d the
Sago Lily. He recalled everything incident to their meeting and the
walk to her home. Her swift, free step, her graceful poise, her shapely
form--the long braid of hair, dull gold in the twilight, the beautiful
bare foot and the strong round arm--these he thought of and recalled
vividly. But of her face he had no idea except the shadowy, haunting
loveliness, and that grew more and more difficult to remember. The tone
of her voice and what she had said--how the one had thrilled him and the
other mystified! It was her voice that had most attracted him. There was
something in it besides music--what, he could not tell--sadness, depth,
something like that in Nas Ta Bega's beauty springing from disuse. But
this seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice one that had not
been used as freely as any other woman's? She was a Mormon; very likely,
almost surely, she was a sealed wife. His interest, too, was absurd, and
he tried to throw it off, or imagine it one he might have felt in any
other of these strange women of the hidden village.

But Shefford's intelligence and his good sense, which became operative
when he was fully roused and set the situation clearly before his eyes,
had no effect upon his deeper, mystic, and primitive feelings. He saw
the truth and he felt something that he could not name. He would not be
a fool, but there was no harm in dreaming. And unquestionably,
beyond all doubt, the dream and the romance that had lured him to the
wilderness were here; hanging over him like the shadows of the great
peaks. His heart swelled with emotion when he thought of how the
black and incessant despair of the past was gone. So he embraced any
attraction that made him forget and think and feel; some instinct
stronger than intelligence bade him drift.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Joe's rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singular
zest. When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautiful
place? Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted by
memories of Surprise Valley. The morning was clear, cool, sweet; the
peaks were dim and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shot
down into the purple shadows. Mocking-birds were singing. His body was
sore and tired from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was full,
happy. His spirit wanted to run, and he knew there was something out
there waiting to meet it. The Indian and the trader and the Mormon all
meant more to him this mo