eakening stand.

"Yes, he'll raise the storm--after he has prayed," replied Jane. "Come."

She led the way, with the bridle of Lassiter's horse over her arm.
They entered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by great
low-branching cottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun sent golden
bars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrast
to sage-tired eyes. Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a
tree-top somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still air
floated the freshness and murmur of flowing water.

The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cottonwoods, and was
a flat, long, red-stone structure with a covered court in the center
through which flowed a lively stream of amber-colored water. In the
massive blocks of stone and heavy timbers and solid doors and shutters
showed the hand of a man who had builded against pillage and time; and
in the flowers and mosses lining the stone-bedded stream, in the bright
colors of rugs and blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner with
hammock and books and the clean-linened table, showed the grace of a
daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand.

Jane turned Lassiter's horse loose in the thick grass. "You will want
him to be near you," she said, "or I'd have him taken to the alfalfa
fields." At her call appeared women who began at once to bustle about,
hurrying to and fro, setting the table. Then Jane, excusing herself,
went within.

She passed through a huge low ceiled chamber, like the inside of a fort,
and into a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed in an old open
fireplace, and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort as
was manifested in the home-like outer court; moreover, it was warm and
rich in soft hues.

Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking into her
mirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty which since
early childhood she had never been allowed to forget. Her relatives and
friends, and later a horde of Mormon and Gentile suitors, had fanned
the flame of natural vanity in her. So that at twenty-eight she scarcely
thought at all of her wonderful influence for good in the little
community where her father had left her practically its beneficent
landlord, but cared most for the dream and the assurance and the
allurement of her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into her
glass with more than the usual happy motive, without the usual sli