The girls watched her intently.

"An' letthers," suggested Bridget.

"To be sure—letters," said Esther, writing the word.

Then followed the organization of the girls' club, resulting in the election of Jessie Roth as president. It was agreed that for the present the girls should enter school, and occasionally meet with the teacher outside of school hours.

That day proved a red-letter day for them. They had come in touch with an inspiring personality, and their education had begun.

Years have come and gone since that day; but the people of Gila still tell how a young girl, the sweetest soul that ever lived, came and dwelt among them, and brought God into their lives. Even the roughest old men will pause, and say with reverence:

"The Angel of the Gila! God bless her!"

The afternoon session of the school passed quickly. Then followed a bit of kindly talk with the seven new pupils. Then Esther Bright walked homeward. She was overtaken by Brigham Murphy and Wathemah. Something mysterious seemed in the air.

"Miss Bright," blurted out Brigham, "Maw says as will yer come home with us ter-morrer, ter visit. We're goin' ter have chicken an' lots o' good things ter eat, ain't we, Wathemah? An' he's comin', too, ain't yer, Wathemah?"

The Indian child gave an affirmative grunt, and trudged along close to his teacher. It was a way he had of doing since she had promised to be his mother.

"Will yer come?" eagerly questioned the representative of the Mormon household.

"I shall be happy to if you will show me the way."

"Oh, we'll 'scort yer!" And Brigham turned several somersaults, and ran like a deer along the road leading to the Murphy ranch.

Such a flutter of excitement as the prospective visit brought to the Murphy household!

"Maw," said Brigham in the midst of his mother's volley of directions on household arrangements, "Ain't yer goin' ter ask schoolma'am ter stay all night?" He seemed suddenly interested in social amenities.

"Of course I be! Landy! Don't yer s'pose y'r maw's got no p'liteness? I told schoolma'am 'bout my 'lations as lives on Lexity Street, York City, an' keeps a confectony, an' she'll 'spect yer ter be jest as p'lite an' 'ristercratic as they be. I'll sleep on the floor, an' Kate an' Kathleen an' Wathemah kin sleep with schoolma'am. She'll think it a great come-down, Pat Murphy, fur one as is a 'lation, so ter speak, of Miz Common of Lexity Street, York City, she'll think it's a great come-down, I say, fur one with sech folks ter live in a common adobe. Y'r not ter let on y're Irish, but speak as though yer was French like."

She had given emphasis to her remarks with more and more energetic movements of her arm, as she washed off the furniture. At last she paused, and her husband ventured a reply.

"Begorra! An' would yez be afther changin' me mouth to the Frinch stoile?"

He sidled toward the door, and grinned as he caught the reflection of himself in the dirty piece of mirror that still remained in the old black frame on the wall.

There was no denying the fact that Patrick bore unmistakable evidence of his Irish origin. He realized that he had ventured his remarks as far as was consistent with peace and safety; so he walked from the house, chuckling to himself as he went, "Relations on Lexington Street! Frinch stoile! Begorra!" And he laughed outright.

"Patrick Murphy," his spouse called after him. "This is the first time a friend o' my 'lations in York City (so ter speak) has visited me. Patrick Murphy, what do yer s'pose Josiah Common done when my sister visited there? He took her ter a theatre an' after that he took her ter a resternt, an' treated her. That's what he done! The least yer can do is ter scrub up, comb yer har an' put on a clean shirt ter-morrer. Yer ter clean up, do yer hear?" All this in a high treble.

"Frinch stoile?" inquired Patrick, with a broadening grin. But this was lost upon Mrs. Murphy, engrossed in plans for the reception of the coming guest. She smoothed down her hair with both hands.

"Here, Mandy," she called abruptly, "wash out the tablecloth. Sam, you clean the winders. Jo, you run over to Miz Brown's an' say as y'r Maw's goin' ter have comp'ny ter-morrer as must have knowed her 'lations as lived on Lexity Street, York City, an' kep' a confectony. Tell her y'r Maw wants a dozen eggs ter make a cake an' custard. Jake, oh, Jake!" she called in stentorian tones, "you go ketch them two settin' hens! The only way yer kin break up a settin' hen when yer don't want her ter set is jest to make potpie o' her. Y're goin' ter have a supper that yer'll remember ter y'r dyin' day. We uster have sech suppers at barn raisin's back East."

The small boys smacked their lips in anticipation. The mother turned suddenly.

"My landy!" she said. "I forgot somethin'."

"What?" inquired Amanda.

"A napting!"

"A napting? What's that?"

But Mrs. Murphy had begun on the floor, and was scrubbing so vigorously she did not hear the question.

When order finally evolved from chaos, Mrs. Murphy, with her hair disheveled and arms akimbo, viewed the scene. Everything was so clean it was sleek,—sleek enough to ride down hill on and never miss snow or ice.

"Come 'ere, childern," said Mrs. Murphy, mopping her face with a corner of her apron. "I want yer to stan' aroun' the room, the hull ten o' yer, all but the baby. Mandy, do take the baby an' stop her cryin'. Joseph Smith, stan' at the head, 'cause y're the oldest. That's the way I uster stan' at the head o' the spellin' class when we uster spell down 'fore I graduated from deestrict school back in York State. Y'r Maw was a good speller, ef I do say it. 'Range y'rselfs in order, 'cordin' to age."

A tumultuous scramble followed. Maternal cuffs, freely administered, brought a semblance of order.

"Now, childern," said the mother, in a hard shrill voice, "what is y'r 'ligion? Speak up, or yer know what yer'll git!"

"'Ligion o' the Latter Day Saints," answered Samuel.

"An' who is the Prophet o' the Lord?" continued Mrs. Murphy.

"Brigham Young," answered Amanda, assuming an air of conscious superiority.

"No, he isn't neither," protested Brigham, "for my teacher said so. Jesus is the only prophet o' the Lord since Old Testament times."

But the heretic was jerked from the line, to await later muscular arguments. Then the mother continued her catechism.

"Who's another prophet o' the Lord as has had relevations?"

"Joseph Smith," responded Kate, timidly.

"That's right. What divine truth did Joseph Smith teach?"

"That men should marry lots o' wives," said Jake, realizing that he had answered the most important question of the catechism.

"Yes, childern," she said, with an air of great complacence, "I've obeyed the prophet o' the Lord. I've had five husbands, an' I've raised ten young uns. Now what I want yer to understan' is that yer Maw an' her childern has got all the 'ligion as they wants. Schoolma'am had better not persume to talk 'ligion to me." She drew herself up as straight as a ramrod, and her lips set firmly.

"But I wanter show her I'm uster entertainin'. I'll give her the silver spoon. An' I do wisht I had a napting to put at her place."

"What's that, Maw?" asked Samuel.

"What's what?"

"Why, what yer want ter put at schoolma'am's plate?"

"Oh, a little towel, like. 'Ristercratic people uses them when they eats. They puts 'em on their laps."

"Won't a dish towel do?"

"Landy! No!"

"Well, we ain't stylish, anyway," said Samuel, philosophically, "an' it's no use to worry."

"Stylish? We're stylish when we wants to be, an' this is one o' them times."

"Is it stylish ter go ter Bible school?" asked Brigham. He seemed greatly puzzled.

"No, sir-ee, it ain't stylish, an' you ain't goin' thar," she said, giving him a cuff on the ear by way of emphasis.

"She? What's she know 'bout my 'ligion or y'r 'ligion? She ain't had no relevations. But git off to bed, the hull lot o' yer."

"It's only eight o'clock," said one, sullenly, dragging his feet.

"Well, I don't care. The house is all red up, an' I wants it to stay red up till schoolma'am comes. Besides, y're all clean yerselfs now, an' yer won't have to wash an' comb to-morrer."

At last they were driven off to bed, and gradually they quieted down, and all were asleep in the little adobe house.

But Brigham tossed in terrifying dreams. The scene shifted. He was with Wathemah, who was telling him of Jesus. Then the teacher's life was in danger and he tried to save her. He felt her hand upon his head; a smile flitted across his face, his muscles relaxed; he was in heaven; the streets were like sunset skies. The teacher took him by the hand and led him to the loveliest Being he had ever beheld, who gathered him in His arms, and said, "Suffer little children to come unto Me."

CHAPTER IX

Numerous small bouquets, tied to white muslin strings, adorned his bridle. The animal was guiltless of saddle, but there was an improvised cinch of white cotton cloth around him. This, likewise, was adorned with butterfly-like bouquets.

"Ain't he some?" said one lad, admiringly.

"Gee! but I'd like ter ride him!" shouted another.

"Brigham dressed old Jim up just 'cause yer wuz goin' ter ride him, Miss Bright," said Donald.

To the last remark, the teacher replied:

"Ride him? I never rode bareback in my life. I am afraid to try it. I might slip off."

"Oh, no, yer won't," said Brigham, who stood holding the horse's bridle. The teacher pretended to be greatly scared. The company grew hilarious.

"Brigham," she said, "I am sure I can't stick on. I might go sliding over the horse's head and land in a heap. Then what would you do?"

"Pick yer up."

This reply increased the hilarity.

Donald seemed to think it would be great sport to see the teacher's maiden effort at riding bareback.

"Jest git on, Miss Bright, an' see how easy 'tis," he urged.

"I don't know how to mount," she hastened to say. "I haven't learned even that much."

"Oh, that's easy enough," said a muscular little chap. "I'll show yer."

And he leaped like a squirrel to the horse's back.

"Oh, I could never do that," said Esther, joining in the laughter of the children.

"I'll tell yer what," said a large Scotch boy, "ye wait a bit, Miss Bright, an' I'll bring ye y'r chair, an' then 'twill be easy enough."

So the chair was brought, and the teacher seated herself on the horse's back, sideways.

"Oh, ye must ride straddles," insisted Donald, "or ye'll sure fall off."

"Yes, straddles," echoed another; but Esther shook her head dubiously, and pointed to her full blue flannel walking skirt.

"Oh, that's all right," said the tallest boy, "everybody rides straddles here."

"Try it," urged Brigham.

So she tried it. But she was not the only passenger who rode astride. Michael and Patrick, the little Murphy twins, were helped to a place behind her. Wathemah then climbed up in front of her.

"Is this all?" she asked, laughingly.

"I should think it was enough," said Kenneth Hastings, who at that moment joined the company.

As he caught Esther's eye, both laughed, and the children joined from pure sympathy.

When she recovered her composure, Esther said to Kenneth, "Nothing lacking but some white muslin harness and posies on me."

At last, amid shouts and cheers, the much-bedecked horse and his human load started up the mountain road.

By three o'clock, the pulse of the Murphy household beat faster. The temperature rose to fever heat. Three-fifteen, three-thirty; still no visitors; and what is more, no signs of visitors. Every five minutes, one of the children would run down the mountain road, and return disappointed.

"Do yer s'pose they ain't comin'?" queried Kate, who had been kept at home that day to assist in the preparations.

"Oh, yes, they're comin', I think likely," answered the hostess; "but I don't see where they're keepin' theirselves."

She frequently straightened the chairs; once more she dusted the furniture with her clean apron; she straightened the pictures on the walls; she brought out an old and much-prized album, sacred to Mormon prophets and elders. The broken mirror, that adorned the wall, had been cleaned and decorated with tissue paper. Mrs. Murphy stood and looked in it. She saw reflected a sharp, severe face shining like the mirror.

"I wisht I had a collar," she said. "I uster wear a collar back in York State."

Suddenly, she heard a shout from the road.

"They're comin'! They're comin'! Schoolma'am's with 'em! Quick, Maw, quick!"

There was a rush down the path, Joseph Smith leading the line.

All was expectation. The approaching horse started into a jolting trot. As he neared the barn he began to buck. The inevitable followed. Over the horse's head went the passengers in a heap. The twins quickly extricated themselves, and sprang up uninjured; but the two visitors lay unconscious.

"Quick, Samuel, bring water!" directed Mrs. Murphy.

In a few minutes, she dashed water in the unconscious faces, and watched anxiously. The water soon restored Esther, who had been stunned by the fall. At last Wathemah opened his eyes, and saw his teacher kneeling by his side. He tried to rise, but fell back with a cry of pain. One arm lay limp by his side. It was evident that his arm was broken.

"Is there a surgeon anywhere near Gila?" she asked anxiously.

"There's one about fifteen miles away," responded Joseph.

"Then I'll try to set Wathemah's arm myself. Several times I have helped my uncle set broken bones. Could you bring me some flat splints about this size?" she asked, showing Joseph what she wanted.

"Yes, mum," answered the boy, starting on his errand.

"And some strips of muslin, and some pins, Mrs. Murphy?" she continued.

In a few moments the articles were ready. By this time Wathemah had recovered consciousness.

"You have broken your arm, dear," she said. "I am going to set it. It'll hurt you, but I want you to be brave and keep very still."

The child smiled faintly. But as she lifted his arm, he again fainted. They lifted him, and carried him into the house. Then firmly, deftly, as though experienced in such work, Esther pulled and pressed the broken bone into place. The child roused with the pain, but did not cry out again. At last the arm was bandaged, and placed on a cushion.

"You must be very careful of your arm, Wathemah," she said, patting his cheek, "until the broken bone grows together."

Before the child could speak, there was a knock at the door. The children rushed to open it, and there stood Kenneth Hastings.

"I came to see if the cavalcade reached here safely," he said, smiling. "I followed a short distance behind you, until—"

Here his comprehending glance grasped the situation.

"Wathemah hurt?" he asked in quick sympathy, striding to the child's side. "I feared something might happen."

"Old Jim threw 'em," explained three or four eager voices.

Kenneth looked inquiringly at Esther.

"Were you hurt, too?" he asked in a low voice.

"I think not," she said, looking intently at Wathemah.

"I believe you were. Was she?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Murphy.

"She were stunned like from the fall, but was so busy settin' the boy's arm, she didn't think of herself."

"Ah." Then turning to Esther again, he questioned her.

The family observed every tone in the questions and answers.

During the setting of the arm, they had watched Esther with open-mouthed astonishment.

"I tell yer, schoolma'am," remarked Joseph, "I bet yer life yer'll hev all yer kin do in Gila, now."

"I should think she already had enough to do," suggested Kenneth.

Here Mrs. Murphy, suddenly realizing that certain amenities had been omitted, blurted out:

"This is my son, Joseph Young; my daughter, Mandy Young you've knowed already; my son Samuel Young, my son Jacob Black, yer've knowed at school, 'n' my daughter Kate Black, 'n' Brigham Murphy, aged six, 'n' Kathleen, aged four, 'n' Nora, aged two."

Mrs. Murphy paused. Samuel at once took the floor.

"We've knowed you ever sence you come. They call you the angel o' the Gila." He seemed to swell with importance.

"A queer name, isn't it?" said Esther.

Samuel had combed his hair, and wore a clean shirt in honor of the occasion.

"Miss Bright," said Kenneth, "I am fearful lest you have been injured by the fall. Let me take you home."

This she would not listen to.

"Then let me call for you later in the evening and take you back with me. There may be something Mrs. Clayton can do for you." But there was a chorus of protests.

Mrs. Murphy gave it as her opinion that the schoolma'am knew her own feelin's best; and it wasn't often they had comp'ny, goodness knows, especially comp'ny from back East. And Mr. Hastings should leave her be.

Esther poured oil on the troubled waters; and Mrs. Murphy became so mollified she pressed Kenneth to stay to supper.

At this juncture Patrick Senior's step was heard.

"Good avenin'," he said, heartily, making a queer little bow. "It's proud I am ter welcome yez ter me home."

He did not take off his hat nor remove the pipe from his mouth. Esther rose.

"Kape y'r sate, Miss, kape y'r sate," he said, making a sweeping gesture. Then he gripped her hand.

"An' Mr. Hastings! It's honored Oi am ter have yez enter me humble home."

"He's goin' to stay to supper, Pop," said one of the little boys.

Kenneth hastened to excuse himself, but Patrick would have none of it. Mr. Hastings must stay, and share the fatted calf.

Kenneth laughed.

"Which is the prodigal?" asked he, smiling towards Esther.

"The prodigal? the prodigal?" repeated Mrs. Murphy mystified, and half resentful at Kenneth's smiles.

"Oh, that's a Bible story, Mrs. Murphy," explained Esther. "A rich man had two sons. One son spent all he had in riotous living. When he finally repented and came back home to his father's house, they were very happy to see him and made a great feast for him. For this purpose they killed their fatted calf."

"I see," said Mrs. Murphy with great dignity. "An' sence we are happy to see yer and have killed our fatted hens fur yer, we'll just call yer the Prodigal."

"I always knew you were prodigal of your strength and talent," Kenneth said merrily. "Prodigal. That's a good name for you. That was a happy thought of yours, Mrs. Murphy."

Mrs. Murphy still looked mystified.

"Oi see me little girrls are plazed ter see yez," said Patrick, beaming proudly upon the little ones. Kathleen held up for his inspection some paper dolls Esther had brought her. Then the smile on his face broadened. He laid his pipe on the shelf and examined the dolls critically.

"Did yez iver see the loike on it, now? Shure, an' did yez say 'Thank yez' ter the lady?"

"Yep," answered Kathleen, and "Yep," echoed Nora.

"An' phwat is the matther wid Wathemah?" asked Patrick, as he approached the little Indian.

"Got hurted."

"Broked his arm."

"Fell off old Jim."

"Miss Bright mended his arm," came in quick succession.

"Poor little lad. Oi'm sorry yez got hurted."

And the kind-hearted man patted the child on the head. He liked Wathemah. But the little visitor was intent on the two little girls and their gay paper dolls.

Esther now expressed a wish to hear some of her host's stories of pioneer life in Arizona.

Patrick drew himself up. He felt his self-respect rising.

"Them wuz awful toimes," he said, puffing away at his pipe again; "but Oi wuz young an' sthrong. The Apaches wuz on the warpath most av the toime, an' we fellers didn't know but we'd be kilt ony minute. We slipt wid wan oi open, an' our guns by our soides."

"It must have been very exciting," said Esther, with marked interest.

"It certain wuz exciting. It wuz bad, too, ter come back ter y'r shack an' foind y'r rations gone, or no shack at all."

"What would you do then?" she asked.

"Oh, we wint hungry till we caught fish, or shot deer."

Here he lighted his pipe again, and drew long whiffs.

"What were you doing in those days?" questioned Kenneth.

"Me business wuz always wid cattle. Sometoimes the Apaches would go off wid some o' me cattle."

"Did you ever get them back?" asked Esther.

"Sometoimes." He smoked in silence a few minutes.

"I understand the Apaches are still treacherous," she said.

Just then she felt Wathemah's hand on her arm.

"Wathemah Apache," he said. "He no bad. He good."

"Yes," she acknowledged, smiling, "you are getting to be a pretty good boy, dear." Her smile did more for the child than did the words.

"Pop," said Samuel, "them air Apaches we seen up canyon t'other day's ben skulkin' aroun'. Yer'd better carry a gun, schoolma'am."

Supper was now announced, and discussion of the Indians ceased. The younger children, joyfully anticipating the feast before them, had forgotten all their mother's preliminary instructions on etiquette at table, and there was a tumultuous scramble.

"Murphy!" called Mrs. Murphy in stentorian tones as she stood with arms akimbo, "seat schoolma'am at y'r right!"

With a smile that would have done credit to the proudest son of Erin, Patrick waved his hand toward the place of honor. Patrick Junior and his twin Michael insisted upon sitting in the same seat by their visitor. What is more, Michael dealt his brother a severe blow in the mouth to settle his superior claims. To add to the clamor, Kathleen pressed her right to the same seat. She screamed lustily.

Mrs. Murphy, family representative of law, started towards the disturbers of the peace. They dodged. The teacher hereupon made a suggestion that seemed to satisfy everyone, and so the matter was settled.

"Set right down, Mr. Hastings, set right down," urged Mrs. Murphy. He seated himself at Patrick Senior's left. They were scarcely seated before Michael exclaimed, "Ain't we got a good supper!"

He sprawled on the table, looking longingly at the huge dish of chicken potpie.

"One'd think yer never had nothin' ter eat," observed Samuel. He seemed to think it devolved upon him to preserve the decorum of the family.

While the children were waiting impatiently for their turns, a nudge started at Mrs. Murphy's right and left. Nine pairs of elbows were resting upon the table. Nine pairs of eyes were fixed longingly upon the platter of chicken. Suddenly, as the parental nudge passed along, nine pairs of elbows moved off the table, and nine figures sat erect.

The family had been instructed to observe the teacher's manners at table, "fur," observed Mrs. Murphy, "there is no better way fur yer to learn eatin' manners than to notice how folks does. Ef she sets up straight-like, yer kin do the same. Jest watch her. Ef she takes her chicken bone in her hand, y' kin; but ef she cuts her chicken off, why, y' cut yourn off."

Finally, all were served. In the preparation for the reception of the teacher, the offspring of Mrs. Murphy had been duly instructed by her to hold each little finger out stiff and straight while manipulating the knife and fork. To the dismay of all, Esther did not take her chicken bone in her hand, nor did she hold her knife and fork perpendicular, nor did she hold her little fingers out at a right angle.

The children struggled with their refractory chicken bones, as they watched the teacher. Patrick Murphy's eyes were twinkling. But at this juncture, a nudge from Mrs. Murphy again passed around the table. Nine pairs of eyes were upon the knife and fork of the guest. Amanda was filled with admiration as she observed Esther Bright.

In talking this over afterwards, Samuel said to his sister:

"Schoolma'am wuz brung up better nor we be. Yer kin see it by the way she eats. Did yer see how dainty-like she held her knife and fork?"

"Yer don't know nuthin' about it, Sam," said Mandy. "I guess I seen her myself."

Just as the last nudge passed around, Patrick laughed outright.

"Begorra childthren," he said, "is it Frinch stoile ter eat wid y'r fingers sthuck out? Phwat ails yez?"

"Pat Murphy," said his wife, "yer never seen good eatin' manners in y'r life. I hev. Back in York State where I wuz riz, the very best people in the country come to them barn raisin's."

Her sharp chin tilted upward; her black eyes grew brighter.

"Where I growed up, folks set great store by p'liteness. They allus had clean plates fur pie when they wuz comp'ny. Yes, Pat Murphy, I wuz well trained, ef I do say it."

The visitors remained silent. Patrick grinned.

When the teacher's cup was again filled with tea, she stirred it longer than usual, thinking, possibly, how she could pour oil on troubled waters. Instantly, around the table nine other spoons were describing circles in the bottom of each cup. Again Patrick's eyes laughed. Mrs. Murphy glowered.

The supper over, and all housewife duties of the day performed, Mrs. Murphy turned to her offspring, standing in line,—at her suggestion,—on one side of the room.

"Schoolma'am," she said with an air of conscious superiority, "the childern told me yer wanted 'em to go to Bible school. Now me an' my childern has all the 'ligion as we wants. I'll show yer."

"Childern, what is y'r 'ligion?"

"Latter Day Saints," answered Joseph.

"An' who is the prophet o' the Lord?"

"Joseph Smith," piped Kate.

"An' what wuz his relevations?"

"That men should marry lots o' wives, an raise lots o' childern," answered Jacob.

"Shure, an' did he have rivelations that women should be marryin' lots o' husbands?" asked Mr. Murphy with a chuckle.

This was an interruption Mrs. Murphy could ill brook. She was on the warpath; but Patrick, the good-natured, now took matters in his own hands, and spoke with firmness.

"We'll have no more Mormon talk ter-night. Childthren, set down."

They sat down. Mrs. Murphy's mouth shut like a spring trap. She was humiliated; she, a connection, so to speak, of the Commonses of "Lexity Street, York City!"

"Whin me woman there," said Patrick, "was lift wid two babies, Jacob an' Kate, twelve year ago, lift 'way off in a lonesome place in Utah by her Mormon husband, Oi felt as though Oi would loike ter go wid some dacint man, an' give this Mormon who lift his wife an' babies fur the sake of goin' off wid another woman,—Oi repate it,—Oi'd 'a ben glad ter have give 'im sich a batin' as he'd remimber ter his dyin' day. He wuz kilt by the Indians. Whin Oi heerd he wuz kilt, an' knowed fur shure he wuz dead, Oi persuaded me woman here ter marry me, an' ter come let me give her an' all her childthren a dacint home in Arizony.

"Oi don't want ter hear no more about Mormons. Oi know 'em root an' branch. Oi am a Catholic. Oi belave in the Holy Mither. Oi belave in good women. Oi belave as a man should have wan wife, a wife wan husband. Oi wants me childthren an' me woman's childthren too, ter come ter y'r Bible school. What's more, they shall come. Oi wants 'em ter learn about God an' the Blissed Virgin. Y're a good woman; that Oi know. An' yez are as good a Catholic as Oi want ter see. Yer kin jist count on me fur support in all the good yez are thryin' ter do in Gila."

Mrs. Murphy's face was suppressed fury.

The teacher spoke in a low, gentle voice:

"So you are a Catholic, Mr. Murphy. Do you know, I have always admired the reverent way Catholics speak of the mother of Jesus."

Then she turned to Mrs. Murphy, saying:

"I know but little about the belief of the Mormons. Some day I wish you would tell me about it."

"Mormons are a good sight better'n Catholics," snapped Mrs. Murphy. "Intelligent people should know about 'em, and what they've done fur the world. They are honest, they don't smoke, nor chew, nor drink. They are good moral people, they are."

"Yes," said Esther, "I have heard some admirable things about them."

Kenneth rose to go.

"So you'll not return to Clayton Ranch with me, Miss Bright."

He knew by the expression of her face that she preferred to go rather than to stay. But she spoke graciously:

"I have not finished my visit yet."

In a moment more Kenneth was gone.

Then a new difficulty arose. Who was to sleep with the teacher? Kate, the twins, and Kathleen, all pressed their claims. After listening to the altercation, Esther suggested that it would be necessary for her to occupy the rocking chair by Wathemah, to see that he did not injure his broken arm, and asked that she be given the privilege of watching by him throughout the night.

Then the family withdrew. Soon Esther pretended to be asleep. Occasionally the child reached out and touched her arm to make sure his Beloved was there. Then he fell asleep.

But Esther was wakeful. Why had Kenneth come for her? Was she coming to care too much for him? How would it all end? When she at last fell asleep, her dreams were troubled.

CHAPTER X

She took one of the English girl's hands in hers, and they talked long of England. At last Carla asked Esther to sing for her. For answer, Esther rose, entered the schoolroom, and returned, bringing her guitar. Then striking the chords of C Major, she sang softly, "Home, Sweet Home." As she sang, Carla watched her through tears.

"An exile from home," the teacher sang; but at that moment she heard a sob. She stopped singing.

"Go on, please," begged the English girl.

Again the cords vibrated to the touch of Esther's fingers, and she sang the song that has comforted many a sorrowing heart.

On she sang, her voice growing more pitifully tender.

Then as she sang,

her voice thrilled with triumphant hope.

Was she inspired, or was it simply that she was about her Master's business? Her voice seemed a message from God to the stricken girl who listened. Carla, looking into the face of Esther Bright, saw there a smile that was ineffably sweet; saw, too, the golden light of the setting sun playing about her face and form.

Song after song was sung from one heart to the other. The guitar was laid aside. Then hand in hand, the two girls sat talking till the sunset faded, talking through falling tears, talking of ideals of life, and of how sweet and good life may be. Then Esther told of the Blessed One of Galilee whose love and compassion never fail. And at last Carla told her her whole sad story.

"But you will leave the saloon, Carla, won't you? You will throw off Mr. Clifton's influence?" Esther said as they rose to go. "I can give you shelter until I can find a home for you, only leave that dreadful place."

"I can't; I love him," she answered. Then, covering her face with her hands, she wept bitterly.

"You can leave him, I know, and you will in time. Come often to see me, as you have done to-day. Perhaps you and I together, with God's help, can find a way."

They parted at the schoolhouse, Esther returning home, her heart sorrowful. She thought of One who centuries before had sought the mountains alone, the sorrow of a world upon His heart. She understood it now, understood at least something of the agony of that sorrow. She went to her room and prayed. When at last she rose from her knees, her face looked drawn. The feeling as of a heavy weight upon her heart increased. How helpless she seemed!

She opened her window wider, and looked up into the fathomless blue. An overwhelming desire to save the tempted English girl had taken possession of her. What should she do?

As she stood thus, she seemed conscious of a presence, and turned as though expecting to see some one; but no one was there. She heard no voice. Notwithstanding the evidence of her eyes, she could not shake off the feeling of another presence than her own. She turned again toward the window, and looked out into the crystal deeps. Then a strange peace came upon her. It seemed a foretaste of heaven. She threw herself on the lounge in her room, and fell into a refreshing sleep.

But what of Carla Earle?

On leaving Esther, she walked slowly toward Keith's saloon. Suddenly, she put her hand to her heart, staggered, and gave a sharp cry. Then trembling in every limb, she turned abruptly, and walked rapidly toward the canyon. She reached a place that seemed to have a fascination for her. She looked at the dark pool and wrung her hands. Her muscles gave way, and she sank on the bank, while great convulsive sobs shook her frame. She tried to rise, but her limbs refused to obey her will. Then it was that her agony of shame, and sorrow, and remorse burst forth in pitiful cries to God to let her die. She removed her hat and wrap, and crawled to the verge of the black pool. She shuddered as she looked. Then a great horror-stricken cry came from her white lips as she plunged into the seething waters.

There was the sound of a human voice in answer; and a moment later, Patrick Murphy plunged after her, grasped and caught her floating skirt, pulled her by it to shore, and lifted her up the bank. He began to wring the water from her skirts.

"Lass, lass," he said, kindly, "what made yez do it? What's the matter wid yez?"

Great sobs were his only answer. It seemed as though the girl must die from the agony of her distress.

Then he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to where he had left his horse. By the dim light, he had recognized Carla Earle, and he at once concluded that Mark Clifton was responsible for her deed. His first impulse, like all of his impulses, was a generous one. He resolved to take her to his home, and become her protector. As he was about to lift her to his horse's back, he discovered that she had fainted. He succeeded in lifting her to the saddle, mounted behind her, and rode directly to his home.

A few words sufficed to explain to his wife the rescue of the girl, and the necessity of keeping her whereabouts a profound secret. Every member of the family was enjoined to strict silence about the presence of Carla Earle in their home.

Mrs. Murphy undressed Carla and put her in her own bed. The helplessness of the unconscious girl appealed to her. After a time, Carla's eyes opened. She looked startled, and began to rave, writhing and twisting as one in mortal agony. Now she called on Mark Clifton to keep his promise to her; now she asked Wathemah to go for Miss Bright; now she begged God to take her; now she was on the brink of the pool, and in the dark water.

So she raved, and the night passed. From time to time Mrs. Murphy laid wet cloths on Carla's head, or moistened her lips. The two faithful watchers did not close their eyes. The day dawned, and they were still watching; but at last their patient slept.

When Carla finally wakened, she looked around, and seeing Mrs. Murphy, asked where she was.

"With friends who are going to take good care of yer," answered her nurse.

"How did I come here?"

Mrs. Murphy explained that her husband had found her unconscious, and had brought her to his home. And, leaning down, she did an unprecedented thing. She kissed Carla Earle. At this Carla began to cry.

"Don't cry, lass, don't cry," said Patrick, who entered just then. He turned away and blew his nose violently.

"I must get up and help you," said the sick girl, trying to rise. But she did not rise that day nor for many days. Throughout her illness that followed, Mrs. Murphy's kindness was unstinted. She waited on the sick girl with unfailing patience. But Brigham was oftenest at her bedside when home, telling her of his beloved teacher and what she taught them. At last Carla begged to see her.

That very day Patrick drove down for Esther, telling her on their way back to the ranch the particulars of his finding Carla Earle, and of her subsequent illness.

"You dear, good people!" said Esther, deeply touched. "I feel so grateful to you."

"Och! That's nothin', Miss," he responded awkwardly. "Whin Oi see the girl so near desthruction, Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, what if me sisther or one of me little girrls wuz iver ter be in the clutches of a Mark Clifton? So Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, Oi'll jist save her. That's all there wuz av it. My wife has taken care o' the lass. An' she has grown that fond av her! Beats all!"

"God will bless you for saving her, you may be sure of that," responded Esther heartily. "She must have gone directly from me to the canyon. I had urged her to leave Mr. Clifton and come to me, but she did not seem to have decision enough to promise then. The canyon must have been an after-thought, and the result of her despair."

"Poor creetur!" said Patrick, huskily.

When Carla saw Esther, she began to sob, and seemed greatly disturbed. Her pulse grew more rapid. Such remorse one seldom sees.

Esther placed her own cool hand on the sick girl's forehead, and spoke to her in low, soothing tones. Carla grasped her hand and held it tightly.

"I have wanted to see you and tell you—" But Esther interrupted her.

"Yes, dear, you shall tell me by and by. Don't try to tell me now."

"I must. The distress here" (placing her hand over her heart) "will never go until I tell you. After I left you at the schoolhouse, I was filled with despair. I felt so utterly strengthless. Then I prayed. Suddenly it came to me I must never again return to the saloon or—him. I seemed to have strength given me to go on and on in the opposite direction. All I remember now is that I resolved to make it impossible to return. Then I awakened here. They have been so kind to me, especially little Brigham. He comes in to see me as soon as he returns from school, and talks to me about you, and it comforts me."

"God has been leading you, Carla," said Esther. "I am sure of that. And He raised up this kind friend to save you in your dark hour. But the dark hour is past now, and we are going to help you learn how to grow happy."

"Can one learn how to grow happy who has made such a blunder of life?"

"Oh, yes. And it is a blessed lesson to learn."

When Esther left, she promised to return on the morrow.

That evening, there was a family council at Clayton Ranch, and the result of it was that Mrs. Clayton herself soon went to see Carla, and invited her to make her home with them.

So it came about that Carla Earle became one of the Clayton household; and in the loving, helpful atmosphere of that home, she began to lift up her lovely head, as does an early blossoming flower in the April sunshine after it has been nipped by an untimely frost. And life, with love enfolding her every hour of each happy day, began to grow worth while to the English girl.

And Carla grew into the affection of the family, for she was a refined, winsome creature. She became as a daughter to Mrs. Clayton.

One day Mrs. Clayton said to her husband:

"Do you notice how much Carla is growing like our Miss Bright?"

"Yes," he responded. "There is something very attractive about both. Only Miss Bright is a remarkably well-poised woman, and Carla is clinging and dependent. Poor Carla! How bitterly she has been wronged! I am glad she has found love and shelter at last."

"So am I, John. Why, the poor child was just starved for love."

"I believe, Mary, that she will develop into a strong character. What she has suffered has been a great lesson to her."

"Poor child! Sometimes when I speak appreciative words to her, she breaks down, and says she doesn't deserve all our kindness. One day when she cried, she said, 'Why does God take mothers away from their children when they need them so?'"

"Well," he responded, "she has at last found a good mother. God bless the mother and the unfortunate girl!"

And stooping, the husband kissed his wife, and started on a long journey to a distant mine.

CHAPTER XI

There is no doubt Esther Bright had sown good seed broadcast, and some had fallen on good ground. The awakening of the cowlasses had been a continual joy to her. She marveled that some one had not found them before. Each successive day the little school reached out further to enrich the life of the community.

One morning, while a class was in the midst of a recitation, there came a knock at the schoolhouse door.

"I'm Robert Duncan," said a Scotch miner, as Esther opened the door. He held by the hand a little boy of about three years.

"This is Bobbie," he continued. "I've brought me bairn tae school."

Could the mother spare such a baby? Ah, could she?

Esther stooped and held out her arms to the child, but he hid behind his father.

"His mither died last week, Miss," he said with a choke in his voice. "I'd like tae leave him with ye."

"I'm very sorry," she replied, with quick sympathy. Then she promised to receive Bobbie as a pupil, providing he would stay.

"Oh, he'll stay," the father hastened to say, "if ye'll just call Donald."

So Donald was called, and he succeeded in coaxing Bobbie into the schoolroom.

When the child realized that his father had gone and left him, he ran to the door, crying, "Faither! Faither!" while tears rolled down his cheeks.

Then the mother heart of Esther Bright asserted itself. She gathered him in her arms and soothed him, until he cuddled down contentedly and fell asleep.

Soon after, Kenneth Hastings appeared at the open door, and saw Esther at her desk with the sleeping child in her arms. He heard her speaking in a soft tone to the children as she dismissed them for the morning recess; but Bobbie wakened frightened. At the moment Kenneth entered, Bobbie was carried out of the room by Donald, the other children following.

"I came to see if you could go for a horseback ride this afternoon," said Kenneth. "It's a glorious day."

"Just delighted! Nothing would please me better."

The two stood inside the open door. As Wathemah saw Kenneth talking to his teacher, he entered the door, pushed between them, nestled close to her, and said defiantly:

"Miss Bright me teacher; mine!"

"Yours, eh, sonny?" said Kenneth, smiling. Then looking into Esther's face, he said:

"I wish I could feel as sure that some day you will be mine."

A delicate flush swept over her face. When he went on his way, life and vigor were in every step. He seemed to walk on air.

The recess over, the children returned to their seats, and Patrick Murphy entered. The school, for the hour, was transformed into a place of general merchandise, for the teacher had promised that to-day they would play store, buy and sell. Business was to be done on a strictly cash basis, and accounts kept. Several children had been busy for days, making school money. Scales for weighing, and various measures were in evidence.

Patrick watched the play of the children, as they weighed and measured, bought and sold.

At the close of the exercises, he turned to Esther, saying:

"Oi wisht Oi wuz young agin mesilf. Yez larn the chilthren more in wan hour, 'n' many folks larns in a loife toime. It's thankful Oi am that yez came ter Gila, fur the school is gittin' on."

Having delivered himself of this compliment, he withdrew, highly pleased with himself, with the teacher, with the school, and the world generally. If there was one thing that met with Patrick's unqualified approval, it was "to git on."

Near the close of the midday intermission, during the absence of Wathemah, Donald Carmichael said to the teacher, "Ye love Wathemah mair nor the rest o' us, don't ye?"

"Why?" asked Esther, as she smiled down at the urchin.

"Oh," hanging his head, "ye say 'Wathemah' as though ye likit him mair nor anybody else."

"As though I loved him?"

"Yep."

"Well," she acknowledged, "I do love Wathemah. I love all the other children, too. Don't you think I ought to love Wathemah a little better because he has no father or mother, as you have, to love him?"

Donald thought not.

"You have no idea," said Carla, who now attended school, "what brutal treatment Wathemah used to receive at the saloon. I have seen him teased and trounced and knocked around till he was frantic. And the men took delight in teaching him all the badness they knew. I used to hear them while I was helping Mrs. Keith." Carla's eyes suddenly filled.

"Poor little fellow!" said Esther, in response.

"I shall never forget his happiness," continued Carla, "the first day he went to school. He came to me and said he liked his teacher and wanted to go live with her."

"Did he? Bless his heart!"

"After that," Carla went on to say, "he came to me every morning to see if he was clean enough to go to school."

"So you were the good fairy, Carla, who wrought the transformation in him. He certainly was a very dirty little boy the first morning he came to school, but he has been pretty clean ever since."

Donald, who had been listening, now spoke up again.

"Oh, Wathemah's all right, only I thocht ye likit him mair nor the rest o' us."

"No, she don't, neither," stoutly maintained Brigham. "I guess I know. She's always fair."

At this moment, Wathemah himself drew near. He had been to the timber for mistletoe, and returned with his arms full of sprays of green, covered with white waxen berries. He walked proudly to his Beloved, and gave her his offering. Then he stepped back and surveyed her.

"Wathemah love he teacher," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction.

"She ain't yourn, ye Apache savage," cried Donald. "She don't love ye; she said so," added the child, maliciously.

Like a flash, Wathemah was upon him, beating him with all his strength. He took the law into his own hands, settled his score, and laid his opponent out before Esther could interfere. When she grasped Wathemah's arm, he turned upon her like a tiger.

"Donald lie!" he cried.

"Yes, Donald did lie," she conceded, "but you should not punish him."

"Donald call savage. Wathemah kill he!"

The teacher continued to hold him firmly. She tried to reason with him, but her words made no impression.

The child stood resolute. He lifted a scornful finger toward Donald, and said in a tone of contempt:

"Donald lie. Wathemah no lie."

The teacher released him, and told him to see her after school. Then the afternoon session began. But Wathemah's place was vacant.

As the hours passed, it became evident that Donald was not as happy as usual. He was in disgrace. At last his class was called. He hung his head in shame. Esther did not press him to recite.

The hour for dismissal came. The little culprit sat alone in the farther corner of the room. Carla started out to find Wathemah.

The loud accusing tick of the clock beat upon Donald's ear. The teacher was busy, and at first paid no attention to him. She heard a sniffling in the corner. Still no attention. At last she sat down by the lad, and said very gently:

"Tell me about it, Donald."

No answer. He averted his face, and rubbed his dirty fists into his eyes.

"Tell me why you lied to Wathemah, Donald."

Still no answer.

"How could you hurt his feelings so?"

No answer.

Then Esther talked to him till he buried his face in his arms and sobbed. She probed down into his heart. At last she asked him what he thought he should do. Still silence. She waited. The clock ticked louder and louder in the ears of the child: "Say it! Say it! Say it!"

At last he spoke.

"I ought tae tell Wathemah I lied; but I dinna want tae tell him afore the lads."

"Ah!" she said, "but you said your untruthful words before them; and unless you are a coward, your apology ought to be before them."

"I am nae coward," he said, lifting his head.

"Then you must apologize to Wathemah before the children to-morrow."

"Yes, mum."

Then she dismissed him, telling him to remember what he had done, when he prayed to God that night.

"Did God hear me lie?" he asked.

"I think so, Donald."

The child looked troubled.

"I didna think o' that. I'll tell Him I'm sorry," he said as he left the schoolroom.

He began to search for Wathemah, that he might make peace with him.

At first Carla's search was fruitless. Then she sought him in a place she knew he loved, away up the canyon. There, sure enough, she found him. He sat on a bowlder near a cascade with his back toward her. Beyond him, on the other side of the stream, rose the overhanging cliffs. He did not hear her step as he listened to the music of the waters.

"Wathemah!" she called. He started, then turned toward her. She saw that he had been crying. She climbed up on the bowlder and sat down beside him.

"Donald lie!" he said, angrily.

"Yes, Wathemah, but he is sorry for it, and I am sure will tell you so."

She saw tears roll down the dirty little face. She had the wisdom to leave him alone; and walking a short distance up the canyon, sent pebbles skipping the water. After a while this drew him to her.

"Shall we go up stream?" she asked.

He nodded. They jumped from bowlder to bowlder, and at last stopped where the waters go softly, making a soothing music for the ear.

"Carla!"

"Yes, Wathemah."

"Jesus forgive?"

"Yes, dear, He does." Then Carla's self-control gave way, and she sobbed out her long-suppressed grief. Instantly the child's arms were around her neck.

"No cry, Carla!" he said. "No cry, Carla!" patting her cheek.

Then, putting his tear-stained cheek close to hers, he said:

"Jesus love Carla."

She gathered the little comforter in her arms; and though her tears fell fast, they brought relief to her heart.

At last she persuaded him to return to school the following day, and to do all he could to atone for leaving it without permission.

On their return, they sought the teacher in the schoolhouse, but she was gone, and the door was locked; neither was she to be found at the Clayton ranch. The little penitent lingered a long time, but his Beloved did not come. At last he walked reluctantly in to camp.

Away up the mountain road, Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings drew rein. The Englishman sat his horse well; but it was evident his companion was not a horsewoman. She might shine in a drawing-room or in a home, but not on a horse's back. If she had not been riding one of the finest saddle horses in the country, she would have appeared to greater disadvantage.

The canter up the mountain road had brought the color to her cheeks. It had also shaken out her hairpins; and now her wavy brown hair, with its glint of gold, tumbled about her shoulders.

"You look like a gypsy," Kenneth was saying.

She laughed.

"The last gypsies I ever saw," she said merrily, "were encamped along the road through Beekman's Woods, as you approach Tarrytown-on-Hudson from the north. The gypsy group was picturesque, but the individuals looked villainous. I hope I do not strongly resemble them," she said still laughing; then added, "They wanted to tell our fortunes."

"Did you let them tell yours?"

"Yes, just for fun."

"What did they tell you?"

"Oh, just foolishness."

"Come, tell me just for fun."

"Well,"—here she blushed—"the old gypsy told me that an Englishman would woo me, that I'd not know my own mind, and that I would reject him."

"Interesting! Go on."

"That something dreadful would happen to the suitor; that I'd help take care of him, and after that, all was cloudland."

"Really, this grows more interesting. The fortune teller realized how hard-hearted you were. Didn't she ask you to join their caravan? You'd make an ideal gypsy princess."

Esther touched her horse with her whip. He gave a sudden lunge, and sped onward like mad. It was all she could do to sit her horse. Before her, to her dismay, yawned a deep gulch. She could not stop her horse now, of that she was sure. She tightened her grip, and waited. She heard the sound of hoofs behind her, and Kenneth's voice shouting "Whoa!" As well shriek at a tornado to stop. She seemed to catch the spirit of the horse. The pupils of her eyes dilated. She felt the quivering of the beast when, for a moment, he reared on his haunches. Then she felt herself borne through the air, as the animal took the gulch; then she knew that he was struggling up the bank. In a moment the beast stopped, quivering all through his frame; his nostrils were dilated, and his breath came hard.

In a few minutes Kenneth Hastings overtook her. It was evident he had been alarmed.

"You have done a perilous thing for an inexperienced rider," he said. "It is dumb luck that you have escaped unhurt. I expected to find you injured or dead."

"I was dreadfully scared when we came to the gulch. I didn't know about it, you know; but I couldn't stop the horse then."

"Of course not. What made the animal run? Did you cut him with the whip?"

"Yes. I thought it'd be such fun to run away from you for calling me a gypsy."

He laughed. Then he looked grave.

Suddenly Esther Bright grew as cold as ice, and swayed in the saddle. At last she was forced to say she was ill. Her companion dismounted and lifted her from the saddle.

"Why, how you tremble!" he was saying. "How cold you are!"

"Just fright," she replied, making an effort to rally. "I am ashamed of being scared. The fright has made me deathly sick." Even her lips were white. He seemed deeply concerned.

After a while her color returned, and she assured him that she was able to go on.

"But are you sure?" he asked, showing the deepest concern.

"Quite sure," she said, positively. "Come, let us go. I have given you enough trouble already."

"No trouble, I assure you."

He did not add that the very fact that she had needed a service from him was sufficient recompense.

Then they walked their horses homeward, talking of many things of common interest to them.

Down in the valley, the soft gray of the dead gramma grass was relieved by the great beds of evergreen cacti, yucca, and the greenery of the sage and mesquite. The late afterglow in the sky mingled with the purple haze that hung like an ethereal veil over the landscape.

They stopped their horses at a turn of the road commanding a fine view of the mountains.

"How beautiful the world is everywhere!" Esther said, half to herself.

"Especially in Arizona," said Kenneth, as he drew a deep invigorating breath.

Silence again.

"Miss Bright," he hesitated. "I believe the world would be beautiful to me anywhere, if you were there."