He, poor meek Grind, not less meek and civil than of yore, sat down upon
a bench and burst into tears. They gathered round him in crowds, while
he told his tale. How they had, after innumerable hardships on the road,
too long to recite then, after losing some of their party by death, two
of his children being amongst them--how they had at length reached the
Salt Lake city, so gloriously depicted by Brother Jarrum. And what did
they find? Instead of an abode of peace and plenty, of luxury, of
immunity from work, they found misery and discomfort. Things were
strange to them, and they were strange in turn. He'd describe it all
another time, he said; but it was quite enough to tell them what it was,
by saying that he resolved to come away if possible, and face again the
hardships of the way, though it was only to die in the old land, than
he'd stop in it. Brother Jarrum was a awful impostor, so to have led 'em
away!
"Wasn't there no saints?" breathlessly asked Susan Peckaby, who had
elbowed herself to the front.
"Saints!" echoed Grind. "Yes, they be saints! A iniketous, bad-doing,
sensitive lot.
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