The united families were soon gathered at one long table, each person impatient for his frugal meal, and each filled with the primal thoughts and impulses common to all humanity. Had any one of them been conscious of the real pathos of their situation, the scene might have melted such an one to tears. Driven from comfortable, hard-earned homes, through fear of armed violence, these four or five families--like thousands of their friends--unable even to get a home to shelter them from the winds and storms of the late spring weather, were all huddled together in these three small log rooms. They were compelled to make beds on the floors for the children and to use their wagon-boxes for their own sleeping compartments; and the utmost precaution was necessary to maintain order and decency in their crowded condition. The good people of Provo were taxed to the extreme to give shelter and comfort to the fleeing thousands who had suddenly called upon their hospitality. Tents, boweries, shanties, and rude structures of all kinds were pressed into service. And the people who could secure shelter of any sort were deemed fortunate. The work pressed hardest upon the women. Compelled to carry on the common vocations of life under such circumstances, the weekly washings, ironings, cleanings, and cookings taxed even the most patient and strong to the uttermost. Our friends were lucky in having Aunt Clara Tyler included in their number, for she went about in her quiet way, healing wounds made by thoughtless tongues, and holding back the quick anger which pressed so hard upon irritated nerves and worn-out bodies. There was a saying, when Aunt Clara invited someone to take a walk along the river bank with her, "There goes Aunt Clara--not to cleanse the cups, but to mend some broken heart." Aunt Clara and her friends were not the only ones who took walks by the river banks. It came to be a common thing for Tom Allen and Ellen Tyler to stroll up and down its winding paths, talking sometimes seriously and sometimes in that quizzical way so common to Tom. Sweet little hungry heart! Ellen was a loving soul, whose worst fault was a selfish weakness, a trait often admired in a sheltered woman, but dangerous in one thrown upon her own strength. She must, however, learn her lessons, as we must learn ours. One day in the late spring, Ellen came home from her walk unusually pensive and thoughtful. She waited till after the evening prayers, and then asked Diantha to go with her down by the big cottonwood tree, for she had something to tell her. Sitting down on a grassy knoll, under the twinkling young stars, Ellen poured out her heart's confidence. "You know how much Tom thinks of his religion, Dian, in spite of his odd ways. He is as good a Saint as the best, if he does make light of some things. I know his heart, for he has shown it to me, and I know he is one of our best men."