"I am certain," falters the girl. "In some way. I don't know how much."
"I am very sorry for that!"
"Sorry for it? How can it affect my father?" returns Miss Travenion, growing haughty.
"That I can't see myself," rejoins her escort, and the two both go into contemplation.
A minute after the girl smiles and says, "Why, in another minute, perhaps you will think I am Miss Mormon myself." This seeming to her a great joke, she laughs very heartily.
But her laugh would be a yellow one, did she know that Lot Kruger, bishop in the Mormon Church, high up in the Seventies, Councilor of the Prophet, Brigham Young; and ex-Danite and Destroying Angel to boot, has stayed in Ogden on her account, and has just sent a telegram to one who holds the Latter-Day Saints in his hand, which reads:
"Ogden, October 4, 1871.
"She is here. I am watching her. She will arrive in Salt Lake on the morning train. See my letter from Chicago, due to-night."
Not knowing this, the girl's laughter is light and happy, and seems to be infectious, for Lawrence joins in it, and their conversation grows low, as if they would keep it to themselves, and perhaps slightly romantic, for there is a fire in the young man's dark eyes that seems to be reflected in the beautiful blue ones of Miss Travenion, as she tells him of life in New York society, and about Mrs. Livingston and her son. This discantation on the absent Oliver Lawrence enjoys so little, however, that he turns the conversation to his own prospects once more.
On which the girl asks him if his mine is so rich, why does he not work it himself.
"Because I am tired of barbarism!" he cries. "I want a home and a wife, and I wouldn't ask any woman to share a mining cabin with me."