"I mean this," cries Erma, "that when they discovered that I was the daughter of a Mormon, that I had little illegitimate half-brothers and sisters, they fled from me as if I were tainted and left me to the kindness of Bishop Kruger." "KRUGER KNOWS YOU ARE HERE?" This is a wail of anguish from Travenion that makes his daughter start. She answers him, though the old man's agitation frightens her. "Certainly. He learnt of my coming in New York, and returned on the same train with the Livingstons and myself to Salt Lake City. He----" But Erma pauses, astonished and horrified, the effect of her simple words upon her father is so tremendous. He is wringing his hands and muttering, "They have me now. My heart is in their hands!" Then he steps quickly to the door, and she hears him speak to the man who has driven her from Salt Lake. "Take your horses to the stable at Eureka. Feed and water them and be ready to return this evening at seven o'clock." "I don't see as I can, bishop," answers the driver. "The team won't stand it. They are putty nigh tuckered out now." "Then be ready to-morrow morning," he says hurriedly, and returns to the room where Erma still sits, and sighs to himself, "I don't suppose it would be much use. If they know you are here, they know that they have my heart in their hands." "Your heart in their hands? What do you mean by that?" whispers the young lady. "I mean _you_! You are my heart,--YOU. My darling! My pet! My treasure! Who has put peril upon herself because she loved her old papa!" and before she can prevent it, he has her in his arms and is pressing her to his heart, and caressing her, and crying over her the tears of a strong man in his extremity. And now she struggles not, for his kisses bring remembrance of his other kisses in happier days, in far-away New York, when she has looked for his coming at her school, and afterwards as a young lady has flown to this heart, that she knows has always beat for her. After a moment, his agitation and words make her ask, "What latent danger is there to me?" "Nothing immediate," he answers. "Perhaps none at all--perhaps I am a fool; for in 1871 there are many Gentiles in this Territory, and United States troops at Camp Douglas. _But I remember!_ And the thought of what once was, makes me fear what may now be." Then he says suddenly and impressively, as if some new idea alarmed him, "Tell me about your trip from New York. Omit no details. _Minutiae_ may mean safety for us both. But first--" And it now being the dusk of the evening, he illuminates the room with the flicker of a coal-oil lamp and the yellow glow of a tallow dip, and places her very tenderly on the only chair in the room.