When they reached Cedar City a halt was made while he went for the other woman—­not without some misgiving, for he remembered that she was still young.  But his second view of her reassured him—­the sallow, anemic face, the skin drawn tightly over the cheek-bones, the drooping shoulders, the thin, forlorn figure.  Even the certainty that her life of hardship was ended, that she was at least sure not to die of privation, had failed to call out any radiance upon her.  They were married by a local Bishop, Joel’s first wife placing the hand of the second in his own, as the ceremony required.  Then with his wives, his charges, his wagons, and his cattle he continued on to the home he had made at the edge of Amalon.

Among the women there was no awkwardness or inharmony; they had all suffered; and the two wives tactfully humoured the whims of the insane woman.  On the day they reached home, the husband took them to the door of his own little room.

“All that out there is yours,” he said.  “Make the best arrangements you can.  This is my place; neither of you must ever come in here.”

They busied themselves in unpacking the supplies that had been brought, and making the house home-like.  The big gray woman had already gone down the road toward the settlement to watch for her husband, promising, however, to return at nightfall.  The other derelict helped the women in their work, doing with a childish pleasure the things they told him to do.  The second wife occasionally paused in her tasks to look at him from eyes that were lighted to strange depths; but he had for her only the unconcerned, unknowing look that he had for the others.

At night the master of the house, when they had assembled, instructed them briefly in the threefold character of the Godhead.  Then, when he had made a short prayer, he bade them good night and went to his room.  Here he permitted himself a long look at the fair young face set in the little gilt oval of the rubber case.  Then, as if he had forgotten himself, he fell contritely to his knees beside the bunk and prayed that this face might never remind him of aught but his sin; that he might have cross after cross added to his burden until the weight should crush him; and that this might atone, not for his own sins, which must be punished everlastingly, but in some measure for the sins of his misguided people.

In the outer room his wives, sitting together before the big fireplace, were agreeing that he was a good man.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Coming of the Woman-Child

The next day he sent across the settlement for the child, waiting for her with mixed emotions,—­a trembling merge of love and fear, with something, indeed, of awe for this woman-child of her mother, who had come to him so deviously and with a secret significance so mighty of portent to his own soul.  When they brought her in at last, he had to brace himself to meet her.