“There is a plenty?” questioned again that unbelieving man, Davies.

“There’s such a plenty that the new arrivals are advised to eat, for a week or two, only half their fill,” returned Brother Jarrum—­“of fruits in partic’lar.  Some, that have gone right in at the good things without mercy, have been laid up through it, and had to fine themselves down upon physic for a week after.  No; it’s best to be a little sparing at the beginning.”

“What did he say just now about all the Mormons being beautiful?” questioned a pretty-looking girl of her neighbours.  And Brother Jarrum caught the words, although they were spoken in an undertone.

“And so they are,” said he.  “The climate’s of a nature that softens the faces, keeps folks in health, and stops ’em from growing old.  If you see two females in the street, one a saint’s wife, the t’other a new arrival, you can always tell which is which.  The wife’s got a slender waist, like a lady, with a delicate colour in her face, and silky hair; the new-comer’s tanned, and fat, and freckled, and clumsy.  If you don’t believe me, you can ask them as have been there.  There’s something in the dress they wear, too, that sets ’em off.  No female goes out without a veil, which hangs down behind.  They don’t want to hide their pretty faces, not they.”

Mary Green, a damsel of twenty, she who had previously spoken, really did possess a pretty face; and a rapturous vision came over her at this juncture, of beholding it shaded and set off by a white lace veil, as she had often seen Miss Decima Verner’s.

“Now, I can’t explain to you why it is that the women in the city should be fair to the eye, or why the men don’t seem to grow old,” resumed Brother Jarrum.  “It is so, and that’s enough.  People, learned in such things, might tell the cause; but I’m not learned in ’em.  Some says it’s the effect of the New Jerusalem climate; some thinks it’s the fruits of the happy and plentiful life we lead:  my opinion is, it’s a mixture of both.  A man of sixty hardly looks forty, out there.  It’s a great favour!”

One of the ill-doing Dawsons, who had pushed his way in at the shop door in time to hear part of the lavished praise on New Jerusalem, interrupted at this juncture.

“I say, master, if this is as you’re a-telling us, how is it that folks talk so again’ the Mormons?  I met a man in Heartburg once, who had been out there, and he couldn’t say bad enough of ’em.”

“Snakes! but that’s a natural question of yours, and I’m glad to answer it,” replied Brother Jarrum, with a taking air of candour.  “Those evil reports come from our enemies.  There’s another tribe living in the Great Salt Lake City besides ours; and that’s the Gentiles.  Gentiles is our name for ’em.  It’s this set that spreads about uncredible reports, and we’d like to sew their mouths up—­”

Brother Jarrum probably intended to say “unaccredited.”  He continued, somewhat vehemently—­