Then, unheeding her exclamations of surprise and horror, as likewise those of Louise and Ferdie, he whispers, "Go back to the hotel. I am going to find this Mormon and bring him there," and leaving the carriage to drive back to the Townsend House, starts on foot for the meeting in the Twenty-fifth Ward. But Salt Lake City blocks are long, and Mr. Livingston's episode at the theatre has taken some time. When he reaches the meeting-house, its windows are dark, the festival has ended, and there is nothing left him but to return to the hotel. On his way back, however, his mind being on other things than his footsteps, he wanders into one of the streams that flow in this peculiar city where gutters would be in ordinary towns, and it being knee-deep, comes out of it in a very bad humor. This is not decreased by the dust which settles upon his immaculate inexpressibles, and gives him a very sorry appearance. As he enters the hotel, Louise comes to meet him with a frightened face, and whispers, "Mamma is talking to her in her parlor," then suddenly cries out, "Goodness! Have you been fighting with her father?" At which he snaps at her, "Go to bed, you little idiot," and pushing past her, enters his mother's sitting-room in by no means the frame of mind to properly meet, even for his own interest, the situation before him. The room is but slightly illuminated,--the Townsend House gas, manufactured on the premises, being only strong in odor. By it he can see Miss Travenion standing near the centre of the apartment, so white she would seem a statue, were it not for the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes, that appear to have burnt up the tears that were in them, and a slight nervous twitching of the hands, such as comes to us when hope is no more. Mrs. Livingston, seated on a sofa, is speaking in a tremulous sort of way, for the girl's manner just at this time frightens her. She is saying, "You had best leave this awful place to-morrow morning, and come with us to California. I have ordered your maid to pack your trunks. My maid is doing the same." Then she turns to her son, remarking, "You think it will be best, also, Oliver?" But Erma prevents his reply. She cries, taking a step towards him, "My father!" and seeing no one behind him, gasps, "What have you done to him, or what has he done to you?" for Mr. Livingston's pale face and disfigured trousers suggest ideas of combat that would make her laugh at other and happier times. To this he replies curtly, "Nothing; I could not find him." "Why not?" "Their blasphemous meeting-house was closed." Then he says in a nasty, sneering tone, for the young lady's manner has added to his anger, "Your father and his Mormon brats had gone away." "His Mormon brats?" This comes from both Mrs. Livingston and Erma, though one gives it with a shriek and the other with a shudder.