Of any world outside the valley she knew but little.  Somewhere, far over to the east, was a handful of lost souls for whom she sometimes indulged in a sort of luxurious pity.  But their loss, after all, was a part of the divine plan, and they would have the privilege of serving the glorified Saints, even though they were denied Godhood.  She half-believed that even this mission of service was almost more of glory than they merited; for, in the phrasing of Bishop Wright, they “made a hell all the time and raised devils to keep it going.”  They had slain the Prophets of the Lord and hunted his people, and the best of them were lucky, indeed, to escape the fire that burns unceasingly; a fire hotter than any made by beech or hickory.  Still she sometimes wondered if there were girls among them like her; and she had visions of herself as an angel of light, going down to them with the precious message of the Book of Mormon, and bringing them into the fold.

One day in this spring when she was fourteen, the good Bishop Wright, on his way down from Box Canon with a load of wood, saw her striding up the road ahead of him.  Something caught his eye, either in her step which had a child’s careless freedom, or in the lines of her swinging figure that told of coming womanhood, or in the flashing, laughing appeal of her dark eyes where for the moment both woman and child looked out.  He set the brake on his wagon and waited for her to pass.  She came by with a smile and a word of greeting, to which his rapt attention prevented any reply except a slight nod.  When she had passed, he turned and looked after her until she had gone around the little hill on the road that entered the canon.

After the early evening meal that day, along the many-roomed house of this good man, from door to door there ran the words, starting from her who had last been sealed to him: 

“He’s making himself all proud!”

They knew what it meant, and wondered whom.

A little later the Bishop set out, his face clean-shaven to the ruffle of white whisker that ran under his chin from ear to ear, his scant hair smooth and shining with grease from the largest bear ever trapped in the Pine Mountains, and his tall form arrayed in his best suit of homespun.  As he went he trolled an ancient lay of love, and youth was in his step.  For there had come all day upon this Prince of Israel those subtle essences distilled by spring to provoke the mating urge.  At the Rae house he found only Christina.

“Where’s Brother Joel, Sister Rae?”

“Himself has gone out there,” Christina had answered with a wave of her hand, and using the term of respect which she always applied to her husband.

He went around the house, out past the stable and corrals and across the irrigating ditch to where he saw Joel Rae leaning on the rail fence about the peach orchard.  Far down between two rows of the blossoming trees he could see the girl reaching up to break off a pink-sprayed bough.  He quickened his pace and was soon at the fence.