With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and Ferrier heard his heavy steps scrunching along the shingly path.

He was still sitting with his elbow upon his knee, considering how he should broach the matter to his daughter, when a soft hand was laid upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had passed.

“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his look. “His voice rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?”

“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing her to him, and passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it up somehow or another. You don‘t find your fancy kind o’ lessening for this chap, do you?”

A sob and a squeeze of his hand were her only answer.

“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you say you did. He’s a likely lad, and he‘s a Christian, which is more than these folks here, in spite o’ all their praying and preaching. There’s a party starting for Nevada to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send him a a message letting him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o’ that young man, he’ll be back with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.”

Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s description.

“When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that I am frightened, dear. One hears — one hears such dreadful stories about those who oppose the Prophet; something terrible always happens to them.”

“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father answered. “It will be time to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.”

“Leave Utah!”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But the farm?”

“We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the first time I have thought of doing it. I don’t care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their damed Prophet. I’m a freeborn American, and it‘s all new to me. Guess I’m too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite direction.”

“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter objected.

“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage that. In the meantime, don’t you fret yourself, my dearie, and don‘t get your eyes swelled up, else he’ll be walking into me when he sees you. There’s nothing to be afeared about, and there‘s no danger at all.”

John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and loaded the rusty old shot-gun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.

He lay still and laughed, meditating.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we can go away—we can go tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow to Verona, and find Romeo and Juliet, and sit in the amphitheatre—shall we?’

Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity and shyness. He lay so untrammelled.

‘Yes,’ she said softly, filled with relief. She felt her soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. ‘I shall love to be Romeo and Juliet,’ she said. ‘My love!’

‘Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,’ he said, ‘from out of the Alps. We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.’

She sat up and looked at him.

‘Are you glad to go?’ she asked, troubled.

His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading:

‘Don’t laugh at me—don’t laugh at me.’

‘Why how’s that?’ he laughed, putting his arms round her.

‘Because I don’t want to be laughed at,’ she whispered.

He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair.

‘Do you love me?’ she whispered, in wild seriousness.

‘Yes,’ he answered, laughing.

Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. Her lips were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. He waited a few moments in the kiss. Then a shade of sadness went over his soul.

‘Your mouth is so hard,’ he said, in faint reproach.

‘And yours is so soft and nice,’ she said gladly.

‘But why do you always grip your lips?’ he asked, regretful.

‘Never mind,’ she said swiftly. ‘It is my way.’

She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she could not let go a certain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. She gave herself up in delight to being loved by him. She knew that, in spite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit saddened too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she could not be herself, she DARED not come forth quite nakedly to his nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him. She abandoned herself to HIM, or she took hold of him and gathered her joy of him. And she enjoyed him fully. But they were never QUITE together, at the same moment, one was always a little left out. Nevertheless she was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life and liberty. And he was still and soft and patient, for the time.

They made their preparations to leave the next day. First they went to Gudrun’s room, where she and Gerald were just dressed ready for the evening indoors.

‘Prune,’ said Ursula, ‘I think we shall go away tomorrow. I can’t stand the snow any more. It hurts my skin and my soul.’

‘Does it really hurt your soul, Ursula?’ asked Gudrun, in some surprise. ‘I can believe quite it hurts your skin—it is TERRIBLE. But I thought it was ADMIRABLE for the soul.’