As there had been a change in the other women, so was there in Mary; however, it had no relation to the bishop’s visit.  The time came when Shefford could not but see that she lived and dragged through the long day for the sake of those few hours in the shadow of the stars with him.  She seldom spoke.  She listened.  Wonderful to him—­sometimes she laughed—­and it seemed the sound was a ghost of childhood pleasure.  When he stopped to consider that she might fall in love with him he drove the thought from him.  When he realized that his folly had become sweet and that the sweetness imperiously drew him, he likewise cast off that thought.  The present was enough.  And if he had any treasures of mind and heart he gave them to her.

She never asked him to stay, but she showed that she wanted him to.  That made it hard to go.  Still, he never stayed late.  The moment of parting was like a break.  Her good-by was sweet, low music; it lingered on his ear; it bade him come to-morrow night; and it sent him away into the valley to walk under the stars, a man fighting against himself.

One night at parting, as he tried to see her face in the wan glow of a clouded moon, he said: 

“I’ve been trying to find a sago-lily.”

“Have you never seen one?” she asked.

“No.”  He meant to say something with a double meaning, in reference to her face and the name of the flower, but her unconsciousness made him hold his tongue.  She was wholly unlike the other women.

“I’ll show you where the lilies grow,” she said.

“When?”

“To-morrow.  Early in the afternoon I’ll come to the spring.  Then I’ll take you.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Next morning Joe Lake returned and imparted news that was perturbing to Shefford.  Reports of Shadd had come in to Stonebridge from different Indian villages; Joe was not inclined to linger long at the camp, and favored taking the trail with the pack-train.

Shefford discovered that he did not want to leave the valley, and the knowledge made him reflective.  That morning he did not go into the village, and stayed in camp alone.  A depression weighed upon him.  It was dispelled, however, early in the afternoon by the sight of a slender figure in white swiftly coming down the path to the spring.  He had an appointment with Mary to go to see the sago lilies; everything else slipped his mind.

Mary wore the long black hood that effectually concealed her face.  It made of her a woman, a Mormon woman, and strangely belied the lithe form and the braid of gold hair.

“Good day,” she said, putting down her bucket.  “Do you still want to go—­to see the lilies?”

“Yes,” replied Shefford, with a short laugh.

“Can you climb?”

“I’ll go where you go.”

Then she set off under the cedars and Shefford stalked at her side.  He was aware that Nas Ta Bega watched them walk away.  This day, so far, at least, Shefford did not feel talkative; and Mary had always been one who mostly listened.  They came at length to a place where the wall rose in low, smooth swells, not steep, but certainly at an angle Shefford would not of his own accord have attempted to scale.