Getting dressed, Lawrence negotiates with Buck Powers for another pie for breakfast.

That worthy informs him that "provisions has riz" during the night. "There ain't enough for another round," he says. "If you weren't the Cap I should charge you double."

"Then we shall all be hungry soon—unless relief comes?" asks Harry, as he briskly attacks a pork turn-over, for the crisp, snowy air produces a mountain appetite.

"All but her," remarks Buck. "She's fixed as I told you!"

Thinking he will see what chance there is of immediate relief from their present predicament, Lawrence lights a cigar, and steps off the train into a snow-drift. A hasty examination shows there is no chance of the train being moved, until it is shovelled out by hand, though he is pleased to note that the sun has come out, shining brightly, and the snow has ceased falling for the present.

A moment after, he gives an exclamation of delight, for the view is a very beautiful one.

To the south, standing out against the horizon, and looking much nearer than they are, stand the Uintah Mountains, dark blue at their base line with pine forests, and white with eternal snow on their peaks. From them, right to his feet, an unbroken tableland of one solid mass of white. Midway between these mountains and himself, runs the Utah line, and somehow—though the idea hardly forms itself in his mind—he would sooner, on account of the young lady he is protecting, it were further away, especially when he remembers that it is but very little over twenty miles by the railroad over which they have come, from the boundaries of the Mormon Territory. He doesn't think long of this, as he gets interested in watching the movements of the locomotives.

These are now both switched on the Y and are moving about slowly, with a view of keeping themselves what is technically called "alive"—that is, their steam up, sufficient to give them power of motion. Every now and again one is run off the Y and down the main track towards Green River and the east, keeping that portion of the road open, as far as the mouth of a long snow shed, which begins a little way from where Harry stands, and disappears in the distance towards Piedmont.

Towards the east and north he can see a long distance, as the descent is quite rapid to the big plateaus that run to Green River, but there is nothing given to his eye save snow—snow everywhere.

A moment after, the conductor comes tramping through the drifts, and knowing Captain Lawrence by reputation, stops to speak to him.

"I presume," says Harry, "you wired our situation to Evanston last night."

"Of course, and a nice tramp I had of it to the telegraph station. It's over a mile back, and the drifts made it seem five. Every one from here to Ogden, along the track, by this time knows our position."

"I suppose they'll be sending up a relief train soon."

"I hardly think so, before to-morrow," replies the conductor. "They have got all they can take care of, down below at Evanston, just at present. In fact, I imagine we've not seen the worst of it."

And this is a shrewd prediction, because, though he doesn't know it, this is just the beginning of the great snow blockade of '71 and '72, on the Union Pacific Railway, when some trains were delayed for thirty days between Ogden and Omaha—the usual time being less than three.

"Fortunately, we've not got a heavy train to move," remarks Lawrence, who is anxious to look on the best side of everything.

"And, thank God! no great amount of passengers," replies the conductor. "Otherwise there would have been a howl for grub before now. We've only got two outside those on the sleepers, and one is a woman, and the other a little girl, the daughter of the engineer of the helping locomotive. He's got her in his arms now, as he stands by his engine. Come over and see what he thinks," adds the autocrat of the train, as he trudges off through the snow towards one of the locomotives on the Y.

Harry has taken a step to follow him, when he suddenly pauses.

He is just outside Miss Travenion's Pullman car, and now, through a window that is slightly open, comes the voice of his divinity, who is seated at one of the organs those cars sometimes had in those days.

Curiously enough, the girl whom Buck had reported as having the blues last night, is singing the brightest and merriest of ditties this morning.

"By George! It must be because she has plenty to eat," cogitates Lawrence, lighting another cigar on the question.

But a few minutes after, in his own car, Mr. Powers chancing to come along, he gets some information which he thinks elucidates the matter.

"She's kind o' joyous in there, ain't she, Cap?" says Buck, with a grin. "An' I reckon I did it!"

"How?"

"Well, this morning, even over her breakfast, which was a long way ahead of any one else's on the train, she didn't have no appetite, and seemed in the dumps; whereupon, I suggested that I had hinted to you that she'd kind o' like company probably."

"You infernal—!" cries Lawrence, fire coming into his eye.

"If you take hold o' me, Cap, I won't tell you the rest!" remarks the boy, retreating a little before Harry's anger. Then he goes on: "She took it something like you—she got red in the face and said: 'Please don't mention the matter!' quite haughty. Whereupon I thought I'd guessed the p'int, and suggested: 'You an' the Cap must have been havin' a smash-up in California!' And then she got real anxious and nervous, and cried out at me: 'In California!—what do you mean?' So I told her how I'd seen you at Ogden, four or five days after her party left for California, and that I'd told you she'd gone West, and you took the journey, I reckoned, to catch up to her."

"And she—" says Lawrence, eagerly.

"Oh, she kept on questioning, and the more I told her, the better pleased she looked, and since then she has been quite chirpy, so I reckon I produced her high spirits."

"God bless you, Buck!" cries Harry, slapping the boy on the shoulder, and the astonished Arab of the railway moves off with a five-dollar greenback in his hand, wondering what made the Cap so liberal.

As for Lawrence, it has suddenly occurred to him that Buck Powers has given Miss Travenion the exact information he had taken Ferdie from California to tell her.

A moment's cogitation and he says to himself: "She was wounded because I hadn't come to Tintic after her. I'll chance a walk through the car, and see if the darling'll cut me again."

Acting on this impulse, he gets off the train, and walks to the forward end of her car, Miss Travenion's stateroom being at its rear.

"I'll give her the length of the car to meditate upon me," he thinks.

As he enters the main portion of the Pullman, her stateroom door is open, and as he comes down the aisle, Erma rises. He knows she has seen him—something in her face tells him that.

Then intense surprise falls upon him:—the young lady steps out with extended hand, and says brightly: "So you have discovered I was on the train at last? I had been expecting a visit from you all yesterday."

At this tremendous but most feminine prevarication, Lawrence fairly gasps. A second after, he discovers the wonderful tact displayed in it, which calls for an explanation from him, and does not require one from her.

However, he is too awfully happy to stand on little points, and seizing the taper fingers of the young lady, and giving her tact for tact, and prevarication for prevarication, remarks: "You most certainly would have, Miss Travenion, but I only discovered that you were on board this morning, from Buck Powers."

"Why," cries Erma, "I saw you at—" She checks herself suddenly, biting her lips a little, and then goes on: "We've been near each other a whole day, and have not spoken."

"That's a great pity! But we'll make up for lost time, now!" answers Lawrence, gallantly. Then he suggests: "What did you breakfast on?"

"Pies!"

"So did I—our tastes are similar," he laughs, for there is something in the radiant face looking into his that makes him think this snow blockade, privations and all, is the very nicest thing that has come into his life.

A moment after, for he is too earnest for any more light comedy fencing, he comes to the point with masculine abruptness, remarking: "Mr. Powers told you—God bless him!—that I have been in California?"

"Yes."

"I got this little note"—he produces her card with the "I have seen my father. Good-bye" sentence on it—"in Salt Lake City, and presumed you had gone to California with the Livingstons. I was then poor. Four days afterwards, I suddenly found myself astounded and rich. I did not ask how it came—I was too anxious to make use of my money. I thought a tour of 'the Golden State' would please me."

Then he goes on hurriedly and tells her of his wanderings in pursuit of the Livingston party, and his unexpected interview with Ferdie at the Grand Hotel, omitting, however, his journey to Tintic and his rescue of her father, as he doesn't wish to alarm or make Erma think she is under obligation to him.

"Ah!" falters the girl, very pale, and turning her face away from him. "Then you know—I'm the daughter of Tranyon—the Mormon bishop?"

"Yes," he cries; "that is what brought me from California in such a hurry; I wanted to thank you for giving me what I would probably have never got without you—a fortune."

"Oh! it was gratitude," murmurs the young lady, "that brought you from California?" A moment after she coldly says: "That sentiment need not actuate you. I simply induced my father to do you justice," and from now on is very icy; for Erma Travenion demands the love, not the gratitude, of this young gentleman beside her.

This sudden change in his divinity astounds Lawrence, who has not been a student of woman's ways. Inadvertently he puts himself right again, for he suddenly says: "Did I know that I had anything to be grateful to you for, when I wandered about California seeking you—six weeks?"

"Oh!" cries the young lady, "that was before you knew my father was R. H. Tranyon, the Mormon bishop?" This last quite haughtily, for she has grown fearfully sensitive on this point since the conversation of the two mining gentlemen in Ogden.

"But," remarks Lawrence, "I know that now." Then, growing desperate, he blurts out: "Shall I tell you why I went to California?" and his voice grows very tender.

But the girl, suddenly rising, says with a curious mixture of haughtiness and humility, perhaps shame: "To whom do you wish to tell your tale?—Erma Travenion, of New York, or to Miss Tranyon, who has been called a Mormon 'gal,' and who is reported to be booked as the seventh wife of Bishop Kruger of Kammas Prairie?" Then she cries mockingly, almost savagely, "Which are you talking to?"

"To the girl I love!" cries Lawrence.

"O-oh!"

"To the girl I'd make my wife if she were the daughter of Beelzebub, and booked for the seventh consort of Satan!"

"O-o-o-oh!" With this sigh Erma sinks on the seat again; a moment after she suddenly smiles and murmurs: "Don't make my pedigree worse than it is!"

"Would you like to hear the tale I took with me to California, and have carried ever since in my heart?" says Harry, bending over this young lady, whose face is hiding its blushes, turned towards the car window, upon whose frosted panes her white finger is making figures.

"Y-e-s!"

Then he tells her how he has loved her since the night he first saw her at Delmonico's, and mutters: "Give me your answer!"

"My answer;" murmurs Erma, turning a face to him that is half hope, half uncertainty, all love, "if I were what I was that evening in New York, would be——"

"Yes!" he cries, and has his hasty frontier arm half round the fairy waist of last summer's Newport belle; for there is something in her lovely eyes that many men have looked for, but no one has ever seen till now.

But she rises and falters, "Wait!"

"How long?"

"Wait till I know you're sure you will never feel ashamed of the Mormon's daughter! Oh!—oh! can't you wait one min—!" For Harry has not waited, and the girl's last word as it issues from her rosy mouth is smothered by an audacious black moustache that she can parry no longer. And perchance those lovely coral lips return his betrothal kiss—a very little:—at least Harry thinks so. A moment after he knows it; for Erma Travenion, though very hard to win, having given her hand does not hesitate to make her sweetheart very sure he has also her heart.