“Sure, she can,” answered her mother, for she was glad to have Carlia out away from the work which she was determined to stick to closer than ever.  Carlia was pleased to go, and kept up a merry chatter until she saw that Dorian was exceptionally sober-minded.  She asked him what was the matter with him, but he evaded.  His thoughts were on the man whom he had prevented from calling at her home that evening.  What was his errand?  What was in the scoundrel’s mind?  Dorian struggled to put away from him the dark thoughts which had arisen because of his recent encounter with Mr. Lamont.  All the evening at home and during their walk back he was unusually silent, and Carlia could only look at him with questioning anxiety.

Spring, once started, came on with a rush.  The melting snow filled the river with a muddy flood; the grass greened the slopes; the bursting willows perfumed the air; the swamp awakened to the warm touch of the sun.  Dorian’s busy season also began.

As soon as the roads were passible, Dorian drove up to his dry-farm.  On one of these first trips he fell in with a company of his neighboring dry-farmers, and they traveled together.  While they were stopping for noon at a small hotel in the canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed them.  They were not impatient, however, as the moisture was welcome; so the farmers rested easily, letting their horses eat a little longer than usual.

The conversation was such which should be expected of Bishop’s counselors, president of Elders’ quorums, and class leaders in the Mutual, which these men were.  On this occasion some of the always-present moral problems were discussed.  Dorian was so quiet that eventually some one called on him for an opinion.

“I don’t think I can add anything to the discussion,” replied Dorian.  “Only this, however:  One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I shall never forget it.  The result in my case is that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong doing.  I am literally scared, I—­”

Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway.  Mr. Jack Lamont stood there with a cynical expression on his face.  His hat was tilted back on his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from his lips.  The genial warmth of the room seemed chilled by the newcomer’s presence.

“G’day, gentlemen,” said Mr. Lamont.  “Mr. Trent, here, is afraid, I understand.”

The men arose.  Outside the clouds were breaking.  Dorian stepped forward, quite close to Jack Lamont.

“Yes, I am afraid,” said Dorian, his face white with passion, “but not of what you think, not of what you would be afraid, you dirty, low, scoundrel!”

Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand, but the men interfered, and they all moved outside into the yard.  Dorian, still tense with anger, permitted himself to be taken to the teams where they began hitching up.  Dorian soon had himself under control, yet he was not satisfied with the matter ending thus.  Quietly slipping back to where Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men preparing to drive on, he said, “I want a word with you.”