ous. Yet he is. He may
never breathe a word about religion to you.... Now, Shefford, go ahead.
You've struck a trail. It's rough, but it'll make a man of you. It'll
lead somewhere."

"I'm singularly fortunate--I--who had lost all friends. Withers, I am
grateful. I'll prove it. I'll show--"

Withers's upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized that
beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling.
These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom up
large in Shefford's mind.

The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women
of the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made
friendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down the
path he poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other,
and with his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, "Reckon I've got
to get me a woman like her."

Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously
watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last
he saw her--the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A
little shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was
explicable about it was something associated with regret.

Joe Lake whistled and stared.

"I haven't met her," he muttered.

"That's the Sago Lily," said Withers.

"Reckon I'm going to carry that bucket," went on Joe.

"And queer yourself with all the other women who've been to the spring?
Don't do it, Joe," advised the trader.

"But her bucket's bigger," protested Joe, weakly.

"That's true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she'd come first, all
right. As she didn't--why, don't single her out."

Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low "good morning"
came from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home.
Shefford observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the
heavy bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague,
inexplicable sensation of regret.

Joe Lake breathed heavily. "Reckon I've got to get me a woman like
her," he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared
thoughtful.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It was
somewhat larger than the other houses, had only one room with two doors
and several windows. It was full of children, of all sizes and ages,
sitting on rude board benches.

There were ha