sion 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.

"I want to talk," he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease.
"Every one here has been good to me and I've talked--oh, for hours and
hours. But the thing in my mind I haven't spoken of. I've never asked
any questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I came
out here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps help
me.... Would you?"

"Yes, if I could," she replied.

"You see I've got to trust you, or one of these other women. You're all
Mormons. I don't mean that's anything against you. I believe you're
all good and noble. But the fact makes--well, makes a liberty of speech
impossible. What can I do?"

Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed less
strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right track
and did not regret his impulse. Ev