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.

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 deci