Then to Oliver Livingston comes the opportunity of his life--his one supreme moment to win this woman, who is more beautiful in her agony even than in her joy; for the girl has fallen sobbing on his shoulder, and had he but treated her as if he loved her--aye, even pitied her--she would have given unto him gratitude so potent it might have grown to love, and so made her his. But his puny heart is too small for such magnanimity, and to her tears and her mutterings, "What will the world think of me now?" he replies: "This is awful. This is a terrible thing for you. It will take you a long time to live this down. You had better retire from society for a time. Prayer and repent--" And so his opportunity forever leaves him. The girl cuts short his last word with a shudder, then draws herself up, and says, a desperate gleam in her eyes: "Don't dare to talk to me as if the sin of my father was my sin. That kind of innuendo I will not permit!" next mutters: "I asked for sympathy and you gave me a sermon!" A moment after, she says, in measured tones, "We are at the hotel. You need not help me down. The touch of the polygamist's daughter might sully you, Mr. Immaculate!" CHAPTER XI. "FOR BUSINESS PURPOSES." Then, unheeding his proffered aid, Erma descends from the carriage, and going into the house, he following her, she turns, and says haughtily: "I wish to see your mother as soon as she comes from the theatre; but, before that, I must see _him_," and mutters, "If it is not too much of a service to me, in my extremity, go back to the meeting and tell my father to come to me at once. It may be the last favor I shall _ever ask_ of you," and strides to her room. So, he leaves her to go on her errand; but chancing to pass a barroom, he goes in, a thing which is unusual for him, and, calling for a glass of brandy, gulps it down, his hands trembling a little. Thinking the matter over as he drinks, he concludes his mother should be told first, and going to the Salt Lake Theatre, purchases a ticket. It is fortunately an _entr'acte_, and he very shortly finds Mrs. Livingston's seat. Walking down the aisle to her, he whispers, "Bring Louise and Ferdie at once. Something terrible has happened!" Looking at the white face of her offspring, the widow suddenly gasps, "Good Heavens! Erma has eloped with that awful Captain Lawrence, the Vigilante," and grabs helplessly for her wraps. "No," he says grimly, as he supports her to the door, Ferdie and Louise following them; "but it is almost as bad." "Tell me," whispers his mother, and seeing that he does not answer, goes on hysterically: "Tell me or I shall faint right here." But he finally gets her to the sidewalk, where the breezy air cools her nervous system, and putting her into the carriage he has brought with him, where, if she so elects, she can faint comfortably, he tells her in a few words what has happened.