ruffled the even tenor of her thoughts. Perhaps it was a foolish weakness on Mary's part; if so, it was also a weakness of human nature. So she kept her disappointment to herself and performed her daily duties as usual.

I think it was sometime in August when work became slack in the blacksmith shop of Peterson and Wilson; and as time hung heavily on his hands, so he said, Oscar Wilson found himself shooting ‘jacks" on Sage-brush Bench. Mary saw him coming and a flush mounted to her forehead and glowed on her cheeks. As he tied his horse and stood talking to the boys in the yard, Mary stole a glance from the window and then made good her retreat into the milkhouse. As George now came home for noon, he was invited in. "Hello, Mary!" exclaimed George, "any dinner for us?" No answer; the room was empty. Here Roland chirped in,. "Oh, I know where she is. She went to the milkhouse. She's afraid Oscar here will see the big hole in

her shoe."

George reprimanded the little tattler rather sharpl

"Well, its true," he persisted, "I saw her tuck her stockin' in and run.”

George was annoyed, while Oscar thought he could do nothing better than pass it off pleasantly. So grasping the situation boldly, as you would a nettle if you wish to escape the sting, he gallantly made for the milk house, saying he longed for a drink of milk. He came back with Mary. Around the dinner table all signs of diffidence passed, and Oscar actually persuaded her to take a holiday and go with him and Roland up the creek fishing. It was something quite strange for Mary to do, this going off pleasuring; but the boys insisted and Mr. Dolphs said, "Certainly, certainly." So she glanced across the table at Oscar and said yes. They went, and had a pleasant time too. Strange to say, Mary never once thought of her ragged hat, or even the hole in her shoe. Roland and Norah picked choke-cherries, for which they scrambled up the hillsides, and shouted to the fishers below. Oscar and Mary fished; but I have my doubts

27

whether their hooks were baited alone for the sleepy sucker and the speckled trout.

As Oscar rode back to town that evening, the course of his thoughts flowed something like this: "Well, sir, Mary's a fine girl! Beats any of your city girls. What would May, Florence or Tillie Featherlace say to the work she has to do? "Whew!" and he laughed-he remembered what a pout a certain girl had made over scrubbing the porch floor. "Mary had no porch to scrub. No doubt she would have considered it a pleasure to have a nice painted porch to keep clean. I'll bet that house on Sage-brush Bench never smelled paint; if it has it's been scrubbed off long ago. I wonder whether work will be brisk next week.

Strange that a girl with so few advantages should be such a lady! She talked good

sense too, None of your tiresome gossip and everlasting tales about Sarah Jane and Susan Ann Somebody. She's got ideas too. Pretty good fishing up there; guess I'll go again next week.” And he hummed a tune, keeping time to the gallop of his horse, till his meditations must have become quite boisterous, for he finally fairly shouted, "By Jingo, she'll make a fine blacksmith's wife!"

Now, you'll agree with me that Oscar Wilson was a sensible fellow, especially as regards the farmer's daughter.

Oscar had received a fair education at the district school and his parents had always taught him correct principles. But he was a little stubborn; not that firmness is not a good trait when exercised with care and in the right direction; but Oscar lately carried it too far in rejecting some good counsel given him by his ward teachers. I mention this simply to show you his present disposition, and for the reason that it deals directly with my story.

So in a few weeks there was love

making at Sage-brush Bench. Love making in and around the log farm house on the edge of the hill. And the usual sagebrush plain lost its monotony; the bushy hill-side, helped no doubt by the autumn sun and frost, turned to gold

and red. The brook changed its ceaseless roar into a never ending song. There was music in the cattle's low and in the clang of their bells. To see nature at her best we must behold her through love's spectacles.. There were more fishing trips, more berry pickings. There were more moon-light rides over the level bench-land to the village. There were twilight wanderings in the meadow where the grass was green and the willows bended over the babbling waters; and once in a while, lately, there were trips to town with its crowded streets and busy people, although Mary was loath to mix with the fashionable society of the place.

Mary's father was a practical man. As soon as he became aware of this condi. tion of affairs, the first thing he did was to become acquainted more fully with the Wilson family, and especially with Oscar. Having satisfied himself on this point, of their respectability, he did not interfere, but let the young couple shape their own course, simply keeping a watch over them.

The autumn days passed rapidly, but ere they had all gone, Mary wore a shining band on her finger; and workmen were busy with building material on a vacant lot near by the blacksmith shop in town. Somewhere amid the solitude of Sage-brush Bench or perchance in some quiet nook in the meadow, the all-important question had been formally asked and answered. Not that Oscar had any doubts as to his chances. A thousand little incidents had assured him of success. Still it seems to be necessary to go through that fearfully pleasing bit of formality, to give freedom to plan for the future. While Oscar worked early and late in the city, Mary added one more duty to her busy hands. But for such a duty-the making of wedding garments -there is always time and material. Oscar, sensible fellow, understood Mary's position thoroughly, and had told her not to bother about anything but her own apparel, all else would be furnished. Be it said to his credit, he never once thought of her poverty as a bar to their union. A good virtuous wife was dowry

enough for him, as it is for any manyes, too much for some. The twentyfourth of December, the day before Christmas, was set as the all-important wedding day.

At the close of a warm day in early October, Oscar rode out to the farmhouse on the bench. Mary was waiting for him and together they strolled up the path to the newly-made canal. A rain the night before had faid the dust and cooled the air. Oscar said but little, but listened to Mary's light chatter.

"Mary," he said presently, "let's sit down on this bank. I have something to tell you."

Her pleasantry ceased instantly. They sat down on a projecting grass bank, and Oscar took the little hard-working hand in his own and pressed the yielding head against his broad shoulders. The sun had set, and the shadows grew longer and deeper. The evening hush pervaded all. Some faint sounds from distant farmyards with the shout of the herd boy alone echoed through the air.

Mary nestled closely to her companion. His silence was so strange; she did not understand it. "What is the matter, Oscar?" she whispered, and Oscar promptly answered: "The Bishop won't give me a recommend." Mary gave a start and sat upright. She looked at her lover in wonder. "What! Won't give you a recommend! Why-how's that?"

"Well, I'll tell you," and Oscar's tones did not lack emphasis, "I think it's spite and nothing else. Of course he gives as reasons that I have paid no tithing and that I have neglected my duties generally. He said if I would start now and perform the duties which would entitle me to a recommend, he would give me one in six months or so-but I'll fool him!— Thank goodness there are more ways than one to get married."

Mary was more than surprised; she was shocked. "But, Oscar" she remonstrated, "You would not think of going to any other but the right place, surely?"

"The right place, Mary! As no one but the Bishop can give me a recommend we can get married without one, can't we?"

"I-I-don't know," Mary stammered. "Don't know! Well I do. We can be married by the judge or a justice if everything else fails."

Mary was silent. Her eyes filled and a tear glided rapidly down her cheek, but Oscar did not see it.

"Well, what do you say, Mary?" Mary laid her hand on his arm: "Have you never paid any tithing?" "No."

"Well, don't you believe it's right?" "Yes, but then I've neglected it, and I don't think he should be so hard on a fellow."

"Is it true about the other duties?"
"I guess it is."

"Then Oscar"-and she brought her head to its former position-"don't you think we had better wait a while?"

"Just as you say," this coldly. "Don't misunderstand me, Oscar. I think the Bishop's plan is the best for us We can wait that long. It's the only way, for we could not think of being married by the justice."

both.

"Well, that's what I came to ask you about, Mary," and Oscar arose, “and I would like an answer soon."

Mary stood up, took his arm and they silently went back to the house, where he soon left her, without coming to any further conclusion. He was cross and angry. Poor Mary! Was this then the end of a bright delusion, the rude awakening of a pleasant dream? In her chamber that night she thought so, and as the little clock on the mantel ticked the hours away, the bright pictures of the future went with them. One by one they went, some to return as if to tempt her. What should she do? Give up her love? What would life now be without it? And she had planned it all out so well. Her

29

father and the older boys would go off to work during the winter. Norah could live with her, and Roland should go to school. She would have ample accommodation with her three new rooms, all fitted up with new carpets and wall paper! But now it lay with her to choose. Would Oscar spurn her if she refused to yield to his request? Oh! it was hard; this battle betwen love and duty going on within the breast of this simple minded girl, as she lay far into the night, trying to adopt some plan. She knew his duty in the matter; she knew her own, but still she wrestled on in this her hour of trial. The little clock struck twelve, and then ticked on again.

Mary became calm; then she quietly slipped down by her bedside and sent a petition of help to One, whom she had nearly forgotten in her time of trouble. It did not take long. With lighter heart and clearer brain she laid her tired head on her pillow and slept.

In a day or two, as Oscar, becoming restless, was about to call on Mary again, he received a letter from the postoffice. The address was written in a small cramped hand. The contents were as follows:

Bench District, October 11th, 18Mr. Oscar Wilson:

Dear Friend-You asked me to give you an answer soon, on the matter we talked about the other evening. Dear Oscar, forgive me if I disappoint you, but I think we should be married the proper way; begin that important step in life with the love of God and all good men. This is how I understand my duty. I cannot see that any other course would be right. This is my answer. With love and best wishes, Mary. (To be continued.)

once

drove off for the Ontario. The road to the works is well built, smooth and hard. We first went to the mills and saw how the ore from its original condition, as it comes from the mine, is transformed into bullion. It was impossible to hear each other speak, the noise from the machinery was so great. Most of the din came from the scores of stamps that were pounding the ore into powder. It was a sight to see the huge furnaces and vats! The air was so filled with dust and fumes we could scarcely breathe and we were glad to get out into the clear atmosphere. If one intends going down the Ontario mine he should first examine the majestic machinery. See the stupendous wheel of the pumps, doing its work with scarcely a sound, but a great throb every few seconds, as it lifts its flood of waters; but even with all its power it could be seen to quiver slightly at every pull. I wonder how many trembling beings have undergone the grotesque preparation before going down the mine. All fear was gone from us; we had gained respect and admiration for the power we had just witnessed. We dropped a thousand feet into the depths of the earth. When we were down six hundred feet we heard the sound of rushing waters. This was the work of the immense wheel pumping the water from below to this height, which then runs off by means of a canal. Down we went to the end of the thousand feet. What a weird scene! Miles of intricate passages leading to numerous caverns where the miner is at work. The flickering light from candles, making the darkness beyond more dense; the dripping moisture on all sides; the thought of the rushing river above and the reality of the fifty feet of water below! And this is where the precious metals of the earth are found; the god that humanity is rushing and crushing through life to gain. We are ready to ascend to daylight; not loath to leave so dreary a place.

After dinner we drove down to the town, changed conveyances and started for Brighton's. The drive over the summit is picturesque and delightful. Too often we see an abandoned shaft in the side of a mountain, indicative of some

poor mortal who has tried his luck-perhaps put in his all-and failed. We had a perfect view of Thayne's Cañon, where the Crescent with its tramway is so beautifully embedded. We have reached the summit and catch the first glimpse of Big Cottonwood, the lovely country of pines and lakes. We felt as if we were again looking on an old friend and were eager to enjoy every beauty in which it so richly abounds. We reached Brighton's just before sunset. It was a glorious evening. After refreshing ourselves we strolled down to Silver Lake. A boat was lazily waiting for us. We soon put it in motion and had a sail on the clear waters. The air was so delicious it seemed impossible to breathe fast enough.

That night the campers gave a perfect bonfire party. We were invited, and of course, went. After such a day one would naturally suppose we would have been ready for rest and sleep. But H.and E.— had hardly begun to enjoy themselves. I used to think I knew the meaning of the word vigor, but I was mistaken. I had no idea of it until then. Just to look at these frail creatures filled with the air of Cottonwood was vigor in the true sense. The next morning, bright and early, we mounted our horses—not very gracefully—and started to spend the day among the lakes. The beautiful lakes of Cottonwood in which Lake Mary stands out in superior loveliness, with its granite rocks that glisten and sparkle in the sun. The deep green pines that repeat themselves so perfectly in its clear waters! The only way to enjoy these lakes is to take time and not hurry. One must be able to see them from all points; hunt out pretty nooks, and leisurely enjoy them; thus you are able to look and think and dream. This is truly dreamland. The perfume from the pines, the cool refreshing breeze, the sacred stillness almost intoxicates you. Heaven is very near in such a place. Peace reigns, and nothing but love is in the heart. Everywhere from the clear blue skies and snowy mountains to the delicate white columbine at your feet is beauty. The

gaze feasts on harmony. Oh, what a day! We never forget such days. It was evening before we returned, full of life and happiness; not tired but ready for more, which we found in a stroll through the woods to the other side of Silver Lake and in performing the unromantic, but comfortable feat of sitting on the fence, watching the moon climbing above the tall pines and rippling the lake with her silver light. The Irrepressibles complemented this scene with vocal music, singing, "John Brown," "The Frog in the Pool," etc. How happy we were; it seemed as if laughing, joking and singing were the aim of our existence. We were nothing but children for the time being.

We planned for the next day a walk to the Twin Lakes. Before starting, our landlady urged us to be home for dinner. The girls had gone to Park City, she said, and she herself was going to prepare it and she promised us a Yorkshire pudding. Twin Lakes are not very far away; but it is quite a climb to them. We took it leisurely and encouraged by the thought of the promised Yorkshire, we got along famously. H.—would say, "Tired, girls? Never mind; just think of the Yorkshire pudding." We were correspondingly refreshed and started again with renewed vigor.

So many of the trees having been cut down has marred the beauty of the lakes. They are not what they used to be, but we found enough to compensate us for our walk. Along our pathway was a clear trickling stream that abounded in mossy nooks. We found beautiful flowers, among which was the fragrant musk. It was here that we agreed to see who could find the most perfect columbine. Imake my bow. We got home in a fit condition to enjoy the Yorkshire pudding. Oh, ye gods! Its like was never known And may heaven protect us from its like again. The face of the hostess was rich, but not as rich as her pudding. We turned pale. "I had forgotten how it was made, and it hasn't come out right at all" were her words. We will not speak further of it but endeavor to bury it deep from our thoughts. We were all quietly disposed

before.

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that afternoon; we had received a blow that was hard to surmount.

We

The next day was our return home. It was to be by way of Lake Catherine and was a day that was made for a ride among the mountains. The sky was filled with broken clouds, forming such studies in light and shade as filled the soul with delight. It was an artist's day. The air was fragrant and full of life. Our horses courageously bore us up the steep rough mountain side. All we had seen and enjoyed the previous days now passed before us as in a panorama. We looked down upon the beauties that had given us so much joy. This was our last glimpse of the beautiful sister lakes with their picturesque surroundings. were loath to leave this land of peace and love. All unexpected we came upon Lake Catherine, nestled at the foot of a mother mountain that seemed to protect her from all the world and feed her from the perpetual snows. Perhaps nature has not favored this lake with as many graces as some of the others. But she holds her own in her calm placid waters that mirror the variety of shadows from the ever changing heavens. We were near the summit. At last we stood on a point that gave us one of the grandest sights that could be thought of. The scene reminded us of Dore's drawings. We could almost feel the presence of majestic Satan, standing among and claiming the ruggedness and grandeur of the earth. It was only the gigantic wildness that reminded us of him. The sublime quiet-the divine peace filled us with the Supreme. From the height where we stood we could see in the far distance, from one side the Uintah range, from the other the Oquirrh with intermediate ranges. We could look away down into the lovely depths of Big Cottonwood, and the broader and more civilized valleys of Little Cottonwood. Nothing could surpass in beauty the far distant Oquirrh with its artistic tints and the rugged peaks that loomed up in such audacious splendor, enveloped in light and shadow that was rapturous. Our artist could not resist; he was compelled to make a sketch. In the meantime we