Dorian seemed to awaken with a start.  Donning coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being led down the country road toward the farmhouse.  He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia had been.  Her presence there and her suffering had hallowed it.

“Oh, how do you do?” greeted the woman, when she saw Dorian at the door.  “Come in.”

Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with his Sunday paper.

“Father,” said the woman, “this is the young man who was here yesterday.”

The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him draw up his chair to the stove.

“I hope you’ll excuse me for coming again,” said Dorian; “but the fact of the matter is I seemed unable to keep away.  I left yesterday without properly thanking you for what you did for my friend, Miss Carlia.  I also want to pay you a little for the expense you were put to.  I haven’t much money with me, but I will send it to you after I get home, if you will give me your name and address.”

The farmer and his wife exchanged glances.

“Why, as to that,” replied the man, “nothing is owing us.  We liked the girl.  We think she was a good girl and had been sinned against.”

“I’m sure you are right,” said Dorian.  “As I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday.  I was so completely unprepared for that which I learned about her.  But I’m going to find her if I can, and take her home to her parents.”

“Where do you live!” asked the man.

Dorian told him.

“Are you a ’Mormon’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And not ashamed of it!”

“No; proud of it—­grateful, rather.”

“Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest chap.  Tell me why you are proud to be a ’Mormon’.”

Dorian did his best.  He had had very little experience in presenting the principles of the gospel to an unbeliever, but Uncle Zed’s teachings, together with his own studies, now stood him well in hand.

“Well,” commented the farmer, “that’s fine.  You can’t be a very bad man if you believe in and practice all what you have been telling us.”

“I hope I am not a bad man.  I have some light on the truth, and woe is me if I sin against that light.”

The farmer turned to his wife.  “Mother,” he said, “I think you may safely tell him.”

Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman.

“It’s this,” she said.  “My husband brought home a postcard from the office last evening after you had left—­a card from Miss Davis, asking us to send her an article of dress which she had forgotten.  Here is the card.  The address may help you to find her.  I am sure you mean no harm to the girl.”

Dorian made note of the address, as also that of the farmer’s with whom he was visiting.  Then he arose to go.

“Now, don’t be in such a hurry,” admonished the man.  “We’ll have dinner presently.”