There were many wakeful hours spent in that gay little tented village and long before the peep of day the next morning, men were hitching up and packing wagons. Ere long the whole cavalcade had taken up the line of march, and soon the silence of the mountain peaks chained the whispers of pine and quaking-aspens within the long vale, leaving the circling memories alone to sweep forever over the lake like shadowy wraiths of summer mist. VI. WHO SHALL FEAR MAN? At the time of this story (in 1857-8) there stood in Salt Lake City, in the Thirteenth Ward, a small adobe house of four rooms, with the tiny square-framed windows, set at regular intervals from a central brilliantly green door which gayly faced the street. Not only was the green door rare because of its extremely unconventional color; it was also unusual in its quick response of welcome to black or white, bond or free, in a place where welcome grew more lavishly than did the grass in the streets. There was something so aggressively bright about that loudly painted door that even the Indians grew to love its restful color and the atmosphere that it betokened for all who pushed ever so lightly at its ready portals. The green was such a happy blending of the dark shades of the cool pine with the yellowed masses of creeping mosses that one's eyes were rested just to glance at it. None who passed within could fail to recognize that some one out of the ordinary lived behind those gaudy yet pleasing door-panels. The poor, the sick, the halt, the lame and the blind, all learned the ease with which that bright door opened, and the wealth of gentle welcome which spoke in the brighter eyes of dear old widowed Aunt Clara Tyler. The Indians, too, knew where they would receive plenty of "shutcup," and if one had a bruise or a wound, only Aunt Clara's hand could soothe and dress, to the complete satisfaction, the injured member. Dear Aunt Clara! The mind traces in golden light her lovely picture. Bright and black were her eyes, but never sharp and cruel; she had a sweet mouth and the blackest of hair. She was short and very stout; but who ever saw aught but the lovely spirit which was enshrined within her active body. People used to wonder why Aunt Clara had no enemies, and why everything animate looked to her for succor and protection. The secret could all be told in two words--womanly sympathy, such sympathy as the noblest of women and the purest of angels can bestow; a sympathy which never encouraged evil because it made a sharp distinction between sin and sinner, but which drew the whole sting from the wound before dropping in the needed tonic of wise counsel, and covering all softly with the vial of loving tenderness. That was the secret of her popularity with young and old in the whole neighborhood.