“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the advice of our fathers to solicit

the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and to her.

As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to me

that my claim is the stronger one.”

 

“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not how many

wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given over his mills

to me, and I am the richer man.”

 

“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the Lord removes my

father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I am your

elder, and am higher in the Church.”

 

“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking at his

own reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”

 

During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly able

to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

 

“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter summons

you, you can come, but until then I don’t want to see your faces again.”

 

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this competition

between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of honours both to her and