A moment after Kruger announces, a peculiar thrill in his voice, "BISHOP TRANYON!" As he says this, Erma, bending forward to get a better view, clenches her little hands together and thinks to herself, "This is the wretch who is Lawrence's enemy, and would destroy his happiness and mine!" Then onto the platform comes a figure, wearing his clothes with a grace strange in a Mormon community, and whose broadcloth is finer than the sect is wont to wear, and whose gray eyes are familiar, and whose soft gestures are those she has been longing for--and whose grizzled moustache, now joined to a mighty beard, has caressed her lips. Gazing at him with all her might, something suddenly snaps in the girl's head, for he is speaking, and the incisive, smooth, cynical voice now crying the glory of the Mormon Church, the sanctity of plural, polygamous marriage--the voice now crying out the glory of what she thinks unutterable indignity and degradation to her sex, is that of--God help her!--no, she will not believe it, but still does--HER FATHER! In one awful flash comes to her the thought, "If he is what he is, then what am I?" and merciful insensibility comes with it. As for Mr. Livingston, he has listened to the preliminary proceedings in a perfunctory, philosophical kind of way, sometimes scoffing inwardly. Then his mind, as the children sing their hymn, running upon other churches, finally comes to his own; he has got to carelessly looking over the choristers, and trying to select from them youths who he thinks would make good altar-boys in his Episcopal Church. He is hardly awakened from this when Bishop Tranyon is announced, and looking carelessly at him, thinks, "There's something curiously familiar in the old Mormon--he has a little of the New York club style about him. Good gracious! that gesture--where have I seen it?" and rubs his glasses and inspects him more closely. And then, remembering Travenion, the old New York swell, having known him as a boy, and seen him on his visits to New York, Ollie gets excited, for the eyes seem familiar to him, and the voice is the same that he has heard several times in the smoking-rooms of the Unity and Stuyvesant Clubs, though for a moment he cannot reconcile himself to believe what his memory tells him. But just here, Erma's body falls a dead weight upon him and her head droops on his shoulder. Looking at her, he sees that she has fainted so quietly that he has not noticed it, and an awful shock coming upon this conventional and orthodox young man, he gasps to himself, "Good Gad, Erma's father!" and is so paralyzed and petrified that he makes no effort to revive the girl, but simply looks on in a horrified kind of wonder as the festival proceeds.