--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Carroll, Elsie Chamberlain collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 9 published: 1915-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Elsie Chamberlain Carroll, "The Crucial Test: Prize Story," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 9 (July 1915): 806–820.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1809unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1809unse start_page: 806 end_page: 820 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1809unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Crucial Test: Prize Story The Crucial Test* THE "IMPROVEMENT ERA" PRIZE STORY, APRIL CONTEST BY ELSIE CHAMBERLAIN CARROLL As Philip Pemberton emerged from the wretched tenement which he had been visiting to gather data for a paper in his soci- ology class, his attention was called to a group in the squalid alley, a few rods away. There appeared to be some unusual excitement. When he drew nearer, however, he heard oaths and cursing, and decided it was one of the drunken brawls for which the district was noted. He quickened his step, thinking to notify a police- man. As he was brushing past the outside of the group, a child's frightened scream pierced the air, followed by a quick protest from a woman's voice. He stopped. That voice sounded strangely out of keeping with the surroundings. It was full of anxious alarm and entreaty. "Stop him ! O, for the love of humanity, will not some of you stop him?" But the crowd only jeered. A thick voice from the outside called, "I thought that was what you was goin' ter do, Miss," and there was a laugh. "Yes," bullied another. "Less see you stop 'im. Ye've got a purty face. Mebby if ye'll give old Dunk a kiss he'll let the brat go." The crowd joined in the coarse, approving laugh, and someone else called out, "Hey, there Dunny, here's a purty -little Sunday school gal wants to kiss ye." "O, she does, does she? Wall, now the brat's got his deservin's. I reckon I kin tend t' her." The words' were punctuated with smothered hiccoughs. The spectators crowded closer. "Alright, honey, now fer that kiss." "Don't you dare to touch me, sir!" "Haw, haw. Listen, fellers. She dares ole Dunk t' kiss 'er." There was a scream, and Pemberton, who had been elbowing his way through the crowd, burst into the inner ring. He seized the ruffian by the collar of his ragged coat and sent him sprawling headlong to the ground. *This story won the $25 prize for April, in the Improvement Era, six months' contest, ending June, 1915. "Stand back, you cowards !" he commanded the crowd and, strangely enough, they obeyed. As a "cop" appeared, the crowd scattered in all directions. Pemberton found himself standing alone with the woman he had befriended, his hand still resting protectingly upon her arm. Not until then did he realize that he had seen the face before. "Why, Miss Benton !" he exclaimed. "How in the world did you get in a place like this?" "I came down to get material, for my paper, as I suppose you did," she began, her voice unsteady with emotion. "But did you not know you should never have come here alone?" "My cousin came with me, but he remembered that he was neglecting an important engagement, so he left me here, and was coming back for me. I had finished my work and stood in one of those dreadful halls looking out on this alley, when I saw a drunkard come reeling down the street. From a corner he dragged a little boy and began to beat him. I couldn't stand that, and. without thinking what I was doing, I rushed out to see if I couldn't stop him. Before I was aware, we were surrounded and ——I think you know the rest. O, here is Dick." She turned her agitated face in relief to the handsome young man who came swinging down the alley toward them. "O, Dick, I've had the most dreadful experience. Or would — have had, if it had not been for Mr. Pemberton. Excuse me this is Mr. Darrel, my cousin, Mr. Pemberton Mr. Pemberton is a ; member of our sociology class." The men shook hands, and the girl, still trembling and very pale, repeated her story to her cousin. "Why, Margie I wouldn't have had such a thing happen for anything in the world," the young man said in self condemnation. "What an idiot I was to leave you in such a place, even for a minute. Mr. Pemberton, we can't hope to thank you for what vou have done." "Please don't mention it," protested Philip. "I am very glad, indeed, that I was here to render the little service." "Well, I must get you home. You are as white and limp as a rag. What will your father say to me?" Richard Darrel took his cousin's arm. "We shall never forget this service. Mr. Pem- berton and we hope to know you better. Call on me at my rooms whenever you have time," and he handed Philip a card. "And you must let me thank you, when I can think a little better how,and father will want to see you also," the girl added handing him another card. "Your gratitude is unnecessary, but I shall be glad to see pocket-book. vou again," Philip replied, slipping the cards into his The next day Margaret Benton was not at school. Philip wondered if her experience the day before had made her ill. He thought of calling at her home, but decided it would be pre- sumptuous to force his acquaintance on the incident in the slums. He did not want gratitude for a service any gentleman would have rendered, and doubtless the invitations had been extended as a matter of simple courtesy. However, as Miss Benton did not ap- pear the next day Philip decided she must be ill and he was an- noyed that he could not keep his thoughts from recurring to their unusual meeting. He wondered if she were a school teacher like himself brushing up in summer school along her line. She must live in Chicago. He found himself wondering about her people and her home in a way that was becoming provoking. On the evening of the third day of her absence he took out her card and walked to the trolly, taking the car that led in the vicinity of the address. When Michigan Avenue was called he got off and looked around him. He was surprised to find himself in one of the best residence parts of the city. He walked along the street look- ing at the splendid homes set well back in beautifully kept grounds. He must have been mistaken in the address. He took out the card again and studied it by the light house just ahead of him. It stood white and distinctive with its heavy pillars and wide verandas. He was conscious of a vague feeling of disappointment. He had pictured her a struggling school teacher, in a humble home per- haps helping a poor father. He felt that he could not call at a place like this. Why he was not only a poor student, struggling through the university, but he was a despised "Mormon" as well. He turned and began to walk down the street. There was a step behind him and a friendly voice called out, "Why, hello, Pemberton. What are you doing away out here?" He turned to greet John Atkins his partner in the biology laboratory. "O, I was just roaming around a little, taking in the sights." "It's a fine old place, Chicago is, don't you think? I suppose you find it quite different to the west. I have an old aunt living on this avenue. She invites me up for supper occasionally and has me listen to her gossip about her aristocratic neighbors. She thinks old Chicago has all the people in the world who are worth anything. By the way, did you notice that big white place we passed just now. That's Samuel E. Benton's, the writer you know. Aunt Henry seems to know all about him. She says he's writing a new book now on 'Problems of the Slums.' " Philip was silently thankful he had not thrust his presence upon this distinguished man. His companion rattled on. "The old man has a daughter, aunt says, who bids fair to be- come as well known as her father. With all her wealth and station, however, she perfectly simple and natural and helps her is father with his work. She is in school now reviewing up along her line. Why maybe you have seen her. She ought to be in your sociology class." "Yes, I think I have seen her," Philip answered, but he admit- ted nothing further. They soon reached the corner and Philip bade his companion good night and ran to catch his car. Somehow he could not get over his disappointment in finding the brown-eyed girl he had befriended, in a class so different to his own. He discovered that he had been hoping the acquaintance started in the slums that day might grow into friendship, for Margaret Benton had a personal appeal to him he had never felt before. However, he took himself to task before he went to sleep that night for allowing his mind to be disturbed by a woman he had known scarcely a week, a woman so far above him in the financial world, and moreover, a woman not of his own faith. Assuring himself that he would think no more about her, he went to sleep in his dreams however, he lived again, with peculiar ; variations, that afternoon in the slums when he had rescued her. The next day when he reached the door of the sociology class room he found Margaret Benton waiting for him. She held out her hand in easy friendliness, and said half in jest, "I think you might have called when I've been sick from the fright I got that day in the slums." Philip's heart, in spite of all his resolves, rushed in an extra beat as his hand touched her small, pink fingers. "I'm sorry you have been ill and am very glad to see you back," he assured her as they walked into the class room to- gether. "Since you have not accepted that general invitation I gave you to come and see us, I'm going to give you a special one," the girl continued with a fascinating frankness as they sat clown on the front bench. "Father wants you to come and take dinner with us tomorrow evening. Dick will be there, my cousin, you know. We will expect you at six o'clock." Just then the professor came in and the lecture commenced. When the class was dismissed, Margaret warned Philip not to forget, and left him wondering why he had not offered some excuse. The next evening the western boy approached the big white house with considerable trepidation. Margaret, herself, met him at the door and took him into the library to her father and cousin. The old gentleman referred to the incident of the slums in a few grateful words which in no way embarrassed Philip, then fell to talking of other things and set the young man perfectly at his ease. Philip was surprised that he could feel so in the presence of this eminent man whose works he had often read and admired. ; He had never thought before that true greatness is always ac- companied by simplicity. Richard Darrel was extremely pleasant and the conversation flowed smoothly from one topic to another until dinner was an- nounced. Mr. Benton asked Philip to take Margaret in. Some- how he felt that he had always known these people who, only the night before had seemed to belong to a world he had never entered. After all, he thought, we are all brothers and sisters why should a few dollars or a little learning set barriers between kindred souls. The simple, but well prepared and served meal was eaten amid interesting discussions on various subjects. When it was over, the host invited his guests to join him in a smoke. "I never smoke," Philip admitted, and he was ashamed of the embarrassment he felt in making the admission. He had always been proud of the fact before. "Very well, go into the drawing room and let my daughter entertain you until we are through." "You are from the West, aren't you Mr. Pemberton?" Margaret asked when they were alone. "Yes," Phil replied, then added with a laugh, "Am I so 'wild and woolly' you can tell it by my looks?" "O, no, indeed !But you western men always seem so clean— — —and strong and manly." She flushed, conscious that she really had not intended to say it just that way. Philip's color also heightened at this compliment so frank and unstudied from the lips of this lovely girl. "I thank you for myself and fellow westerners," he said. "And I hope we may all prove your first generous opinion cor- rect." "Just where is your home?" was Margaret's next question, as if she wanted to get the conversation on a little less personal foot- ing. "Idaho," Philip answered shortly. He realized that here was his chance to introduce his real self. He should have added that until three years before he had lived in Utah, that he was a "Mormon" and that when he returned West after the Summer semester he was to enter a "Mormon" college. He had intended to say all this when the opportunity came, and to add that he was proud of those facts. Long ago Philip had resolved to be a self appointed missionary at all times. And here certainly was a woman he might well be proud to convert. But somehow the seconds passed and the words he had intended to say did not come to him. The girl commenced talking of other things and soon her father and cousin joined them. His opportunity had been neg- lected and did not present itself again. Somehow all the rest of the evening Philip felt as if he were wearing false colors. When it was time for his departure and his new friends insisted so warmly upon his coming again soon, he found himself wondering if the invitation would be just as cordial if they knew he was a "Mormon." The thought made him miserable as he rode toward his rooming house. He had a good deal to think about that night, but the thing which claimed his attention most was the startling realization of an indefinable something he had never felt before in his attitude toward Margaret Benton. Again he told himself that the only sane thing to do was to let their acquaintance stop just where it was and not think of her any more. This latter condition he soon found himself quite unable to control. It made no difference what channel he turned his thoughts into, something she had said, or a gesture of her hand or a gleam of her eye would creep between him and his purpose. At last he was forced to face the fact that he was in love. The fact once admitted called for a solution of certain ob- stacles. Perhaps it was a little strange that her station did not appeal to him as an insurmountable barrier. He was, as she had said, strong and clean and manly. Those qualities, he felt, were more to a woman like her than wealth and social position, things to be at- tained with courage and persistence. He was young and the future was all before him. The present was full of youth's faith and courage. After studying the situation for a little time, the only obstacle that Philip Pemberton could see that lay in the way of his trying to win Margaret Benton was the fact that she did not belong to his religion, and that she belonged to a class so hard to reach with the gospel. He decided that he must make a clean breast of it. He would tell her who he was and ask for a chance to make her under- stand his views. But when he saw her the next day and asked her to walk with him on the campus, the task seemed too great. He was over- whelmed with the certainty that she would scorn him if she knew, and he could not bear the thought of losing his chance with her. A week went by in which he saw her every day. They were working out their papers on the slums and were much together could not find the but still Phil, miserable as his silence made him, courage to speak. Then one night a brilliant idea came to him. Why not convert her without her "knowledge or consent." He lay awake for illustrations he could use hours thinking of bits of argument and in their conversations, to develop his plan. He changed the out- paper and brought in some "Mormon" doctrine in a line for his strong and convincing way. his plan worked admirably. Margaret would From the first sitand look at him with her great serious eyes as he explained some new principle, then she would exclaim, "How plain and beautiful that is. It seems strange we have never heard it that way before." One day she remarked half jestingly, "What a splendid the- ologian you would make ! Why you should organize a new creed. Your doctrines are more convincing and satisfying than anything I have ever heard." "If I should, would you join it?" he asked quickly, trying to keep his real earnestness from his voice. His heart skipped a beat as he waited for her answer. "I certainly would," she replied with a laugh, and Phil left her with a happy thrill in his heart. One by one, in this way, Phil had made her acquainted with the principles of the gospel. He spent many evenings in her home. Often her father and cousin joined in their discussions. Philip was sometimes a little uneasy with the men, thinking that they might have heard enough about "Mormonism" to discover him and he was not ready yet. The weeks passed by all too rapidly for the young man. The summer semester would soon be over and he would return to take a position in a Utah college. His love for Margaret Benton had grown with their constant association, but never once had he per- mitted himself to suggest his real feelings for her. Outwardly they were good comrades, that was all. It would not be honorable, he told himself, to try to win her until she knew. He was sure that she liked him, and his own love gave him hope that he would be able to win her. The last week of school was over. Philip had planned to leave Chicago the following Tuesday.. ; Some business for a western friend would keep him busy Monday. He was in a state of anxious excitement. He must reveal his secret to Margaret and learn how his test was to be received. He was trying to decide how he could best break the news to her when he learned that Elder T from Utah was visiting for a few days in Chicago and would speak to the branch of the Church Sunday evening. Elder T was to Philip an ideal man and one of the most elo- quent speakers in the Church. His problem solved itself. He would take Margaret to church with him Sunday evening. Margaret had invited him to take dinner with her Sunday afternoon. Her father was present, but excused himself soon afterwards as he had promised to read some of his manuscript to a friend. "How shall we spend the evening?" The girl asked when they were alone. "Why not go to church?" Phil suggested his heart beating rapidly. "O, I guess I'm a sort of heathen. I don't seem to care much for church. It's the same old things always harped upon in the same old way. I have a new book on an interesting economic problem. I believe we would enjoy looking over that." "No, let's got to church. I promise to take you where you will hear something absolutely new from the pulpit." He tried not to appear too eager. "Well, if you promise that I'll risk it." She put on her things and they left the house. Phil forced himself to keep up a lively conversation. He did — not want her to ask questions not yet. They had a long ride and when they left the car he led her to the unpretentious room in an old G. A. R. house where the saints and elders were gathering. His heart was in a tumult of mingled hope and fear. What if she only spurned him when she found out his deception. The thought sent a pang through his heart. He was just beginning to realize how much she meant to him. Several people nodded to him as he led his companion to a seat in rear of the room. "You have been here before?" Margaret asked. "Yes, I come most every Sunday." The services commenced, with congregational singing. The hymn was "O, My Father." Phil furtively watched the face of the girl beside him. Her eyes were bright and her lips slightly parted with sudden interest. He felt a warm glow in her heart. Surely she would under- stand —and believe. The thought took the form of a silent prayer. He was conscious "O God, help her to understand and believe." that his whole life's happiness rested on the present hour. As they ^ sat down Margaret leaned toward him and whispered, "You are right. I've heard something new already. That song! There's something to think about in that." After the prayer which followed. Elder T was introduced. He announced that he had been requested by some of the saints to speak upon pre-existence. He began his sermon with the quo- :" tation from Wordsworth's "Ode to Immortality "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, Nor in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God who is our home." Then he went on in his own masterful way developing his theme He gave references from the Bible and finally pictured the distinctly "Mormon" idea of the subject, on similar lines as o-iven in Nephi Anderson's little story, Added Upon. Emphasizing this part of his sermon he read the beautiful little poem from the pen of Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "A Girl's :" Faith "Across the miles that stretch between, Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen Which yet doth make my world more bright. "He may be near, he may be far, Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star He yet will rise and come to me. "What though life leads us different ways, The world is round, and time is fleet, A journey of a few brief days, And face to face we two shall meet. "Shall meet beneath God's arching skies, While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other's eyes Shall hold the past but as a dream. "But round and perfect and complete, Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet Together toward the Infinite." Margaret Benton was leaning forward drinking in every word as a thirsty flower drinks in the sunlight. To Phil her beau- tiful face seemed transfigured with some deep emotion. He was looking at her with his own love all undisguised in his eyes when she lifted her gaze to him. That fleeting glance sent the man's pulses throbbing with a joy for which he had not dared to hope. He noted that the small hand lying in the girl's lap trembled. He had a longing desire to cover it with his own strong, brown hand, but the place forbade. The heavenly ecstasy of that moment was not to last, however. Up to this time there had not been a word in the sermon to designate the speaker's creed. These were the words which now fell from his lips, "Now and then, as we have seen, has a poet with prophetic vision, stood up in the path of the world's progress and given voice to this pre-existent truth but it remained for the Latter- ; day Saints, the despised 'Mormons,' to proclaim it to the world." Philip Pemberton knew that the crucial moment had come. In an agony of hope and fear he breathed again, "O, God, help her to understand and believe." Margaret Benton straightened. For a moment a dazed ex- pression crossed her face. She wondered if she had heard aright. Her cheeks turned white and with surprise and inquiry in her eyes she looked at the man beside her. For one second he wav- ered, then with that prayer throbbing in his heart he met her gaze, steady, unflinching and with a yearning plea in his eye. She read the truth in his face. He saw her hands clutch unsteadily for control, then she whispered in a cold, tense voice, "I !" wish to go home at once Philip arose and followed her to the door. Outside he stumbled blindly beside her, dumb with the feeling that all was lost. He wanted to explain but words refused to come. They reached the car in silence. It was crowded. He found a place for her and stood near in utter misery as they were carried toward her home. She sat silent and rigid without one glance in his direction. Philip began to feel that he was indeed as black a criminal as her manner suggested. He had been a coward. He had deceived her. No wonder she despised him. He loathed himself. He was not worthy of the religion he had been trying to teach to her. They reached Michigan Ave., and left the car. In silence they approached her home. When they reached the veranda she faced him. "You, you are a 'Mormon'." The calm scorn in the voice cut deep. But it roused in him a sense of pride and honor he thought was dead. He no longer cowered beneath her gaze, but stood erect with his head and shoulders back. "Yes, Miss Benton, I am a 'Mormon,' and I am proud of it!" He was going to proceed, but she cut him short. "And you dared to come here, hiding who you were and teach — — me to " She stopped and a painful, crimson flush covered her face. The words she would have said were apparent, and sent the man's heart beating wildly. He started toward her with passion- ate pleading words on his lips, but she spurned him back. "Don't touch me ! No matter how I felt toward you an hour ago, I despise you now. You are a coward as well as a 'Mor- mon,' and I never want to see you again." She turned and would have rushed into the house, but he sprang past her and stood between her and the door. — "Margaret Miss Benton, you must hear me. Your past- I'll admit friendship and my own love give me the right to speak. I should have told you at first who I was, but would you have listened to me then? You know that the unjust prejudice you Be- have shown tonight would have shut your door upon me. would you you heard cause I was sure mv religion appeal to if so much to it and most of all because I loved you and wanted my creed without naming have you believe, I tried to teach you prayed that you might understand and be- it I have hoped and lieve Every day during the past weeks you have acknowledged some part of 'Mormonism.' You have said the principles were satisfying truths. Can they be less true because they are the guide of a misjudged people? Won't you let me talk it all over with vou once more, now you know what I am ? " "No, no. You are a 'Mormon!' I despise you. Let me go into the house." "Margaret—" "'Don't speak to me like that. Let me pass or I shall call my father." He stepped back and she flew to the door. "Good bye and God bless you," Philip whispered hoarsely. For a second the girl hesitated on the threshold, then she closed the door and rushed to her own room. Slowly Philip walked down the path from Margaret's splendid home. The future yawned before him like an ugly, empty chasm. The next morning Richard Darrel ran into his uncle's to Margaret had spent a sleepless night invite his cousin for a ride. and had not come down until after her father had left the house on some business. "Why, hello, Margie. What's the matter?" was her cousin's greeting. "Nothing," she answered with a forced smile. "Nothing? Well, you look like seven funerals. Come Margie, tellyour old pal. What is the trouble?" "Did you know that Phil Pemberton is a 'Mormon?'" she asked without more urging. The young man's expression and long low whistle was quite what she had expected. "O, come off, Margie. Someone must be twisted. Who told you?" "He told me himself." "Well, the hound! What's he been skulking around here for? Preaching his infamous dope to us I suppose, and trying to win you on the side. The dog! I'll show him!" The young man paced up and down the room giving vent to his outraged temper. Suddenly he seized his hat and started for the door. "Why, Dick, what are you going to do?" Margaret de- manded, an unexplainable fear clutching her heart. During the long hours of the night the girl had faced the future without the strong, manly Westerner who had come so strangely into her life. "I'm going to horsewhip him to begin with, confound his — "O, Dick, don't— don't do anything like that." Richard Darrel turned a searching look upon his cousin's face. "Margaret, surely you are not in love with the whelp?"— "Why, no, of course I'm not," lied the girl's lips, but her burning cheeks and heaving chest told him the truth. "Margaret, he may have two or three wives already in Utah." "Dick!" The girl protested with a little sob. "You know he is not that kind." ; — "Well, you said he was a 'Mormon' and " but he stopped, touched into compassion at the girl's face. His manner suddenly changed. "Look here, Margaret, he's in love with you. That's been easy to see since that day in the slums. Why don't you put him to the test. Ask him to give up that bunch. I know a dozen fellows who would give up all the religions in the world for you, if you asked them to." Just then Mr. Benton came in. "What's the discussion?" he asked sensing something un- usual in the atmosphere. " "Our friend, Pemberton, has turned out to be a 'Mormon,' Dick explained. "What! A 'Mormon'?" "Yes, a 'Mormon.' Who would have thought it?" The old man sank into a chair. "Well, well, and I suppose he has been preaching to us all summer and we didn't know it. He had some unusual theories some interesting theories! but a 'Mormon!' He's a decent sort of fellow himself. It's too bad. I was really quite taken with him. It's a shame for young men of his^ type to remain blind, simply because they were born that way." The old man's face registered a sudden inspiration. "I think I'll have to open his eyes for him the next time he comes." "There will not be any next time. I. told him not to come daughter, but again," said Margaret. The old man looked at his he failed to read what the younger man had perceived. should "Well, now, that was hardly just, daughter. Everyone until he taught to see dif- be respected in his sincere views, is Richard if you know where the young man is staying ferently. I wish you would invite him up this evening." As Philip approached the Benton home that evening in re- Darrel's telephone message, his mind was in sponse to Richard to meet an outraged a tumult. He was trying to prepare himself He was shown into the library where Mr. Benton waited father. arose and offered As the old man his hand Phil felt an alone. immense relief. , _ T 1 suppose I should i i "I just learned that you are a 'Mormon. I ignorance of the fact so have you explain why you kept us in I feel an uncommon long, but we will not trouble to go into that. you and realizing that you are unjustly blinded by a interest in if I cannot open your eyes for false religion I should like to see of use fulness in the you. Such men as you should find a place they humanity because, unfortunately, world and not be lost to corrupt religion. were born under the influence of a with an effort he The young man felt his blood rising, but kept his voice calm. "Excuse me, Mr. Benton, but I cannot remain and have you talk so about my creed. I shall be pleased, however, to discuss " with you any phase of 'Mormonism.' "Discuss it all. Tell, me what it is that holds a young, in- telligent man to a thing like that?" "Why, it is the thing itself. It is my certainty that 'Mor- monism' is the true plan of salvation. Listen to the first articles of our faith." He drew a little card from his pocket which he handed to his companion, then he repeated slowly and earnestly " the 'Articles of Faith.' "Is there anything corrupt in that, Mr. Benton? That is the foundation upon which our religion is based. 'Mormonism' should especially appeal to you, sir. It would solve your problems of the slums. In Utah we have no paupers. It would solve your social parasite problem. Our system of organization provides con- genial work for all." "But polygamy! What have you to say for that?" The writer demanded, thinking to strike the fatal blow. "You must realize that polygamy is a thing of the past in our Church, but it served its purpose well, In our pioneer days it was necessary for a rapid increase in population in order to carry on the work of a driven people. Polygamy provided that, and let me assure you, sir, there was nothing unholy in the prac- tice. No people can hold a higher, more holy view of marriage than do the Latter-day Saints. They marry for time and all eter- nity. I'm sure that polygamy, as practiced by the 'Mormons' would be a blessing and an uplift to humanity in many places in the world today. O, sir, it is a false notion you have when you think polygamy is another term for licentiousness. I wish I could take you into the homes of the few remnants of that practice that remain. You would find in those homes something you never felt before. It is a love purified, by self-sacrifice and suffering." Philip paused. His host was looking at him earnestly. "I believe you mean what you say. But you 'must be wrong. Surely if 'Mormonism' was all that you say the world would have recognized its worth long ago and not branded it as a curse." "Did the Jews recognize the worth of our Savior?" Philip asked gravely and the other man was silent. The door opened and a servant said that Mr. Benton was wanted at the telephone. He returned with an evidence of relief in his face. "I'm sorry to have to cut this interesting discussion short, Mr. Pemberton, but I am called suddenly away. I will send Margaret in to argue with you. Philip saw that the father did not understand the situation and he felt that he should protest, but the desire to see the girl he loved once more was too strong. Margaret was very pale as she entered. She extended her hand without a word and he took it in silence. She came and sat beside him. She tried to speak with her usual ease as she began, ''Come, Mr. Pemberton, we simply can't let you remain a 'Mormon.' Won't you let us rescue you? Think what you could do in the world if only you would pull away from them. Father could help you to a good position in a university, or in some im- portant settlement work. Won't you think about it?" He under- stood the deeper meaning back of her words. Her eyes burned with it. She was so close that he caught the fragrance of her hair. All the lure of the woman aided her. For a moment the man felt dizzy. He had only to say one word and he might take this woman in his arm, in his life. He closed his eyes to shut out the temptation. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and waited for self-mastery. It came. He looked steadily into her face. His voice sounded unnatural in his own ears. "You cannot know, Miss Benton, how hard this moment is for me. I would give up my life for you —but not my religion. There is no need of prolonging this interview so painful to us both." He arose and reached for his hat. The girl sat like a statue. He moved toward the door. She got to her feet and tried to speak but the words would not come. "Good bye, and God bless you," he repeated softly the words he had uttered the night before, then he went slowly out and down the marble steps. With bent head he walked toward the gate. There was a quick swing of a door behind him and a hur- ried step on the path. — "Wait O, Philip, come back." The call came in tremulous catches. He turned. Margaret was standing like a beautiful phantom He took a step toward her in the moonlight, her hands extended. and stopped. Was this but a stronger temptation to draw, him from the Church? He stood trembling, his breath coming short and quick, but he did not move. A moment they stood so. The great compelling mystery of life seemed throbbing about them, then with a little cry the girl ran to him and he caught her in his arms. After a long, silent second she looked up and sobbed, "I thought— I— wanted— you to— give it up, but O, I don't. There must be something in it to hold a man like that. I would have despised you if you had given it up— for me. I don't just understand it all yet, but I will, I will learn to say I'm a 'Mor- mon' with a pride like yours." Suddenly the ugly empty chasm, which had been yawning lighted by before Philip Pemberton, changed to a glorious path Over him stole a great, calm peace, the conscious- love and joy. ness that he had stood the test— and won. PROVO, UTAH PRESIDENT ANGUS MUNN CANNON Born Liverpool, England, May 17, 1834; Died Salt Lake City, Utah, June 7, 1915. For short sketch see "Passing Events"