Withers had spoken with fire in his eyes, with grim humor on his lips, with uncompromising brutal truth.  What he admitted was astounding to Shefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange.  The trader was a man who spoke his inmost thought.  And what he said suddenly focused Shefford’s mental vision clear and whole upon the appalling significance of the tragedy of those women, especially of the girl whose life was lonelier, sadder, darker than that of the others.

“Withers, trust me,” replied Shefford.

“All right.  Make the best of a bad job,” said the trader, and went off about his tasks.

Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in the school-house.  Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the village was there.  The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in white and looked exceedingly well.  Manifestly they had bestowed care upon this Sabbath morning’s toilet.  One thing surely this dress occasion brought out, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were not poor, whatever their misfortunes might be.  Jewelry was not wanting, nor fine lace.  And they all wore beautiful wild flowers of a kind unknown to Shefford.  He received many a bright smile.  He looked for Mary, hoping to see her face for the first time in the daylight, but she sat far forward and did not turn.  He saw her graceful white neck, the fine lines of her throat, and her colorless cheek.  He recognized her, yet in the light she seemed a stranger.

The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing of a hymn.  Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices.  How deeply they affected him!  Had any man ever fallen into a stranger adventure than this?  He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all a creation of his fancy—­the square log cabin with its red mud between the chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan—­the old bishop in his black coat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune—­the few old women, dignified and stately—­the many young women, fresh and handsome, lifting their voices.

Shefford listened intently to the bishop’s sermon.  In some respects it was the best he had ever heard.  In others it was impossible for an intelligent man to regard seriously.  It was very long, lasting an hour and a half, and the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from the experience and wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert.  The physical things that had molded characters of iron, the obstacles that only strong, patient men could have overcome, the making of homes in a wilderness, showed the greatness of this alien band of Mormons.  Shefford conceded greatness to them.  But the strange religion—­the narrowing down of the world to the soil of Utah, the intimations of prophets on earth who had direct converse with God, the austere self-conscious omnipotence of this old bishop—­these were matters that Shefford felt he must understand better, and see more favorably, if he were not to consider them impossible.