of them; whose members would, had they been permitted, not only have terminated their bodily suffering, but saved their souls to a worthy place in the life to come.  As it was, they wandered a distance of three hundred miles, and three days after their last food was eaten, the man carrying the woman in his arms the last six miles, they reached a camp of the Snake Indians.  These, not sharing with their Utah brethren the prejudice against apostates, gave them a friendly welcome, and guided them to Fort Laramie, thereby destroying for the unhappy man and his wife their last chance of coming forth in the final resurrection.  But few at this time were so unlucky as this pair; for judgment had begun at the house of the Lord, and Israel was attentively at work.

It was now that Joel Rae became conscious that he was facing directly away from the glory he had so long sought and suffered for.  Though as yet no blood for Israel had been shed in his actual presence, he had attended the meetings of the Sons of Dan, and was kept aware of their operations.  It seemed to him in after years that his faculties had at this time been in trance.

He was seized at length with an impulse to be away from it all.  As the days went by with their tragedies, he became half wild with restlessness and a strange fear of himself.  In spite of his lifelong training, he knew there was wrong in the air.  He could not question the decrees of the priesthood, but this much became clear to him,—­that only one thing could carry with it more possibilities of evil than this course of the Church toward dissenters—­and that was to doubt that Brigham Young’s voice was as the voice of God.  Not yet could he bring himself to this.  But the unreasoning desire to be away became so strong that he knew he must yield to it.

Turning this in his mind one day he met a brother Elder, a man full of zeal who had lately returned from a mission abroad.  There had been, he said, a great outpouring of the spirit in Wales.

“And what a glorious day has dawned here,” he continued.  “Thank God, there is a way to save the souls of the blind!  That reminds me—­have you heard of the saving work Brother Pixley was obliged to do?”

“Brother Pixley?—­no.”  He heard his own voice tremble, in spite of his effort at self-control.  The other became more confidential, stepping closer and speaking low.

“Of course, it ain’t to be talked of freely, but you have a right to know, for was it not your own preaching that led to this glorious reformation?  You see, Brother Pixley came back with me, after doing great works abroad.  Naturally, he came full of love for his wives.  But he had been here only a few days when he became convinced that one of them had forgotten him; something in her manner made him suspect it, for she was a woman of singularly open, almost recklessly open, nature.  Then a good neighbour came and told him that one night, while on his way for the doctor, he had seen this woman take leave