirty-three men, women, and children, at Mountain Meadows. "After Lee's Ferry, deserts and the Apache. To the east, Mormon settlements—Santaquin, Nephi, Juab, Manti—and, back of them, the impassable desert-plateaus and mountain ranges of the Rockies—mighty rivers that foam through gorges thousands of feet deep—and Ute Indians!"

"But to the north, father—the way I came—hardly one hundred miles!"

"That is our only path," mutters the man. Then he says, doubtingly: "But still all Mormon. We may never reach Salt Lake City."

"Who'll stop us?"

"That will never be known! But it is our one chance, and, once in Salt Lake, I think they dare not touch me. I'll make arrangements to take you up to-morrow. Come with me now to the hotel."

"Why cannot I stay with you?"

"Humph!" he laughs. "The hotel is better than this. There is only one bed here. Besides, some one would say," he chuckles rather grimly, "Bishop Tranyon has taken another wife! And I do not wish it to be generally known you are my daughter. Then, too, I have a telegram to send."

"Oh, yes!" cries the girl, "for Captain Lawrence!" And she accompanies him down the trail that winds to the road coming from Silver City to Eureka.

So, in about half an hour, Miss Travenion finds herself seated at a comfortable supper in the hotel. And some time after—her father having gone off to send the promised telegram—being very tired, she goes up to her room, where she finds a clean cot bed, and goes to rest, thinking: "If my life is ruined, his life has been, perhaps, made more happy by this day's work—he will be rich."

So, pondering of the absent man, who is not yet her lover, yet whom she now knows she loves, she murmurs: "He will come here to put men at work once more upon his mine; he will learn that I am the daughter of Tranyon, the Mormon bishop!" and shudders and writhes at the thought. Next she says more hopefully: "Perhaps when he finds his property his own once more he will not hate the Mormon bishop so much as he did yesterday," and this seems to comfort her a little, for she goes to sleep.

Early next morning, Erma is awakened by her father's sharp knock upon the door. He whispers to her: "Quick! You must be ready to start soon!"

But, a few minutes after, coming into the hall, she hears: "Wall, bishop, did Miss Ermie arrive all right? I saw her off in good style, and I've come down here, first to look after the mine, and then to consult ye on some church business. What a beautiful lamb of Zion your darter is!"

It is the voice of Kruger, the Mormon! And Miss Travenion grows pale as marble, for she knows that the Church of Latter-Day Saints has its eye on Tranyon, its bishop, and Erma, his daughter, last season's prize-beauty in New York society, and Newport's latest summer craze; but now regarded by the Prophet Brigham and his Council of Seventy, as one of the elect of Zion, whom God has given into their hands to save, or lose—to elect, or to cut off, even unto the atonement of blood.