In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart

from its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides.

 

It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as the bees

whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streets

rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long

streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever had

broken out in California, and the Overland Route lay through the City of the

Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying

pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of

their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her

way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her

fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out

behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and was dashing in

as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking

only of her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers

gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in

with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the

beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

 

She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road blocked by a

great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen from the

plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her

horse into what appeared to be a gap.