long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull murmur

in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the great

waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along once more.

The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed, led them to his

waggon, where a meal was already awaiting them.

 

“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have recovered from

your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are of our

religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph

Smith, which is the voice of God.”

 

CHAPTER II.

 

THE FLOWER OF UTAH.

 

This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the

immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of the

Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on

with a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage

beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease—every impediment which Nature could

place in the way, had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long

journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among

them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when

they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and

learned from the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that