She was the High Priestess. "I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk of being called mad. We shall have Mr. Oh, John. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. "I can't see him. "And now, to your own concerns.
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