Most of the Saints had halted in Provo; here on the banks of that brawling river, called by the Indians, in soft labials, Timpanogos, had grown up a large temporary metropolis; and that half-tented, half-domiciled host, whose human hearts beat with hopes and fears, and whose tongues and thoughts were still very human, in spite of the past, the discomfort of the present, and the grave uncertainty of the future, carried on life's daily details with fitful regularity. Thirty thousand people were encamped in the beautiful Utah Valley, around the borders of Utah Lake. The swimmer, across the Grecian gulf was far more interested in the exact measure of his stroke than in the record he would make in future history. So, too, on the banks of the Timpanogos, men were more interested in the withering crops in the Salt Lake Valley than they were in the secession of the South or in the possible outcome of their own difficulties. So there sat in Provo, in a small, dingy back room, two girls, just now vitally interested in making a huge pot of cornmeal mush for the supper of two or three associated families. The unwieldy vessel swung from the crane over the huge fire-place. The strenuous excitement of the Move had gradually subsided, leaving the young people at least once more gaily afloat on the seas of their own impulses, their own fears and their own loves. "Don't stop stirring that cornmeal, Dian, until it is thoroughly cooked," said Rachel Winthrop, as she entered the hut. "You know that your brother hates raw mush; and it is a science to know how to cook it. When it has boiled a good half hour, I will come in and stir in the flour to thicken it." The girl bent over the fire-place and stirred the bubbling mass in the pot, while her pink cheeks turned to rosy red. "Oh, Ellie, what a nuisance a fireplace is, anyhow. I didn't half appreciate our good step-stove until I came here and had to work on this." "Never mind, Dian, I shall have these batter cakes in the skillet baked in a minute, and then I will stir it for a while." "Standing over a fire like this makes my cheeks just like ugly old purple hollyhocks. It's all I can do to get along with my homely red cheeks under ordinary circumstances, but when I get over a fire it simply makes me hideous." "Oh, no such thing; why do you care, anyway, Dian, there's no one here to see you?" "Don't need to be! I am conscious of it and that is enough." "Say, Dian, do you miss John Stevens? I am just homesick to see him. We have scarcely laid eyes on him this winter or spring." "No, I can't say that I care. John is good enough, but he is so quiet; I believe he is too tame to really amount to much." "Tame! John Stevens tame! Well, Dian, I gave you credit for more discernment than that. Why, I don't believe that there is a braver or more passionate man living than John Stevens."