Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that was like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many little ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest.  This last was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning more about the villagers.  He gathered from keen interpretation of subtle words and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as in all the rest of the world where women were together, there were cliques, quarrels, dislikes, loves, and jealousies.  The truth, once known to him, made him feel natural and fortified his confidence to meet the demands of an increasingly interesting position.  He discovered, with a somewhat grim amusement, that a clergyman’s experience in a church full of women had not been entirely useless.

One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question in regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily.  In response he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey of woman’s jealousy.  He said no more.  Certain ideas of his were strengthened, and straightway he became thoughtful.

That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her.  But she did not come.  Then he decided to go to see her.  But even the decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his reluctance.

Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the shadows were thick under the pinyons.  There was no light in the door or window.  He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the path it rose.  It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.

“Good evening,” he said.  “It’s Shefford.  May I stay and talk a little while?”

She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.

“I’d be glad to have you,” she replied, finally.

There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket on the step.

“I’ve been getting acquainted with everybody—­except you,” he went on.

“I have been here,” she replied.

That might have been a woman’s speech, but it certainly had been made in a girl’s voice.  She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-conscious.  As she stood back from him he could not see her face in the dense twilight.

“I’ve been wanting to call on you.”

She made some slight movement.  Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knew the moment was big and potent.

“Won’t you sit here?” he asked.

She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in the twilight.  And it struck him mute.  But he had no glimpse such as had flashed upon him from under her hood that other night.  He thought of a white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rare and perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon.  She was only a girl.  She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to be waiting, listening.  Shefford saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom.