"What?" again questioned Dorian.

"I would devote all my mind, might and strength to the learning of truth, of scientific truth. I would cover every branch of science possible in the limits of one life, especially the natural sciences. Then with my knowledge of the gospel and the lamp of inspiration which the priesthood entitles me to, I could harmonize the great body of truth coming from any and every source. Dorian, what a life work that would be!"

The old man looked smilingly at his companion with a strange, knowing intimation. He spoke of himself, but he meant that Dorian should take the suggestion. Dorian could pick up his beautiful dream and make it come true. Dorian, with life and strength, and a desire for study and truth could accomplish this very desirable end. The old man placed his hand lovingly on the young man's shoulder, as he continued:

"You are the man to do this, Dorian—you, not I."

"I—Uncle Zed, do you believe that?"

"I do. Listen, my boy. I see you looking over the harvested field. It is a fine work you are doing; thousands can plant and harvest year after year; but few there are who can and will devote their lives to the planting of faith and the nourishing and the establishing of faith in the hearts of men; and that's what we need now to properly answer the Lord's cry that when He cometh shall He find faith on the earth?... Let the call come to you—but there, in the Lord's own good time. Come into the house. I have a new book to show you, also I have a very delicious cherry pie."

They went into the house together, where they inspected both book and pie. Dorian weakly objected to the generous portion which was cut for him, but Uncle Zed explained that the process of division not only increased the number of pieces of pie, but also added to its tastiness. Dorian led his companion to talk about himself.

"Yes," he said in reply to a question, "I was born in England and brought up in the Wesleyan Methodist church. I was a great reader ever since I can remember. I read not only history and some fiction, but even the dry-as-dust sermons were interesting to me. But I never seemed satisfied. The more I read, the deeper grew the mysteries of life. Nowhere did I find a clear, comprehendible statement of what I, an entity with countless other entities, was doing here. Where had I come from, where was I going? I visited the churches within my reach. I heard the preachers and read the philosophers to obtain, if possible, a clue to the mystery of life. I studied, and prayed, and went about seeking, but never finding."

"But you did find the truth at last?"

"Yes; thank the Lord. I found the opening in the darkness, and it came through the simple, humble, and not very learned elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."

"What is the principle trouble with all this learning of the world that it does not lead to the truth?"

"The world's ignorance of God. Eternal life consists in knowing the only true God, and the world does not know Him; therefore, all their systems of religion are founded on a false basis. That is the reason there is so much uncertainty and floundering when philosophers and religionists try to make a known truth agree with their conceptions of God."

"Explain that a little more to me, Uncle Zed."

"Some claim that Nature is God, others that God only manifests Himself through nature. I read this latter idea many places. For instance, Pope says:

"'All are but parts of one stupendous whole Whose body nature is, and God the soul.'

"Also Tennyson:

'The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and plains Are not these, O soul, the vision of Him who reigns? Speak to Him there, for He hears, and spirit with spirit can meet, Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.'

"This, no doubt, is beautiful poetry, but it tells only a part of the truth. God, by His Spirit is, and can be all the poet here describes. 'Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?' exclaims the Psalmist. 'In him we live and move and have our being' declares Paul; but these statements alone are not enough for our proper understanding of the subject. We try to see God behind the veil of nature, in sun and wind and flower and fruit; but there is something lacking. Try now to formulate some distinct idea of what this universal and almighty force back of nature is. We are told that this force is God, whom we must love and worship and serve. We want the feeling of nearness to satisfy the craving for love and protection, but our intellect and our reason must also be somewhat satisfied. We must have some object on which to rest—we cannot always be floating about unsuspended in time and space.

"Then there is some further confusion: Christian philosophers have tried to personify this 'soul of the universe,' for God, they say, thinks and feels and knows. They try to get a personality without form or bounds or dimentions, but it all ends in vagueness and confusion. As for me, and I think I am not so different from other men,—for me to be able to think of God, I must have some image of Him. I cannot think of love or good, or power or glory in the abstract. These must be expressed to me by symbols at least as eminating from, or inherent in, or exercised by some person. Love cannot exist alone: there must be one who loves and one who is being loved. God is love. That means to me that a person, a beautiful, glorified, allwise, benevolent being exercises that divine principle which is shed forth on you and me.

"Now, if the world would only leave all this metaphysical meandering and come back to the simple truth, what a clearing of mists there would be! All their philosophies would have a solid basis if they would only accept the truth revealed anew to us through the Prophet Joseph Smith that God is one of a race, the foremost and first, if you wish it, but still one of a race of beings who inhabit the universe; that we humans are His children, begotten of Him in the pre-mortal world in His image; that we are on the upward path through eternity, following Him who has gone before and has marked out the way; that if we follow, we shall eventually arrive at the point where He now is. Ignorance of these things is what I understand to be ignorance of God."

"In England I lost my wife and two children. The gospel came to me shortly after, I am sure, to comfort me in the depths of my despair. Not one church on earth that I knew of, Catholic or Protestant, would hold out any hope of my ever being reunited with wife and children as such. There is no family life in heaven, they teach. At that time I went about listening to the preachers, and I delved into books. I made extensive copyings in my note books. I have them yet, and some day when you are interested I will show them to you."

"I am interested now," said Dorian.

"But I'm not going to talk to you longer on this theme, even though it is Sunday and time for sermonizing. I'm going to meeting, where you also ought to go. You are not attending as regularly as you should."

"No, but I've been very busy."

"No excuse that. There is danger in remaining away too long from the established sources of spiritual inspiration and uplift, especially when one is reading Ingersol and Tom Paine. I have no fault to find with your ambition to get ahead in the world, but with it 'remember thy creator in the days of thy youth.' Are you neglecting your mother?"

"No; I think not, Uncle Zed; but what do you mean about mother?"

"You are all she has. Are you making her days happy by your personal care and presence. Are you giving of yourself to her?"

"Well, perhaps I am not so considerate as I might be; I am away quite a lot; thank you for calling my attention to it."

"Are you neglecting anybody else?"

"Not that I know."

"Good. Now I must clear away my table and get ready for meeting. You'll go with me."

"I can't. I haven't my Sunday clothes."

"The Lord will not look at your clothes."

"No; but a lot of people will."

"We go to meeting to worship the Lord, not to be looked at by others. Go home and put on your Sunday best; there is time." The old man was busy between table and cupboard as he talked. "Have you seen Carlia lately?"

"No," replied Dorian.

"The last time she was here I thought she was a little peaked in the face, for you know she has such a rosy, roly-poly one."

"Is that so? She comes to see you, then?"

"Yes; oftener than you do."

"I never meet her here."

"No; she manages that, I surmise."

"What do you mean?"

"I tell you Carlia is a lovely girl," continued Uncle Zed, ignoring his direct question. "Have you ever eaten butter she has churned?"

"Not that I know."

"She used to bring me a nice pat when my cow was dry; and bread of her own baking too, about as good as I myself make." He chuckled as he wiped the last dish and placed it neatly in the rack.

Dorian arose to go. "Remember what I have told you this evening" said Uncle Zed. The old man from behind his window watched his young friend walk leisurely along the road until he reached the cross-lots path which led to the Duke home. Here he saw him pause, go on again, pause once more, then jump lightly over the fence and strike out across the field. Uncle Zed then went on finishing his preparations for meeting.

As Dorian walked across the field, he did think of what Uncle Zed had said to him. Dorian had built his castles, had dreamed his dreams; but never before had the ideas presented to him by Uncle Zed that afternoon ever entered in them. The good old man had seemed so eager to pass on to the young man an unfulfilled work, yes, a high, noble work. Dorian caught a glimpse of the greatness of it and the glory of it that afternoon, and his soul was thrilled. Was he equal to such a task?... He had wanted to become a successful farmer, then his vision had gone on to the teaching profession; but beyond that he had not ventured. He was already well on the way to make a success of his farms. He liked the work. He could with pleasure be a farmer all his life. But should a man's business be all of life? Dorian realized, not of course in its fuller meaning, that the accumulating of worldly riches was only a means to the accomplishing of other and greater ends of life; and here was before him something worthy of any man's best endeavors. Here was a life's work which at its close would mean something to him and to the world. With these thoughts in his mind he stepped up to the rear of the Duke place where he saw someone in the corral with the cows, busy with her milking.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

"Hello, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he stopped at the yard and stood leaning against the fence.

Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As she straightened, with a three-legged stool in one hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she looked toward Dorian. "O, is that you? You scared me."

"Why?"

"A stranger coming so suddenly."

The young man laughed. "Nearly through?" he asked.

"Just one more—Brindle, the kickey one."

"Aren't you afraid of her?"

Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beautiful white teeth. Her red cheeks were redder than ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the young man noticed, though she was still plump and round-limbed.

"My buckets are full, and I'll have to take them to the house before I can finish," she said. "You stay here until I come back—if you want to."

"I don't want to—here, let me carry them." He took the pails from her hand, and they went to the house together.

The milk was carried into the kitchen where Mrs. Duke was busy with pots and pans. Mr. Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing touches to his hair. He was dressed for meeting. As he heard rather than saw his daughter enter, he asked:

"Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?"

"Not yet," she replied.

"Well, don't forget—and say, you'd better give a little new milk to the calf. It's not getting along as well as it should—and, if you have time before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses."

"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm not going to meeting, I'll have plenty of time."

"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand, and saw Dorian. "Hello, Dorian," he greeted, "you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late if we don't hurry."

"Father, I told you I'm not going. I—" she hesitated as if not quite certain of her words—"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows, and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are the pigs and the calves and the horses to feed. But I'll not keep Dorian. You had better go with father"—this to the young man who still stood by the kitchen door.

"Leave the rest of the chores until after meetin'," suggested the father, somewhat reluctantly, to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's presence.

"I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian. "I'm not dressed for it, so I'll keep Carlia company, if you or she have no objections."

"Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you to miss your meetin's."

"We'll be good," laughed Dorian.

"But—"

"Come, father," the mother prompted, "you know I can't walk fast in this hot weather."

Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian went back to the corral.

"Let me milk," offered Dorian.

"No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over the fence."

"O, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the girl finish her milking. He again carried the milk back; he also took the "slop" to the pigs and threw the hay to the horses, while the girl gave the new milk to the butting calf; then back to the house where they strained the milk. Then the young man was sent into the front room while the girl changed from work to Sunday attire.

The front room was very hot and uncomfortable. The young man looked about on the familiar scene. There were the same straight-backed chairs, the same homemade carpet, more faded and threadbare than ever, the same ugly enlarged photographs within their massive frames which the enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke. There was the same lack of books or music or anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood and looked about, there came to him more forcibly than ever the barrenness of the room and of the house in general. True, his own home was very humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and refinement about it. The Duke home had always impressed him as being cold and cheerless and ugly. There were no protecting porches, no lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard had crept close up to the house. It was a place to work. The eating and the sleeping were provided, so that work could be done, farm and kitchen work with their dirt and litter. The father and the mother and the daughter were slaves to work. Only in work did the parents companion with the daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly those who came to talk about cattle and crops and irrigation.

As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and loving; but her sordid environment seemed to be crushing her. At times she struggled to get out from under; but there seemed no way, so she gradually gave in to the inevitable. She became resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes frequently flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in physical strength and beauty, these unfortunate traits of character became more pronounced. The budding womanhood which should have been carefully nurtured by the right kind of home and neighborhood was often left to develop in wild and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood in that front room awaiting her had only a dim conception of all this.

Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She had on a white dress and had placed a red rose in her hair.

"O, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight of her.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Here you go dolling up, and look at me."

"You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly stuffy in here."

Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he turned and stood looking at the girl before him. It seemed to him that he had never seen her so grown-up and so beautiful.

"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he asked.

"While you have been away growing up too."

"It's the long dress, isn't it?"

"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitching hay." She gave a toss to her head and held out her roughened red hands as proof of her assertion. He stepped closer to her as if to examine them more carefully, but she swiftly hid them behind her back. The rose, loosened from the tossing head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picked it up. He sniffed at it then handed it to her.

"Where did you get it?" he asked.

She reddened. "None of your—Say, sit down, can't you."

Dorian seated himself on the sofa and invited her to sit by him, but she took a chair by the table.

"You're not very neighborly," he said.

"As neighborly as you are," she retorted.

"What's the matter with you, Carlia?"

"Nothing the matter with me. I'm the same; only I must have grown up, as you say."

A sound as of someone driving up the road came to them through the open door. Carlia nervously arose and listened. She appeared to be frightened, as she looked out to the road without wanting to be seen. A light wagon rattled by, and the girl, somewhat relieved, went back to her chair.

"Isn't it warm in here?" she asked.

"It's warm everywhere."

"I can't stay here. Let's go out—for a walk."

"All right—come on."

They closed the door, and went out at the rear. He led the way around to the front, but Carlia objected.

"Let's go down by the field," she said. "The road is dusty."

The day was closing with a clear sky. A Sunday calm rested over meadow and field, as the two strolled down by the ripening wheat. The girl seemed uneasy until the house was well out of sight. Then she seated herself on a grassy bank by the willows.

"I'm tired," she said with a sigh of relief.

Dorian looked at her with curious eyes. Carlia, grown up, was more of a puzzle than ever.

"You are working too hard," he ventured.

"Hard work won't kill anybody—but it's the other things."

"What other things?"

"The grind, the eternal grind—the dreary sameness of every day."

"You did not finish the high school. Why did you quit?"

"I had to, to save mother. Mother was not only doing her usual house work, but nearly all the outside choring besides. Father was away most of the time on his dry farm too, and he's blind to the work at home. He seems to think that the only real work is the plowing and the watering and the harvesting, and he would have let mother go on killing herself. Gee, these men!" The girl viciously dug the heel of her shoe into the sod.

"I'm sorry you had to quit school, Carlia."

"Sorry? I wanted to keep on more than I ever wanted anything in my life; but—"

"But I admire you for coming to the rescue of your mother. That was fine of you."

"I'm glad I can do some fine thing."

Dorian had been standing. He now seated himself on the bank beside her. The world about them was very still as they sat for a few moments without speaking.

"Listen," said he, "I believe Uncle Zed is preaching. The meeting house windows are wide open, for a wonder.

"He can preach," she remarked.

"He told me you visit him frequently."

"I do. He's the grandest man, and I like to talk to him."

"So do I. I had quite a visit with him this afternoon. I rather fooled him, I guess."

"How?"

"He told me to go home and change my clothes, and then go to meeting; but I came here instead."

"Why did you do that?"

"To see you, of course."

"Pooh, as if I was anything to look at."

"Well, you are, Carlia," and his eyes rested steadily on her to prove his contention. "Why didn't you want to go to meeting this evening?"

"You heard me tell father."

"That wasn't the whole truth. I was not the reason because you had decided not to go before I came."

"Well—how do you know that? but, anyway, it's none of your business, where I go, is it?" She made an effort to stare him out of countenance, but it ended in lowered head and eyes.

"Carlia! No, of course, it isn't. Excuse me for asking."

There was another period of silence wherein Dorian again wondered at the girl's strange behavior. Was he annoying her? Perhaps she did not care to have him paying his crude attentions to her; and yet—

"Tell me about your dry farm," she said.

"I've already plowed eighty acres," he informed her. "The land is rich, and I expect to raise a big crop next year. I've quite a cosy house, up there, not far from the creek. The summer evenings are lovely and cool. I can't get mother to stay over night. I wish you would come and go with her, and stay a few days."

"How could I stay away from home that long? The heavens would fall."

"Well, that might help some. But, honestly, Carlia, you ought to get away from this grind a little. It's telling on you. Don't you ever get into the city?"

"Sometimes Saturday afternoons to deliver butter and eggs."

"Well, some Saturday we'll go to see that moving picture show that's recently started in town. They say it's wonderful. I've never been. We'll go together. What do you say?"

"I would like to."

"Let's move on. Meeting is out, and the folks are coming home."

They walked slowly back to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Duke soon arrived and told of the splendid meeting they had had.

"Uncle Zed spoke," said Mr. Duke, "and he did well, as usual. He's a regular Orson Pratt."

"The people do not know it," added Dorian; "perhaps their children or their children's children will."

"Well, what have you two been doing?" enquired the father of Carlia.

"We've just been taking a walk," answered Dorian. "Will it be alright if Carlia and I go to the new moving picture theatre in town some Saturday?"

Neither parent made any objection. They were, in fact, glad to have this neighbor boy show some interest in their daughter.

"Your mother was at meeting," said Mrs. Duke; "and she was asking about you."

"Yes; I've neglected her all afternoon; so I must be off. Good night folks."

Carlia went with him to the gate, slipping her arm into his and snuggling closely as if to get the protection of good comradship. The movement was not lost on Dorian, but he lingered only for a moment.

"Goodnight, Carlia; remember, some Saturday."

"I'll not forget. Goodnight" she looked furtively up and down the road, then sped back into the house.

Dorian walked on in the darkening evening. A block or so down the road he came on to an automobile. No one in Greenstreet owned one of these machines as yet, and there were but few in the city. As Dorian approached, he saw a young man working with the machinery under the lifted hood.

"Hello," greeted Dorian, "what's the trouble?"

"Damned if I know. Been stalled here for an hour." The speaker straightened from his work. His hands were grimy, and the sweat was running down his red and angry face. He held tightly the stump of a cigarette between his lips.

"I'm sorry I can't help you," said Dorian, "but I don't know the first thing about an automobile."

"Well, I thought I knew a lot, but this gets me." He swore again, as if to impress Dorian with the true condition of his feelings. Then he went at the machinery again with pliers and wrenches, after which he vigorously turned the crank. The engine started with a wheeze and then a roar. The driver leaped into the car and brought the racing engine to a smoother running. "The cursed thing" he remarked, "why couldn't it have done that an hour ago. O, say, excuse me, have you just been at the house up the road?"

"The Duke house? yes."

"Is the old man—is Mr. Duke at home?"

"Yes; he's at home."

"Thank you." The car moved slowly up the road until it reached the Duke gate where it stopped; but only for a moment, for it turned and sped with increasing hurry along the road leading to the city.

Dorian stood and watched it until its red light disappeared. He wondered why the stranger wanted to know why Mr. Duke was at home, then on learning that he was, why he turned about as if he had no business with him.

Later, Dorian learned the reason.



CHAPTER NINE.

Dorian was twenty-one years old, and his mother had planned a little party in honor of the event. The invited guests were Uncle Zed, Bishop Johnson and wife, the teacher of the district school, and Carlia Duke. These arrived during the dusk of the evening, all but Carlia. They lingered on the cool lawn under the colored glow of the Chinese lanterns.

Mrs. Trent realized that it would be useless to make the party a surprise, for she had to have Dorian's help in hanging out the lanterns, and he would necessarily see the unusual activity in front room and kitchen. Moreover, Dorian, unlike Uncle Zed, had not lost track of his birthdays, and especially this one which would make him a full-fledged citizen of these United States.

The little party chatted on general topics for some time until Mrs. Trent, in big white apron, announced that supper was ready, and would they all come right in. Mrs. Trent always served her refreshments at the regular supper time and not near midnight, for she claimed that people of regular habits, which her guests were, are much better off by not having those habits broken into.

"Are we all here?" she asked, scanning them as they passed in. "All but Carlia," she announced. "Where's Carlia?"

No one knew. Someone proffered the explanation that she was usually late as she had so many chores to do, at which the Bishop's wife shook her head knowingly, but said nothing.

"Well, she'll be along presently," said Mrs. Trent. "Sit down all of you. Bishop, will you ask the blessing?"

The hostess, waitress, and cook all combined in the capable person of Mrs. Trent, sat at the table with her party. Everything which was to be served was on the table in plain sight, so that all could nicely guage their eating to various dishes. When all were well served and the eating was well under way, Mrs. Trent said:

"Brothers and sisters, this is Dorian's birthday party. He has been a mighty good boy, and so—"

"Mother," interrupted the young man.

"Now, you never mind—you be still. Dorian is a good boy, and I want all of you to know it."

"We all do, Sister Trent," said the Bishop; "and it is a good thing to sometimes tell a person of his worthiness to his face."

"But if we say more, he'll be uncomfortable," remarked the mother, "so we had better change the subject. The crops are growing, the weather is fine, and the neighbors are all right. That disposes of the chief topics of conversation, and will give Uncle Zed a chance. He always has something worth listening to, if not up his sleeve, then in his white old head. But do not hurry, Uncle Zed; get through with your supper."

The old man was a light eater, so he finished before the others. He looked smilingly about him, noting that those present were eager to listen. He took from his pocket a number of slips of paper and placed them on the table beside his plate. Then he began to talk, the others leisurely finishing their dessert.

"The other evening," he said, "Dorian and I had a conversation which interested us very much, and I think it would interest all of us here. I was telling him my experience in my search for God and the plan of salvation, and I promised him I would read to him some of the things I found. Here is a definition of God which did not help me very much." He picked up one of the slips of paper and read: "'God is the integrated harmony of all potentialities of good in every actual and possible rational agent.' What do you think of that?"

The listeners knitted their brows, but no one spoke. Uncle Zed continued: "Well, here is a little more. Perhaps this will clear it up: 'The greatest of selves, the ultimate Self of the universe, is God.... My God is my deeper self and yours too. He is the self of the universe, and knows all about it.... By Deity we mean the all-controling consciousness of the universe, as well as the unfathomable, all unknowable, and unknowable abyss of being beyond'."

Uncle Zed carefully folded his papers and placed them back in his pocket. He looked about him, but his friends appeared as if they had had a volley of Greek fired at them. "Well" he said, "why don't some of you say something?"

"Please pass the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent.

When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed continued: "There is some truth in these definitions. God is all that which they try to express, and vastly more. The trouble is these men talk about the attributes of God, and confound these with the being and personality of the Great Parent. I may describe the scent of the rose, but that does not define the rose itself. I cannot separate the rose from its color or form or odor, any more than I can divorce music from the instrument. These vague and incomplete definitions have had much to do with the unbelief in the world. Tom Paine wrote a book which he called the 'Age of Reason' on the premise that reason does away with God. Isn't that it, Dorian?"

"All agnostic writers seem to think that there is no reason in religion, and at times they come pretty near proving it too," replied Dorian.

"That is because they base their arguments on the religions of the world; but the restored gospel of Jesus Christ rests largely on reason. Why, I can prove, contrary to the generally accepted opinion, by reason alone that there must be a God."

"We shall be glad to hear it," said the school teacher. The eating was about over, and so they all sat and listened attentively.

"We do not need to quote a word of scripture," continued Uncle Zed. "All we need to know is a little of the world about us, a little of the race and its history, and a little of the other worlds out in space, all of which is open to anybody who will seek it. The rest is simply a little connected thought. Reason tells me that there can be no limits to time or space or intelligence. Time always has been, there can be no end to space, and intelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limitless time and space and intelligence to work with, what have we? The human mind, being limited, cannot grasp the limitless; therefore, we must make arbitrary points of beginning and ending. Now, let us project our thought as far back into duration as we can—count the periods by any thinkable measurements, years, centuries, ages, aeons, anything you please that will help. Have we arrived at a point when there is no world, no life, no intelligence? Certainly not. Somewhere in space, all that we see here and now will be seen to exist. Go back from this point to a previous period, and then count back as far as you wish; there is yet time and space and intelligence.

"There is an eternal law of progress which holds good always and everywhere. It has been operating all through the ages of the past. Now, let us take one of these Intelligences away back in the far distance past and place him in the path of progress so that the eternal law of growth and advancement will operate on him. I care not whether you apply the result to Intelligences as individuals or as the race. Given time enough, this endless and eternal advancement must result in a state of perfection that those who attain to it may with truth and propriety be called Gods. Therefore, there must be a God, yes, many Gods living and reigning throughout the limitless regions of glorified space.

"Here is corroborative evidence: I read in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88: 'All kingdoms have a law given; and there are many kingdoms; for there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no space, either a greater or a lesser kingdom. And unto every kingdom is given a law; and unto every law there are certain bounds also and conditions.'

"There is a hymn in our hymn book in which W.W. Phelps expresses this idea beautifully. Let me read it:

'If you could hie to Kolob, In the twinkling of an eye, And then continue onward, With that same speed to fly.

'Do you think that you could ever, Through all eternity, Find out the generation Where Gods began to be?

'Or see the grand beginning Where space did not extend? Or view the last creation, Where Gods and matter end?

'Methinks the Spirit whispers: No man has found "pure space," Nor seen the outside curtains, Where nothing has a place.

'The works of God continue, And worlds and lives abound; Improvement and progression Have one eternal round.

'There is no end to matter, There is no end to space, There is no end to spirit, There is no end to race.

'There is no end to virtue, There is no end to might, There is no end to wisdom, There is no end to light.

'There is no end to union, There is no end to youth, There is no end to priesthood, There is no end to truth.

'There is no end to glory, There is no end to love, There is no end to being, Grim death reigns not above.'

"The Latter-day Saints have been adversely criticized for holding out such astounding hopes for the future of the human race; but let us reason a little more, beginning nearer home. What has the race accomplished, even within the short span of our own recollection? Man is fast conquering the forces of nature about him, and making these forces to serve him. Now, we must remember that duration extends ahead of us in the same limitless way in which it reaches back. Give, then, the race today all the time necessary, what cannot it accomplish? Apply it again either to an individual or to the race, in time, some would attain to what we conceive of as perfection, and the term by which such beings are known to us is God. I can see no other logical conclusion."

The chairs were now pushed back, and Mrs. Trent threw a cloth over the table just as it stood, explaining that she would not take the time from her company to devote to the dishes. She invited them into Dorian's little room, much to that young man's uneasiness.

His mother had tidied the room, so it was presentable. His picture, "Sunset in Marshland" had been lowered a little on the wall, and directly over it hung a photograph of Mildred Brown. To Dorian's questioning look, Mrs. Trent explained, that Mrs. Brown had sent it just the other day. Dorian looked closely at the beautiful picture, and a strange feeling came over him. Had Mildred gone on in this eternal course of progress of which Uncle Zed had been speaking? Was she still away ahead of him? Would he ever reach her?

On his study table were a number of books, birthday presents. One was from Uncle Zed's precious store, and one—What? He picked it up—"David Copperfield." He opened the beautiful volume and read on the fly leaf: "From Carlia, to make up a little for your loss." He remembered now that Carlia, some time before, had asked him what books were in the package which had gone down the canal at the time when he had pulled her out of the water. Carlia had not forgotten; and she was not here; the supper was over, and it was getting late. Why had she not come?

The party broke up early, as it was a busy season with them all. Dorian walked home with Uncle Zed, then he had a mind to run over to Carlia's. He could not forget about her absence nor about the present she had sent. He had never read the story, and he would like to read it to Carlia. She had very little time, he realized, which was all the more reason for his making time to read it to her.

As every country boy will, at every opportunity, so Dorian cut crosslots to his objective. He now leaped the fence, and struck off through the meadow up into the corn field. Mr. Duke had a big, fine field that season, the growing corn already reaching to his shoulder. The night was dark, save for the twinkling stars in the clear sky; it was still, save for the soft rustling of the corn in the breeze.

Dorian caught sight of a light as of a lantern up by the ditch from which the water for irrigating was turned into the rows of corn and potatoes. He stopped and listened. A tool grated in the gravelly soil. Mr. Duke was no doubt using his night turn at the water on his corn instead of turning it on the hay-land as was the custom. He would inquire of him about Carlia.

As he approached the light, the scraping ceased, and he saw a dark figure dart into the shelter of the tall corn. When he reached the lantern, he found a hoe lying in the furrow where the water should have been running. No man irrigates with a hoe; that's a woman's tool. Ah, the secret was out! Carlia was 'tending' the water. That's why she was not at the party.

He stood looking down into the shadows of the corn rows, but for the moment he could see or hear nothing. He had frightened her, and yet Carlia was not usually afraid. He began to whistle softly and to walk down into the corn. Then he called, not loudly, "Carlia".

There was no response. He quickened his steps. The figure ran to another shelter. He could see her now, and he called again, louder than before. She stopped, and then darted through the corn into the more open potatoe patch. Dorian followed.

"Hello, Carlia," he said, "what are you doing?"

The girl stood before him, bareheaded, with rough dress and heavy boots. She was panting as if with fright. When she caught a full sight of Dorian she gave a little cry, and when he came within reach, she grasped him by the arm.

"Oh, is it you, Dorian?"

"Sure. Who else did you think it was? Why, you're all of a tremble. What are you afraid of?"

"I—I thought it was—was someone else. Oh, Dorian, I'm so glad it is you!"

She stood close to him as if wishing to claim his protection. He instinctively placed his arm about her shoulders. "Why, you silly girl, the dark won't hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of—Oh, Dorian, don't let him hurt me!" There was a sob in her voice.

"What are you talking about? I believe you're not well. Are your feet wet? Have you a fever?" He put his hand on her forehead, brushing back the dark, towsled hair. He took her plump, work-roughened hand in his bigger and equally rough one. "And this is why you were not to my party," he said.

"Yes; I hated to miss it, but father's rheumatism was so bad that he could not come out. So it was up to me. We haven't any too much water this summer. I'd better turn the water down another row; it's flooding the corn."

They went to the lantern on the ditch bank. Dorian picked up the hoe and made the proper adjustment of the water flow. "How long will it take for the water to reach the bottom of the row?" he asked.

"About fifteen minutes."

"And how many rows remain?"

Carlia counted. "Twelve," she said.

"All right. This is a small stream and will only allow for three rows at a time. Three into twelve is four, and four times fifteen is sixty. It is now half past ten. We'll get through by twelve o'clock easy."

"You'd better go home. I'm all right now. I'm not afraid."

"I said we will get home. Sit down here on the bank. Are you cold?" He took off his coat and placed it about her shoulders. She made no objections, though in truth she was not cold.

"Tell me about the party," she said.

He told her who were there, and how they had missed her.

"And did Uncle Zed preach?"

"Preach? O, yes, he talked mighty fine. I wish I could tell you what he said."

"What was it about?"

"About God," he answered reverently.

"Try to tell me, Dorian. I need to know. I'm such a dunce."

Dorian repeated in his way Uncle Zed's argument, and he succeeded fairly well in his presentation of the subject. The still night under the shining stars added an impressive setting to the telling, and the girl close by his side drank in hungrily every word. When the water reached the end of the rows, it was turned into others, until all were irrigated. When that was accomplished, Dorian's watch showed half past eleven. He picked up the lantern and the hoe, and they walked back to the house.

"The party was quite complete, after all," he said at the door. "I've enjoyed this little after-affair as much as I did the party."

"I'm glad," she whispered.

"And it was wonderfully good of you to give me that present."

"I'm glad," she repeated.

"Do you know what I was thinking about when I opened the book and saw it was from you?"

"No; what?"

"Why, I thought, we'll read this book together, you and I."

"Wouldn't that be fine!"

"We can't do that now, of course; but after a while when we get more time. I'll not read it until then.... Well, you're tired. Go to bed. Good night, Carlia."

"Goodnight, Dorian, and thank you for helping me."

They stood close together, she on the step above him. The lamp, placed on the kitchen table for her use, threw its light against the glass door which formed a background for the girl's roughened hair, soiled and sweat-stained face, and red, smiling lips.

"Goodnight," he said again; and then he leaned forward and kissed her.



CHAPTER TEN.

That goodnight's kiss should have brought Dorian back to Carlia sooner than it did; but it was nearly a month before he saw her again. The fact that it was the busiest time of the year was surely no adequate excuse for this neglect. Harvest was on again, and the dry-farm called for much of his attention. Dorian prospered, and he had no time to devote to the girls, so he thought, and so he said, when occasion demanded expression.

One evening while driving through the city and seeing the lights of the moving picture theatre, he was reminded of his promise to Carlia. His conscience pricked him just a little, so the very next evening he drove up to Farmer Duke's. Seeing no one choring about, he went into the house and inquired after Carlia. Mrs. Duke told him that Carlia had gone to the city that afternoon. She was expected back any minute, but one could never tell, lately, when she would get home. Since this Mr. Lamont had taken her to the city a number of times, she had been late in getting home.

"Mr. Lamont?" he inquired.

"Yes; haven't you met him? Don't you know him?"

"No; who is he?"

"Dorian, I don't know. Father seems to think he's all right, but I don't like him. Oh, Dorian, why don't you come around oftener?"

Mrs. Duke sank into a chair and wiped away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron. Dorian experienced a strange sinking of the heart. Again he asked who this Mr. Lamont was.

"He's a salesman of some kind, so he says. He drives about in one of those automobiles. Surely, you have seen him—a fine-looking fellow with nice manners and all that, but—"

"And does Carlia go out with him?"

"He has taken her out riding a number of times. He meets her in the city sometimes. I don't know what to make of it, Dorian. I'm afraid."

Dorian seemed unable to say anything which would calm the mother's fears. That Carlia should be keeping company with someone other than himself, had never occurred to him. And yet, why not? she was aid enough to accept attention from young men. He had certainly neglected her, as the mother had implied. The girl had such few opportunities for going out, why should she not accept such as came to her. But this stranger, this outsider! Dorian soon took his departure.

He went home, unhitched, and put up his horse; but instead of going into the house, he walked down to the post office. He found nothing in his box. He felt better in the open, so he continued to walk. He had told his mother he was going to the city, so he might as well walk that way. Soon the lights gleamed through the coming darkness. He went on with his confused thoughts, on into the city and to the moving picture show. He bought a ticket and an attendant led him stumbling in the dark room to a seat.

It was the first time he had been there. He and Carlia were going together. It was quite wonderful to the young man to see the actors moving about lifelike on the white screen. The story contained a number of love-making scenes, which, had they been enacted in real life, in public as this was, they would certainly have been stopped by the police. Then there was a comic picture wherein a young fellow was playing pranks on an old man. The presentation could hardly be said to teach respect for old age, but the audience laughed uproariously at it.

When the picture closed and the lights went on, Dorian turned about to leave, and there stood Carlia. A young man was assisting her into her light wraps. She saw him, so there was no escape, and they spoke to each other. Carlia introduced her escort, Mr. Lamont.

"Glad to know you," said Mr. Lamont, in a hearty way. "I've known of you through Miss Duke. Going home now?"

"Yes," said Dorian.

"Drive?"

"No; I'm walking."

"Then you'll ride with us. Plenty of room. Glad to have you."

"Thank you, I—"

"Yes, come," urged Carlia.

Dorian hesitated. He tried to carry an independent manner, but Mr. Lamont linked his arm sociably with Dorian's as he said:

"Of course you'll ride home with us; but first we'll have a little ice cream."

"No thanks," Dorian managed to say. What more did this fellow want of him?

However, as Dorian could give no good reason why he should not ride home with them, he found no way of refusing to accompany them to a nearby ice-cream parlor. Mr. Lamont gave the order, and was very attentive to Carlia and Dorian. It was he who kept the flow of conversation going. The other two, plainly, were not adept at this.

"What did you think of the show, Mr. Trent?"

"The moving pictures are wonderful, but I did not like the story very much."

"It was rotten," exclaimed the other in seeming disgust. I did not know what was on, or I should not have gone. Last week they had a fine picture, a regular classic. Did you see it?

"No; in fact, this is my first visit."

"Oh, indeed. This is Miss Duke's second visit only."

Under the bright lights Carlia showed rouge on her cheeks, something Dorian had never seen on her before. Her lips seemed redder than ever, and he eyes shone with a bright luster. Mr. Lamont led them to his automobile, and then Dorian remembered the night when this same young man with the same automobile had stopped near Carlia's home. Carlia seated herself with the driver, while Dorian took the back seat. They were soon speeding along the road which led to Greenstreet. The cool night air fanned Dorian's hot face. Conversation ceased. Even Carlia and the driver were silent. The moon peeped over the eastern hills. The country-side was silent. Dorian thought of the strange events of the evening. This Mr. Lamont had not only captured Carlia but Dorian also. "If I were out with a girl," reasoned Dorian, "I certainly wouldn't want a third person along if I could help it." Why should this man be so eager to have his company? Dorian did not understand, not then.

In a short time they drove up to Carlia's gate, and she and Dorian alighted. The driver did not get out. The machine purred as if impatient to be off again and the lamps threw their streams of light along the road.

"Well, I shall have to be getting back," said Mr. Lamont. "Goodnight, Miss Duke. Thanks for your company. Goodnight, Mr. Trent; sure glad to have met you."

The machine glided into the well-worn road and was off. The two stood looking at it for a moment. Then Carlia moved toward the house.

"Come in" she said.

He mechanically followed. He might as well act the fool to the end of the chapter, he thought. It was eleven by the parlor clock, but the mother seemed greatly relieved when she saw Dorian with her daughter. Carlia threw off her wraps. She appeared ill at ease. Her gaiety was forced. She seemed to be acting a part, but she was doing it poorly. Dorian was not only ill at ease himself, but he was bewildered. He seated himself on the sofa. Carlia took a chair on the other side of the room and gazed out of the window into the night.

"Carlia, why did you—why do you," he stammered.

"Why shouldn't I?" she replied, somewhat defiantly as if she understood his unfinished question.

"You know you should not. It's wrong. Who is he anyway?"

"He at least thinks of me and wants to show me a good time, and that's more than anybody else does."

"Carlia!"

"Well, that's the truth." She arose, walked to the table in the middle of the room and stood challengingly before him. "Who are you to find fault? What have you done to—"

"I'll admit I've done very little; but you, yourself."

"Never mind me. What do you care for me? What does anybody care?"

"Your mother, at least."

"Yes, mother; poor, dear mother.... Oh, my God, I can't stand it, I can't stand it!" With a sob she broke and sank down by the table, hiding her face in her arms. Dorian arose to go to her. The door opened, and the mother appeared.

"What is it, Carlia," she asked in alarm.

The girl raised her head, swiftly dashed the tears from her eyes, then with a sad effort to smile, said:

"Nothing, mother, nothing at all. I'm going to bed. Where's father?"

"He was called out to Uncle Zed's who is sick. Dorian's mother is there with him too, I understand."

"Then I'd better go for her," said the young man. "I'll say goodnight. Poor Uncle Zed; he hasn't been well lately. Goodnight Sister Duke, goodnight Carlia."

Carlia stood in the doorway leading to the stairs. "Goodnight, Dorian," she said. "Forgive me for being so rude."

He stepped toward her, but she motioned him back, and than ran up the carpetless stairs to her room. Dorian went out in the night. With a heavy heart he hurried down the road in the direction of Uncle Zed's home.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Uncle Zed's illness did not prove fatal, though it was serious enough. In a few days he was up and about again, slowly, quietly providing for his simple needs. However, it was plainly evident that he had nearly come to the end of his earthly pilgrimage.

After the most pressing fall work had been disposed of, Dorian spent as much of his spare time as possible with the old man, who seemed to like the company of the younger man better than anyone else in the village; and Dorian, for his part, took delight in visiting with him, in helping him with the heaviest of his not heavy chores. Especially, was it pleasant during the lengthening evening with a small fire and the lamp newly trimmed. Uncle Zed reclined in his easy chair, while Dorian sat by the table with books and papers. Their conversations ranged from flower gardens to dry-farms, and from agnosticism to the highest degrees of the celestial glory. And how they both reveled in books and their contents on the occasions when they were alone and unhampered by the unsympathetic minds of others.

"As you see, Dorian," said Uncle Zed on one such Sunday evening, "my collection of books is not large, but they are such that I can read and read again."

"Where is your 'Drummond's Natural Law'?" asked Dorian.

Uncle Zed looked about. "I was reading it this morning. There it is on the window." Dorian fetched him the volume.

"When I read Drummond's work," continued the old man, "I feel keener than ever my lack of scientific knowledge. I have always had a desire to delve into nature's laws through the doors of botany, zoology, mineralogy, chemistry, and all the other sciences. I have obtained a smattering only through my reading. I realize that the great ocean of truth is yet before me who am now an old man and can never hope in this life to explore much further."

"But how is it, Uncle Zed," enquired Dorian, "that so many scientists have such little faith?"

"'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life,' The Spirit has taught us Dorian, that this world is God's world, and that the laws which govern here and now are the same eternal laws which have always been in operation; that we have come to this world of element to get in touch with earthly forms of matter, and become acquainted with the laws which govern them. Drummond has attempted to prove that the laws which prevail in the temporal world about us also hold good in the spiritual world, and he has made out a very good case, I think; but neither Drummond nor anybody else not endowed by the gift of the Holy Ghost, can reach the simple ultimate truth. That's why I have been looking for some young man in the Church who could and would make it his life's mission and work to learn the truths of science and harmonize them where necessary with the revealed truth—in fact, to complete what Henry Drummond has so well begun." The old man paused, then looking steadily at Dorian, said: "That's what I expect you to do."

"I? Oh, do you think I could?"

"Yes; it would not be easy, but with your aptness and your trend of mind, and your ability to study long and hard, you could, with the assistance of the Spirit of God, accomplish wonders by the time you are as old as I."

The young man mildly protested, although the vision of what might be thrilled his being.

"Don't forget what I am telling you, Dorian. Think and pray and dream about it for a time, and the Lord will open the way. Now then, we are to discuss some of Drummond's problems, were we not?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to. Are you comfortable? Shall I move your pillow?"

"I'm resting very easily, thank you. Just hand me the book. Drummond's chapter on Biogenesis interests me very much. I cannot talk very scientifically, Dorian, on these things, but I hope to talk intelligently and from the large viewpoint of the gospel. Here is a paragraph from my book which I have marked and called 'The Wall Between.' I'm sure you will remember it. Let us read it again:

"'Let us first place," he read from the book, 'vividly in our imagination the picture of the two great Kingdoms of Nature, the inorganic and the organic, as these now stand in the light of the Law of Biogenesis. What essentially is involved in saying that there is no Spontaneous Generation of Life? It is meant that the passage from the mineral world is hermetically sealed on the mineral side. This inorganic world is staked off from the living world by barriers which have never yet been crossed from within. No change of substance, no modification of environment, no chemistry, no electricity, nor any form of energy, nor any evolution can endow any single atom of the mineral world with the attribute of life. Only by bending down into this dead world of some living form can these dead atoms be gifted with the properties of vitality, without this preliminary contact with life they remain fixed in the inorganic sphere forever. It is a very mysterious Law which guards in this way the portals of the living world. And if there is one thing in Nature more worth pondering for its strangeness it is the spectacle of this vast helpless world of the dead cut off from the living by the law of Biogenesis and denied forever the possibility of resurrection within itself. So very strange a thing, indeed, is this broad line in Nature, that Science has long sought to obliterate it. Biogenesis stands in the way of some forms of Evolution with such stern persistency that the assaults upon this law for number and thoroughness have been unparalleled. But, as we have seen, it has stood the test. Nature, to the modern eye, stands broken in two. The physical laws may explain the inorganic world; the biological laws may account for inorganic. But of the point where they meet, of that living borderland between the dead and the living, Science is silent. It is as if God had placed everything in earth and in heaven in the hands of Nature, but reserved a point at the genesis of Life for His direct appearing.'

"Drummond goes on to prove by analogy that the same law which makes such a separation between the higher and the lower in the natural world holds good in the spiritual realm, and he quotes such passages as this to substantiate his argument: 'Except a man is born again, he cannot enter the kingdom of God'. Man must be born from above. 'The passage from the natural world to the spiritual world is hermetically sealed on the natural side.' that is, man cannot by any means make his own unaided way from the lower world to the higher. 'No mental energy, no evolution, no moral effort, no evolution of character, no progress of civilization' can alone lift life from the lower to the higher. Further, the lower can know very little about the higher, for 'the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God; for they are foolishness to him; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned'. All of which means, I take it, that the higher must reach down to the lower and lift it up. Advancement in any line of progress is made possible by some directing power either seen or unseen. A man cannot simply grow better and better until in his own right he enters the kingdom of God'."

"But, Uncle Zed, are we not taught that we must work out our own salvation?" asked Dorian. "That is also scriptural."

"Yes; but wait; I shall come to that later. Let us go on with our reasoning and see how this law which Drummond points out—how it fits into the larger scheme of things as revealed to us Latter-day Saints. You remember some time ago in our talk on the law of eternal progress we established the truth that there always have been intelligences evolving from lower to higher life, which in the eternity of the past would inevitably lead to the perfection of Gods. This is plainly taught in Joseph Smith's statement that God was once a man like us, perhaps on an earth like this, working out His glorious destiny. He, then, has gone on before into higher worlds, gaining wisdom, power, and glory. Now, there is another law of the universe that no advancing man can live to himself alone. No man can grow by taking selfish thought to the process. He grows by the exercise of his faculties and powers for the benefit of others. Dorian, hand me the 'Pearl of Great price'."

Dorian found the book and handed it to the old man, who, finding the passage he wanted, continued: "Listen to this remarkable statement by the Lord: 'For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.' Just think what that means."

"What does it mean?"

"It means, my boy, that the way of progress is the way of unselfish labor. 'This is my work,' says the Lord, to labor for those who are yet on the lower rungs of the ladder, to institute laws whereby those below may climb up higher; (note I used the word climb, not float); to use His greater experience, knowledge, and power for others; to pass down to those in lower or primary stages that which they cannot get by self-effort alone. Let me say this in all reverence, they who attain to All Things do not greedily and selfishly cling to it, but pass it on to others. 'As one lamp lights another nor grows less, So kindliness enkindleth kindliness.' Yes; through great stress and sacrifice, they may do this, as witnessed in what our Father has done by endowing His Beloved Son with eternal life, and then giving Him to us. That Son was the 'Prince of Life.' He was the Resurrection and the Life.' He brought Life from the higher kingdom to a lower, its natural course through the ages. That is the only way through which it can come. And herein, to my humble way of thinking is the great error into which the modern evolutionist has fallen. He reasons that higher forms evolve from the initial and unaided movements of the lower. That is as impossible as that a man can lift himself to the skies by his boot-straps."

Dorian smiled at the illustration.

"Now, my boy, I want to make an application of these divine truths to us here and now. I'm not going to live here much longer."

"Uncle Zed!"

"Now, wait; it's a good thing that you nor anybody else can prevent me from passing on. I've wanted to live long enough to get rid of the fear of death. I have reached that point now, and so I am ready at any time, thank the Lord."

Uncle Zed was beautiful to look upon in the clear whiteness of his person and the peaceful condition of his spirit. The young listener was deeply impressed by what he was hearing. (He never forgot that particular Sunday afternoon).

"You asked me about working out our own salvation," continued Uncle Zed. "Let me answer you on that. There are three principles in the law of progress, all of them important: First, there must be an exercise of the will by the candidate for progression. He must be willing to advance and have a desire to act for himself. That is the principle of free agency. Second, he must be willing to receive help from a higher source; that is, he must place himself in a condition to receive life and light from the source of life and light. Third, he must be unselfish, willing, eager to share all good with others. The lack of any of these will prove a serious hindrance. We see this everywhere in the world.

"Coming back now to the application I mentioned. If it is God's work and glory to labor for those below Him, why should not we, His sons and daughters, follow His example as far as possible in our sphere of action? If we are ever to become like Him we must follow in His steps and do the things which He has done. Our work, also must be to help along the road to salvation those who are lower down, those who are more ignorant and are weaker than we."

"Which, Uncle Zed, you have been doing all your life."

"Just trying a little, just a little."

"And this will be as it already has been, your glory. I see that plainly."

"Why shouldn't it be everybody's work and glory! What a beautiful world this would be if this were the case!"

"Yes, truly."

"And see, Dorian, how this principle ties together the race from the beginning to the end, comparatively speaking. Yes, in this way will men and families and races and worlds be linked together in chains of love, which cannot be broken, worlds without end."

The old man's voice became sweet and low. Then there was silence for a few minutes. The clock struck ten.

"I must be going," said Dorian. "I am keeping you out of bed."

"You'll come again?"

"Oh, yes."

"Come soon, my boy. I have so much to tell you. I can talk so freely to you, something I cannot do to all who come here, bless their hearts. But you, my boy—"

He reached out his hand, and Dorian took it lovingly. There were tears in the old man's eyes.

"I'll not forget you," said Dorian, "I'll come soon and often."

"Then, good night."

"Good night," the other replied from the door as he stepped out into the night. The cool breeze swept over meadow and field. The world was open and big, and the young man's heart expanded to it. What a comfort to feel that the Power which rules the world and all the affairs of men is unfailing in its operations! What a joy to realize that he had a loving Father to whom he could go for aid! And then also, what a tremendous responsibility was on him because of the knowledge he already had and because of his God-given agency to act for himself. Surely, he would need light from on High to help him to choose the right!

Surely, he would.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

At the coming of winter, Uncle Zed was bedfast. He was failing rapidly. Neighbors helped him. Dorian remained with him as much as he could. The bond which had existed between these two grew stronger as the time of separation became nearer. The dying man was clear-minded, and he suffered very little pain. He seemed completely happy if he could have Dorian sitting by him and they could talk together. And these were wonderful days to the young man, days never to be forgotten.

Outside, the air was cold with gusts of wind and lowering clouds. Inside, the room was cosy and warm. A few of the old man's hardiest flowers were still in pots on the table where the failing eyes could see them. That evening Mrs. Trent had tidied up the room and had left Dorian to spend the night with the sick man. The tea-kettle hummed softly on the stove. The shaded lamp was turned down low.

"Dorian."

"Yes, Uncle Zed."

"Turn up the lamp a little. It's too dark in here."

"Doesn't the light hurt your eyes!"

"No; besides I want you to get me some papers out of that drawer in my desk."

Dorian fetched a large bundle of clippings and papers and asked if they were what he wanted.

"Not all of them just now; but take from the pile the few on top. I want you to read them to me. They are a few selections which I have culled and which have a bearing on the things we have lately been talking about."

The first note which Dorian read was as follows. "'The keys of the holy priesthood unlock the door of knowledge to let you look into the palace of truth'."

"That's by Brigham Young. You did not know that he was a poet as well as a prophet," commented the old man. "The next one is from him also."

"'There never was a time when there were not Gods and worlds, and when men were not passing through the same ordeals that we are now passing through. That course has been from all eternity and it is and will be to all eternity'."

"Now you know, Dorian, where I get my inspiration from. Read the next, also from President Young."

"'The idea that the religion of Christ is one thing, and science is another, is a mistaken idea, for there is no true science without religion. The fountain of knowledge dwells with God, and He dispenses it to His children as He pleases, and as they are prepared to receive it; consequently, it swallows up and circumscribes all'."

"Take these, Dorian; have them with you as inspirational mottoes for your life's work. Go on, there are a few more."

Dorian read again: "'The region of true religion and the region of a completer science are one.'—Oliver Lodge."

"You see one of the foremost scientists of the day agrees with Brigham Young," said Uncle Zed. "I think the next one corroborates some of our doctrine also."

Dorian read: "'We do not indeed remember our past, we are not aware of our future, but in common with everything else we must have had a past and must be going to have a future.'—Oliver Lodge."

Again he read: "'We must dare to extend the thought of growth and progress and development even up to the height of all that we can realize of the Supreme Being—In some part of the universe perhaps already the ideal conception has been attained; and the region of such attainment—the full blaze of self-conscious Deity—is too bright for mortal eyes, is utterly beyond our highest thoughts.'—Oliver Lodge."

Uncle Zed held out his hand and smiled. "There," he said in a whisper, "is a hesitating suggestion of the truth which we boldly proclaim."

"Now you are tired, Uncle Zed," said Dorian. "I had best not read more."

"Just one—the next one."

Dorian complied:

"'There are more lives yet, there are more worlds waiting, For the way climbs up to the eldest sun, Where the white ones go to their mystic mating, And the holy will is done. I'll find you there where our love life heightens— Where the door of the wonder again unbars, Where the old love lures and the old fire whitens, In the stars behind the stars'."

Uncle Zed lay peacefully on his pillow, a wistful look on his face. The room became still again, and the clock ticked away the time. Dorian folded up the papers which he had been told to keep and put them in his pocket. The rest of the package he returned to the drawer. He lowered the lamp again. Then he sat down and watched. It seemed it would not be long for the end.

"Dorian."

"Yes, Uncle Zed, can I do anything for you?"

"No"—barely above a whisper—"nothing else matters—you're a good boy—God bless you."

The dying man lay very still. As Dorian looked at the face of his friend it seemed that the mortal flesh had become waxen white so that the immortal spirit shone unhindered through it. The young man's heart was deeply sorrowful, but it was a sanctified sorrow. Twice before had death come near to him. He had hardly realized that of his father's and he was not present when Mildred had passed away; but here he was again with death, and alone. It seemed strange that he was not terrified, but he was not—everything seemed so calm, peaceful, and even beautiful in its serene solemnity.

Dorian arose, went softly to the window and looked out. The wind had quieted, and the snow was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes, When Dorian again went back to the bedside and looked on the stilled face of his friend, he gave a little start. He looked again closely, listening, and feeling of the cold hands. Uncle Zed was dead.

The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to overflowing at the funeral. Uncle Zed had gone about all his days in the village doing good. All could tell of some kind deed he had done, with the admonition that it should not be talked about. He always seemed humiliated when anyone spoke of these things in his hearing; but now, surely, there could be no objection to letting his good deeds shine before men.

Uncle Zed had left with the Bishop a written statement, not in the form of a will, wherein he told what disposition was to be made of his simple belongings. The house, with its few well tilled acres, was to go to the ward for the use of any worthy poor whom the Bishop might designate. Everything in the house should be at the disposal of Dorian Trent. The books, especially, should belong to him "to have and to hold and to study." Such books which Dorian did not wish to keep were to be given to the ward Mutual Improvement Library. This information the Bishop publicly imparted on the day of the funeral.

"These are the times," said the Bishop, "when the truth comes forcibly to us all that nothing in this world matters much or counts for much in the end but good deeds, kind words, and unselfish service to others. All else is now dross.... The mantle of Brother Zed seems to have fallen on Dorian Trent. May he wear it faithfully and well."

A few days after the funeral Dorian and his mother went to Uncle Zed's vacant home. Mrs. Trent examined the furnishings, while Dorian looked over the books.

"Is there anything here you want, mother? he asked.

"No; I think not; better leave everything, which isn't much, for those who are to live here. What about the books?'

"I'm going to take most of them home, for I am sure Uncle Zed would not want them to fall into unappreciating hands; but there's no hurry about that. We'll just leave everything as it is for a few days."

The next evening Dorian returned to look over again his newly-acquired treasures. The ground was covered with snow and the night was cold. He thought he might as well spend the evening, and be comfortable, so he made a fire in the stove.

On the small home-made desk which stood in the best-lighted corner, near to the student's hand were his well-worn Bible, his Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants. He opened the drawers and found them filled with papers and clippings, covering, as Dorian learned, a long period of search and collecting. He opened again the package which he had out the evening of Uncle Zed's death, and looked over some of the papers. These, evidently, had been selected for Dorian's special benefit, and so he settled himself comfortably to read them. The very first paper was in the old man's own hand, and was a dissertation on "Faith." and read thus: "Some people say that they can believe only what they can perceive with the senses. Let us see: The sun rises, we say. Does it? The earth is still. Is it? We hear music, we see beauty. Does the ear hear or the eye see? We burn our fingers. Is the pain in our fingers? I cut the nerves leading from the brain to these various organs, and then I neither hear nor see nor feel."

"How can God keep in touch with us?" was answered thus: "A ray of light coming through space from a star millions of miles away will act on a photographic plate, will eat into its sensitive surface and imprint the image of the star. This we know, and yet we doubt if God can keep in touch with us and answer our prayers."

Many people wondered why a man like Uncle Zed was content to live in the country. The answer seemed to be found in a number of slips:

"How peaceful comes the Sabbath, doubly blessed, In giving hope to faith, to labor rest. Most peaceful here:—no city's noise obtains, And God seems reverenced more where silence reigns."

Once Dorian had been called a "Clod hopper." As he read the following, he wondered whether or not Uncle Zed had not also been so designated, and had written this in reply:

"Mother Earth, why should not I love you? Why should not I get close to you? Why should I plan to live always in the clouds above you, gazing at other far-distant worlds, and neglecting you? Why did I, with others, shout with joy when I learned that I was coming here from the world of spirits? I answer, because I knew that 'spirit and element inseparately connected receiveth a fullness of joy.' I was then to get in touch with 'element' as I had been with 'spirit.' This world which I see with my natural eyes is the 'natural' part of Mother Earth, even as the flesh and bones and blood of my body is the element of myself, to be inseparately connected with my spirit and to the end that I might receive a fullness of joy. The earth and all things on it known by the term nature is what I came here to know. Nature, wild or tamed, is my schoolroom—the earth with its hills and valleys and plains, with its clouds and rain, with its rivers and lakes and oceans, with its trees and fruits and flowers, its life—about all these I must learn what I can at first hand. Especially, should I learn of the growing things which clothe the earth with beauty and furnish sustenance to life. Some day I hope the Lord will give me a small part of this earth, when it is glorified. Ah, then, what a garden shall I have!"

No one in Greenstreet had ever known Uncle Zed as a married man. His wife had died long ago, and he seldom spoke of her. Dorian had wondered whether he had ever been a young man, with a young man's thoughts and feelings; but here was evidence which dispelled any doubt. On a slip of paper, somewhat yellow with age, were the following lines, written in Uncle Zed's best hand:

"In the enchanted air of spring, I hear all Nature's voices sing, 'I love you'.

By bursting buds, by sprouting grass, I hear the bees hum as I pass, 'I love you'.

The waking earth, the sunny sky Are whispering the same as I, 'I love you'.

The song of birds in sweetest notes Comes from their bursting hearts and throats, 'I love you'."

"Oh, Uncle Zed!" said Dorian, half aloud, "who would have thought it!"

Near the top of the pile of manuscript Dorian found an envelope with "To Dorian Trent," written on it. He opened it with keen interest and found that it was a somewhat newly written paper and dealt with a subject they had discussed in connection with the chapter on Death in Drummond's book. Uncle Zed had begun his epistle by addressing it, "Dear Dorian" and then continued as follows:

"You remember that some time ago we talked on the subject of sin and death. Since then I have had some further thought on the subject which I will here jot down for you. You asked me, you remember, what sin is, and I tried to explain. Here is another definition: Man belongs to an order of beings whose goal is perfection. The way to that perfection is long and hard, narrow and straight. Any deviation from that path is sin. God, our Father, has reached the goal. He has told us how we may follow Him. He has pointed out the way by teaching us the law of progress which led Him to His exalted state. Sin lies in not heeding that law, but in following laws of our own making. The Lord says this in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88:

'That which breaketh a law, and abideth not by law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy, justice, nor judgement. Therefore, they must remain filthy still.'

"Now, keeping in mind that sin is the straying from the one straight, progressive path, let us consider this expression: 'The wages of sin is death'. This leads us to the question: what is death? Do you remember what Drummond says? He first explains in a most interesting way what life is, using the scientist's phrasing. A human being, for instance, is in direct contact with all about him—earth, air, sun, other human beings, etc. In biological language he is said to be 'in correspondence with his environment,' and by virtue of this correspondence is said to be alive. To live, a human being must continue to adjust himself to his environment. When he fails to do this, he dies. Thus we have also a definition of death. 'Dying is that breakdown in an organization which throws it out of correspondence with some necessary part of the environment.'

"Of course, these reasonings and deductions pertain to what we term he physical death; but Drummond claims that the same law holds good in the spiritual world. Modern revelation seems to agree with him. We have an enlightening definition of death in the following quotation from the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 29: 'Wherefore I the Lord God caused that he (Adam) should be cast out from the Garden of Eden, from my presence, because of his transgression, wherein he became spiritually dead, which is the first death, even that same death, which is the last death, which is spiritual, which shall be pronounced upon the wicked when I shall say Depart ye cursed'.

"It seems to me that there is a most interesting agreement here. Banishment from the place where God lives is death. By the operations of a natural law, a person who fails to correspond with a celestial environment dies to that environment and must go or be placed in some other, where he can function with that which is about him. God's presence is exalted, holy, glorified. He who is not pure, holy, glorified cannot possibly live there, is dead to that higher world. A soul who cannot function in the celestial glory, may do so in the terrestrial glory; one who cannot function in the terrestrial, may in the telestial; and one who cannot 'abide the law' or function in the telestial must find a place of no glory. This is inevitable—it cannot be otherwise. Immutable law decrees it, and not simply the ruling of an all wise power. The soul who fails to attain to the celestial glory, fails to walk in the straight and narrow path which leads to it. Such a person wanders in the by-paths called sin, and no power in the universe can arbitrarily put him in an environment with which he cannot function. 'To be carnally minded is death', said Paul. 'The wages of sin is death', or in other words, he who persistently avoids the Celestial Highway will never arrive at the Celestial Gate. He who works evilly will obtain evil wages. Anyway, what would it profit a man with dim eyesight to be surrounded with ineffable glory? What would be the music of the spheres to one bereft of hearing? What gain would come to a man with a heart of stone to be in an environment of perfect and eternal love!"

Dorian finished the reading and laid the paper on the desk. For some time he sat very still, thinking of these beautiful words from his dear friend to him. Surely, Uncle Zed was very much alive in any environment which his beautiful life had placed him. Would that he, Dorian, could live so that he might always be alive to the good and be dead to sin.

The stillness of the night was about him. The lamplight grew dim, showing the oil to be gone, so he blew out the smoking wick. He opened the stove door, and by the light of the dying fire he gathered up some books to take home. He heard a noise as if someone were outside. He listened. The steps were muffled in the snow. They seemed to approach the house and then stop. There was silence for a few minutes, then plainly he heard sobbing close to the door.

What could it mean? who could it be? Doubtless, some poor soul to whom Uncle Zed had been a ministering angel, had been drawn to the vacant house, and could not now control her sorrow. Then the sobbing ceased, and Dorian realized he had best find out who was there and give what help he could. He opened the door, and a frightened scream rang out from the surprised Carlia Duke who stood in the faint light from the open doorway. She stood for a second, then as if terror stricken, she fled.

"Carlia," shouted Dorian. "Carlia!"

But the girl neither stopped nor looked back. Across the pathless, snow-covered fields she sped, and soon became only a dark-moving object on the white surface. When she had entirely disappeared, Dorian went back, gathered up his bundles, locked the door, and went wonderingly and meditatingly home.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

It is no doubt a wise provision of nature that the cold of winter closes the activity in field and garden, thus allowing time for study by the home fire. Dorian Trent's library, having been greatly enlarged, now became to him a source of much pleasure and profit. Books which he never dreamed of possessing were now on his shelves. In some people's opinion, he was too well satisfied to remain in his cosy room and bury himself in his books; but his mother found no fault. She was always welcome to come and go; and in fact, much of the time he sat with her by the kitchen fire, reading aloud and discussing with her the contents of his book.

Dorian found, as Uncle Zed had, wonderful arguments for the truth of the gospel in Orson and Parley P. Pratt's works. In looking through the "Journal of Discourses," he found markings by many of the sermons, especially by those of Brigham Young. Dorian always read the passages thus indicated, for he liked to realize that he was following the former owner of the book even in his thinking. The early volumes of the "Millennial Star" contained some interesting reading. Very likely, the doctrinal articles of these first elders were no better than those of more recent writers, but their plain bluntness and their very age seemed to give them charm.

By his reading that winter Dorian obtained an enlarged view of his religion. It gave him vision to see and to comprehend better the whole and thus to more fully understand the details. Besides, he was laying a broad and firm foundation for his faith in God and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a faith which would stand him well in need when he came to delve into a faithless and a Godless science.

Not that Dorian became a hermit. He took an active part in the Greenstreet ward organizations. He was secretary of the Mutual, always attended Sunday School, and usually went to the ward dances. As he became older he overcame some of his shyness with girls; and as prosperity came to him, he could dress better and have his mass of rusty-red hair more frequently trimmed by the city barber. More than one of the discerning Greenstreet girls laid their caps for the big, handsome young fellow.

And Dorian's thoughts, we must know, were not all the time occupied with the philosophy of Orson Pratt. He was a very natural young man, and there were some very charming girls in Greenstreet. When, arrayed in their Sunday best, they sat in the ward choir, he, not being a member of the choir, could look at them to his heart's content, first at one and then at another along the double row. Carlia Duke usually sat on the front row where he could see her clearly and compare her with the others—and she did not suffer by the comparison.

Dorian now begin to realize that it was selfish, if not foolish, to think always of the dead Mildred to the exclusion of the very much alive Carlia. Mildred was safe in the world of spirits, where he would some day meet her again; but until that time, he had this life to live and those about him to think of. Carlia was a dear girl, beautiful, too, now in her maturing womanhood. None of the other girls touched his heart as Carlia. He had taken a number of them to dances, but he had always come back, in his thought, at least, to Carlia. But her actions lately had been much of a puzzle. Sometimes she seemed to welcome him eagerly when he called, at other times she tried to evade him. No doubt this Mr. Jack Lamont was the disturbing element. That winter he could be seen coming quite openly to the Duke home, and when the weather would permit, Carlia would be riding with him in his automobile. The neighbors talked, but the father could only shake his head and explain that Carlia was a willful girl.

Now when it seemed that Carlia was to be won by this very gallant stranger, Dorian began to realize what a loss she would be to him. He was sure he loved the girl, but what did that avail if she did not love him in return. He held to the opinion that such attractions should be mutual. He could see no sense in the old-time custom of the knight winning his lady love by force of arms or by the fleetness of horse's legs.

However, Dorian was not easy in his mind, and it came to the point when he suffered severe heartaches when he knew of Carlia's being with the stranger. The Christmas holidays that season were nearly spoiled for him. He had asked Carlia a number of times to go to the parties with him, but she had offered some excuse each time.

"Let her alone," someone had told him.

"No; do not let her alone," his mother had counseled; and he took his mother's advice.

Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meetings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in January, Dorian noticed the unusual pallor of her face. He wondered if she had been ill. He resolved to make another effort, for in fact, his heart went out to her. At the close of the meeting he found his way to her side as she was walking home with her father and mother. Dorian never went through the formality of asking Carlia if he might accompany her home. He had always taken it for granted that he was welcome; and, at any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's actions whether or not he was wanted.

"I haven't seen you for a long time," began Dorian by way of greeting.

The girl did not reply.

"Been sick?" he asked.

"Yes—no, I'm all right."

The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two young people to follow. Evidently, Carlia was very much out of sorts, but the young man tried again.

"What's the matter, Carlia?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my company."

No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents, as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian felt like turning about and going home, but he could not do that very well, so he went on to the gate, where he would have said goodnight had not Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and mother went to bed early, leaving the two young people by the dining-room fire.

They managed to talk for some time on "wind and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek, Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous.

"Carlia," he said, "why do you keep company with this Mr. Lamont?"

She was standing near the book-shelf with its meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his question.

"Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked.

"You know why you shouldn't."

"I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given, but—what am I to do. He's so nice, and a perfect gentleman. What harm is there?"

"Why do you say that to me, Carlia?"

"Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite him by the table. He was silent, and she repeated her question, slowly, carefully, and with emphasis. "Why not to you? Why should you care?"

"But I do care."

"I don't believe it. You have never shown that you do."

"I am showing it now."

"Tomorrow you will forget it—forget me for a month."

"Carlia!"

"You've done it before—many times—you'll do it again."

The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up to carry through something she had planned to do, something hard. She arose and stood by the table, facing him.

"I sometimes have thought that you cared for me—but I'm through with that now. Nobody really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand. I know how to milk and scrub and churn and clean the stable—an' that's what I do day in and day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save when he takes me away from it for a little while. He understands, he's the only one who does."

"But, Carlia!"

"You," she continued in the same hard voice, "you're altogether too good and too wise for such as I. You're so high up that I can't touch you. You live in the clouds, I among the clods. What have we two in common?"