“Joe, you’d better come along,” said the trader, dryly.  “I reckon you’ve seen a little too much of the Sago Lily.”

Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face that Withers had not hit short of the mark.  Withers rode off, with a parting word to Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay and trotted down the valley.  As Nas Ta Bega had gone off somewhere to visit Indians, Shefford was left alone.

He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable.  He made friends with the children and he talked to the women until he was hoarse.  Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in his life had he had such an attentive audience.  And as he showed no curiosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had noted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with them that Withers had predicted.

By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest and friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them.  He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freely gave, and not with selfish motive.  He liked these women; he liked to see the somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten.  He had met the girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yet seen her face.  He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, and confessed to himself that the best of the day for him were the morning and evening visits she made to the spring.  Nevertheless, for some reason hard to divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.

Always while he had listened to her neighbors’ talk, he had hoped they might let fall something about her.  But they did not.  He received an impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had supposed.  They all made one big family.  Still, she seemed a little outside.  He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea.  He merely felt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent reason.  Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.

It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons.  From the first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him a Mormon.  Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of their religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds to free and simple discussion of their faith.  Shefford lent respectful attention.  He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and apparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save his soul.  Shefford knew that he could never be one any more than the other.  He was just at sea.  But he listened, and he found them simple in faith, blind, perhaps, but loyal and good.  It was noteworthy that Mother Smith happened to be the only woman in the village who had ever mentioned religion to him.  She was old, of a past generation; the young women belonged to the present.  Shefford pondered the significant difference.