us. But for him we should have been put out two days ago, without shelter and without care. He let us be housed here until you should come.”
There was a knock at the door, but Joel stood with his back to it. The words of Seth Wright were running roughshod through his mind. He looked sharply at Prudence.
“A mobocrat—our enemy—and you have taken favours from him—a minion of the devil?—shame!”
The girl looked up.
“He was kind; you don’t realise that he has probably saved their lives. Indeed, you must let him in and thank him.”
“Not I!”
The mother interposed hurriedly.
“Yes, yes, laddie! You know not how high-handed they have been. They expelled all but us, and some they have maltreated shamefully. This one has been kind to us. Open the door.”
“I dare not face him—I may not contain myself!”
The knock was repeated more loudly. The girl went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders to draw him away.
“Be reasonable,” she pleaded, in low tones, “and above all, be polite to him.”
She put him gently aside and drew back the door. On the threshold smiled the young captain he had watched from the window that morning, marching at the head of his company. His cap was doffed, and his left hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword. He stepped inside as one sure of his welcome.
“Good morning, Miss Prudence, good morning, Mr. Rae, good morning, madam—good morning—”
He looked questioningly at the stranger. Prudence stepped forward.
“This is Joel Rae, Captain Girnway.”
They bowed, somewhat stiffly. Each was dark. Each had a face to attract women. But the captain was at peace with the world, neatly uniformed, well-fed, clean-shaven, smiling, pleasant to look upon, while the other was unshaven, hollow-cheeked, gaunt, roughly dressed, a thing that had been hunted and was now under ban. Each was at once sensible of the contrast between them, and each was at once affected by it: the captain to a greater jauntiness, a more effusive affability; the other to a stonier sternness.
“I am glad to know you have come, Mr. Rae. Your people have worried a little, owing to the unfortunate circumstances in which they have been placed.”
“I—I am obliged to you, sir, in their behalf, for your kindness to my father and mother and to Miss Corson here.”
“You are a thousand times welcome, sir. Can you tell me when you will wish to cross the river?”
“At the very earliest moment that God and the mob will let us. To-morrow morning, I hope.”
“This has not been agreeable to me, believe me—”
“Far less so to us, you may be sure; but we shall be content again when we can get away from all your whiggery, democratism, devilism, mobism!”
He spoke with rising tones, and the other flushed noticeably about the temples.
“Have your wagons ready to-morrow morning, then, Mr. Rae—at eight? Very well, I shall see that you are protected to the ferry. There has been so much of that tone of talk, sir, that some of our men have resented it.”
He turned pleasantly to Prudence.
“And you, Miss Prudence, you will be leaving Nauvoo for Springfield, I suppose. As you go by Carthage, I shall wish to escort you that far myself, to make sure of your safety.”
The lover turned fiercely, seizing the girl’s wrist and drawing her toward him before she could answer.
“Her goal is Zion, not Babylon, sir—remember that!”
She stepped hastily between them.
“We will talk of that to-morrow, Captain,” she said, quickly, and added, “You may leave us now for we have much to do here in making ready for the start.”
“Until to-morrow morning, then, at eight.”
He bowed low over the hand she gave him, gracefully saluted the others, and was gone.
Chapter IV.
A Fair Apostate
She stood flushed and quick-breathing when the door had shut, he bending toward her with dark inquiry in his eyes. Before she spoke, he divined that under her nervousness some resolution lay stubbornly fixed.
“Let us speak alone,” she said, in a low voice. Then, to the old people, “Joel and I will go into the garden awhile to talk. Be patient.”
“Not for long, dear; our eyes are aching for him.”
“Only a little while,” and she smiled back at them. She went ahead through the door by which they had first entered, and out into the garden at the back of the house. He remembered, as he followed her, that since he had arrived that morning she had always been leading him, directing him as if to a certain end, with the air of meaning presently to say something of moment to him.
They went past the rose-bush near which she had stood when he first saw her, and down a walk through borders of marigolds. She picked one of the flowers and fixed it in his coat.
“You are much too savage—you need a posy to soften you. There! Now come to this seat.”
She led him to a rustic double chair under the heavily fruited boughs of an apple-tree, and made him sit down. She began with a vivacious playfulness, poorly assumed, to hide her real feeling.
“Now, sobersides, it must end—this foolishness of yours—”
She stopped, waiting for some question of his to help her. But he said nothing, though she could feel the burning of his eyes upon her.
“This superstitious folly, you know,” she blurted out, looking up at him in sudden desperation.
“Tell me what you mean—you must know I’m impatient.”
She essayed to be playful again, pouting her dimpled face near to his that he might kiss her. But he did not seem to see. He only waited.
“Well—this religion—this Mormonism—”
She shot one swift look at him, then went on quickly.
“My people have left the church, and—I—too—they found things in Joseph Smith’s teachings that seemed bad to them. They went to Springfield. I would have gone, too, but I told them I wanted first to see you and—and see if you would not come with us—at least for awhile, not taking the poor old father and mother through all that wretchedness.
