"You flatter," she said, lifting her hand as if to ward off what might follow.

"No flattery. Since you came, the whole world has seemed beautiful to me."

"I am glad if my coming has improved your vision," she said merrily. "Come, we must hasten, or we'll be late for dinner. You are to dine with us to-night, I believe."

"Yes, Mrs. Clayton was so kind as to invite me."

Again her horse took the lead. Kenneth touched his with the whip, and overtook her. For some distance, the horses were neck and neck. As they came to a steep ascent, they slackened their pace.

Her eyes were sparkling, and she was in excellent spirits.

"If I were a better horsewoman," she said gayly, "I'd challenge you to a race."

"Why not, anyway?" he suggested. "There are no more gulches."

"I might not be able to stick on."

"We'll try it," he responded, encouragingly, "over the next level stretch."

So try it they did. They flew like the wind. The cool evening air, the excitement of the race, the rich afterglow in the heavens,—all were exhilarating. On they sped, on and on, till they turned into the canyon road. Again Esther's horse led, but Kenneth soon overtook her, and then their horses walked slowly on together the rest of the way.

"I wonder if you are as happy as I am," he said, as he assisted her from the saddle.

"I am in the positive degree of happiness," she said, cheerily. "I am always happy except when shadowed by someone else's sorrow."

He said something to her about bearing all her future sorrows for her, adding:

"That is becoming the dearest wish of my heart."

"All must meet sorrow sometime," she responded gravely. "I hope to meet mine with fortitude when it comes."

She stood stroking the horse's neck.

"I wish I might help you to bear it when it comes. Oh, Miss Bright," he said, earnestly, "I wish I could make you realize how I honor you—and dare I say it?—how I love you! I wish you would try to understand me. I am not trifling. I am in earnest." He looked at her downcast face.

"I will try," she said, looking up frankly, with no trace of coquetry in her voice or manner.

There had been moments when Kenneth's love for Esther had led him to speak dearer words to her than her apparent interest in him would warrant. At such times she would retire within herself, surrounded by an impenetrable reserve. Kenneth Hastings was the only one she ever treated icily. One day he would be transported to the seventh heaven; another, he would sink to the deeps of gloom.

It was several days after this ride that he chanced to meet Esther in the path along the river road. He stopped her, and asked abruptly:

"Why do you treat me so frigidly sometimes?"

"Do I?" she asked in surprise.

He remained silent.

"Do I?" she said, repeating her question.

"Yes, you do. Why do you treat me so?"

She looked distressed.

"I didn't realize I had treated you discourteously, Mr. Hastings. If I did, it was because I am afraid of you."

"Preposterous! Afraid of me!" Now he was smiling.

"Perhaps—" As she hesitated, she looked up at him in an appealing manner.

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps it is because you have given me a glimpse of your own heart, and have—"

"Have what?"

"—asked me to reveal mine to you. I can't."

"In other words, you do not love me?"

"I honor you as I do several people I know. Nothing more."

There was a long pause. Kenneth was the first to speak.

"Your friendship! Am I to be deprived of that, too?"

"My friendship is already yours," she said. "You know that."

"I thank you. I need hardly tell you that your friendship is the dearest thing I know."

Then Kenneth left her, and she walked on alone. But still those words kept repeating themselves in her mind like a haunting melody, "Your friendship is the dearest thing I know!" and, like Banquo's ghost, they would not down.

CHAPTER XII

To the children of Gila, the day that had heretofore been as all other days, now took on new meaning. They had come to associate it with a wonderful personality they were learning to know through their teacher. Christ's birthday she had called Christmas day, Christ their elder brother, Christ the lover of children.

They had seen the splendor of the morning. What wonder that some of them were touched with a feeling of awe?

For the first time in the history of Gila, Christmas day was to be observed, and every child had come to feel a personal interest in the celebration.

The preparations for the evening exercises to be held in the schoolhouse had all been so new, so mysteriously interesting! Expectation ran high. Word had spread to the burro camps on the mountains, and to the Mexicans tending the charcoal pits up the canyon. Rumors had reached other camps also, miles away.

The Mexicans, as was their custom, had prepared immense bonfires on the mountains and foothills for firing Christmas night. But hearing of the approaching entertainment at the schoolhouse, they caught the spirit of the hour and outdid themselves.

The saguaro, or giant cactus, sometimes called the sentinel of the desert, is one of the most interesting varieties of the cactus family. Sometimes it grows in the form of a fluted column, many times reaching a height of sixty feet. Often at a distance of perhaps thirty feet from the ground, this cactus throws out fleshy arms at right angles, which, after a short distance, shoot upward in columns parallel to the main column, giving the cactus the appearance of a giant candelabrum. The saguaro has a skeleton of woody ribs bound together by tough, woody fibers. In the living cactus, this framework is filled and covered with green pulp; but when the cactus dies, the pulp dries and is blown away. The ribs are covered with quantities of resinous thorns that burn like pitch. The dead saguaro, therefore, when set on fire, becomes a most effective bonfire, having frequently been used by the Indians, in early days, as a signal fire.

On this special occasion, the Mexicans had found several of these dead sentinels of the desert so nearly in the shape of a Roman cross that a few blows from an ax made them perfectly so. When lighted Christmas night, the burning crosses on the mountains loomed up against the sky, no longer symbols of triumphant hate, but of triumphant love.

Early that day, what the Mexicans had done began to be noised abroad; and with every bulletin that passed from mouth to mouth, interest in the approaching service at the schoolhouse deepened. It looked as though the room could not hold all who would come.

The young folk had been generous helpers, and had decorated the place with spruce, pine, cedar and mistletoe. The air was heavy with spicy fragrance. Around the room were huge altar candles in improvised candlesticks of wood. Across one end of the room, was stretched a large sheet of white cotton cloth.

For many a day, John Clayton, Kenneth Hastings and Esther Bright had formed a mysterious triumvirate. The two men had been seen bringing packages from the distant station. What it might mean became an absorbing topic of conversation. One thing was certain, Gila was alive.

On Christmas morning, these three, accompanied by Mrs. Carmichael, met at the schoolhouse to make their final preparations. The beautiful silver spruce, selected for the Christmas tree, stood out from the dark greenery of the room. It was a beautiful tree, exquisite in color, perfect in symmetry, spicy in fragrance. They decorated this with ornaments, then began to hang gifts on its branches. At one side of the tree, Esther stacked small pasteboard boxes close and high. What these contained, only she herself knew; and she preserved a mysteriously interesting silence.

As the four busied themselves at their happy task, Mrs. Carmichael suddenly uncovered a huge basket she, thus far, had managed to conceal. She looked a culprit as she said:

"An' whaur would ye be wishin' the cookies put?"

"Cookies!" they all exclaimed, with one accord, "Cookies!"

Esther sampled one.

"They're just as good as they look!" she said. "What a lot of them! How did you come to think of it? How good of you!"

"It was Donald. He telt me aboot y'r birthday cakes for the wains. So I thocht bein's it was the Maister's birthday, each should hae a birthday cake. A makit one hundred."

"One hundred!" Kenneth whistled. "You know how to find the way to men's hearts," he laughed. "But you found your way to mine long ago."

"Fie, fie," she said smiling. "I ken ye weel."

When their preparations were completed, they looked about with an air of satisfaction. It was evident the spirit of Christmas had taken possession of them. Such kindness! Such good will!

Jack Harding was the last to leave the room. Before he closed and locked the door, he deposited some packages in an obscure corner.

An hour before the time for the entertainment, the little adobe schoolhouse was surrounded by people, and they continued to come even after the teacher, accompanied by the Claytons, opened the door. Soon every seat was filled; then, all standing space. Then the windows were crowded with faces. Still there were as many more outside who could not hope to see, but might possibly hear.

Those fortunate enough to enter the room sniffed the fragrance of cedar and spruce. The burning mesquite wood in the fireplace snapped and crackled, and the soft light from the huge candles idealized the beauty of the tree and the woodsy decorations of the room. And there was the teacher also, their teacher (for did she not belong to them?) young, lovely, doing all this for them! They noted every detail of her simple gray toilet, even to the soft lace at her throat. There was something exquisite about her that night as she stood before them in the yellow candle-light. Her face was luminous. Kenneth Hastings observed it, and said in a low tone to his friend John Clayton, "See Miss Bright's face! I never saw anything more lovely. The spirit of Christmas is in it."

John Clayton placed his hand on his friend's shoulder as he responded, "Yes. It's all due to her beautiful, generous soul."

After several Christmas carols were sung, he told them Miss Bright would now address them. There was an approving murmur.

Then she told them the old, old story, dearest story of childhood, of the little child in the khan at Bethlehem, of the star, of the song of the angels, the coming of the shepherds, and the search by the Wise Men, as they came with their rich gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh, to lay them at the Christ-child's feet. She told the story briefly and simply.

Among those who listened there that night were Mexicans and half-breed Indians, Englishmen, Irishmen, Scotchmen and Americans. There were Catholics and Protestants, Mormons, and men of no faith whatever. There were four university-bred men; there were also men and women of deepest ignorance; and there were many others between these extremes.

While the voice of the teacher still held their attention, John Harding and Kenneth Hastings put out the lights, and picture after picture, illustrating the early life of Christ (all copies of famous paintings), flashed upon the white screen. There were exclamations of approval such as these:

"Did yez iver now?"

"The Holy Mother! Bless her!"

"Oh!—Oh!—Oh!" in faint whispers.

When Murillo's "Holy Family" appeared, there was a hush. As it disappeared, some one asked for it again. After complying with this request, the candles were relighted, and the distribution of gifts began. There was a subdued hum of interest. These men and women, throwing aside care and toil for an hour, were as pleased as children.

As gifts were passed, many began to realize what the extra meetings at the schoolhouse had meant. The children had been making things, and had made them well. They had been engaged in manual training, though the teacher had not called it that. She was in advance of the age, and was doing practical work in manual training years before the pedagogues of the land had wakened to the necessity of training the hand.

The Gila children had made gingham aprons for mothers and sisters; they had crocheted lace and mats; they had made articles for domestic use, and so on.

When a new blouse waist and a pair of suspenders were given to Wathemah, his delight knew no bounds. Kenneth and Jack Harding stood watching him. The child was a favorite with both.

"Do you like your waist, little chap?" asked Kenneth.

"Yes!—Me!—Pretty!" said the child, patting and smoothing his waist as if it were an object of affection. Then he held his suspenders up for his two friends to see.

"Do you like 'em, sonny?" asked Jack Harding.

"Mine! Mine!—S'penders!—Wathemah's s'penders!"

The grown-ups smiled. The day had unlocked many a heart long barred and bolted against human sympathy.

"Two dolls, one for Nora and one for Kathleen Murphy," called out the superintendent.

"Did yez iver?" said Patrick, smiling with good humor, from the crown of his bristly head to the extremity of his bristly chin.

Gifts were passed to right and left. It seemed wonderful so many should be remembered. Some received their gifts with undisguised pleasure,—pleasure so out of proportion to the intrinsic value of the gifts, it was pathetic. Esther felt her eyes brimming. More than one said to her that night that it was the first time he or she had ever received a Christmas present.

As yet Brigham had received no gifts, but he sat by Wathemah, apparently enjoying what his friend had received as though it had been his own. But when his turn came, and his Beloved brought him three books about animals, he seemed embarrassed, and stammered out:

"For me? All thim for me?"

The teacher stood smiling.

"Yes, for you, dear."

In a short time he and Wathemah, with heads close together, were lost in one of these books.

Esther watched them from time to time. It was evident to every one in Gila, that Brigham and Wathemah were very intimate friends of their teacher's. Brigham had confided to Kenneth that he was "intimater with her nor anybody else, 'cause she loved him, an' he loved her best of anybody in the world." He had likewise confided to Kenneth his great desire to have some animal books, as he called them. And Kenneth had seen to it that he should not be disappointed.

Suddenly, to her surprise, Esther Bright was presented with a new chair, and was asked to be seated in it. The excitement of the children rose. This, to them, was the important moment of the evening.

As one homely little gift after another was presented to her,—all the work of children's hands, she spoke homely, loving words out of her heart. Several coat sleeves were put to a new use, and some clean gingham aprons actually found their way to women's cheeks. A loving-hearted woman had entered their lives and found them worth while. What wonder that she became to them, more than ever, what they had called her at first in ridicule, but later in respect and affection and reverence,—the angel of the Gila?

When Esther Bright's lap was full of gifts, she tried to express what she felt. Her words had vanished, and happy tears had taken their place.

After her unsuccessful effort to speak, Wathemah, who could hardly comprehend her tears, ran to her, and began to wipe them away with a sleeve of his new waist. She slipped her arm about him and drew him to her. He looked up questioningly.

"It's all right, Wathemah," she said, smiling. "I was so happy I couldn't help crying."

"Now," said the superintendent, "you are each to receive from Miss Bright a Bible, a box of candy and a Christmas card; and from Mrs. Carmichael, some delicious Christmas cookies. Here, boys," he said, beckoning to some of them, "pass these, will you?"

Esther Bright herself took a large panful of cookies to the people outside of the schoolhouse. As she approached a Mexican, she saw standing by him his wife, a blanket Indian, and on her back, a pappoose. As she passed the cakes to them, the squaw reached down and grabbed two handfuls of them, devouring them ravenously.

Esther patted the child, and smiled into the squaw's face, which she could see distinctly in the light that streamed from the window.

"Pappoose?" she said to the Indian.

But there was no answering smile in the squaw's eyes. The "emptiness of ages" was in her face. It was a face Esther was to see again under very different circumstances; but no premonition warned her of the fiery ordeal through which she would be called to pass.

Finally the multitude was fed. The boisterous laughter and the loud talk, within, seemed strangely out of harmony with the solemn stillness of the night. The moon sent a flood of silvery light over the scene before her; and, everywhere, the Christmas fires, built by the Mexicans, were leaping skyward. Esther stood watching; for on far away mountains and near by foothills, the sentinels of the desert had become gigantic burning crosses. She had heard that these were to be a unique feature of the Christmas celebration, but she was not prepared for the exceeding beauty of it all. The burning cross caught her fancy. Suddenly, she became aware of the presence of Kenneth Hastings.

"Wonderfully beautiful,—the scene,—isn't it?" she said, without turning. "I think I have never seen anything more impressive."

"Yes, beautiful. These Catholic Mexicans have a religious feeling that finds expression in splendor. Does the burning cross have any significance to you?"

"Yes," she answered, speaking slowly, as she looked toward one of them; "the cross, once a symbol of ignominy; but now become, like the flaming cross on the mountains, a symbol of light."

"Miss Bright," said John Clayton, from the doorway, "you are asked for."

As she entered the room, Patrick Murphy stepped forward. He raised his hand for attention. After several gibes from the men, and witty retorts on his part, the company quieted down again.

"Ladies an' gintlemin," he said, flourishing his empty pipe, as he made an elaborate gesture, "it's mesilf as feels as we have wid us a foine Christian lady. Ez Oi watched the picters av the Holy Mither this avenin', Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, our teacher (the saints bliss her!) is as lovin' ter the children av this school, as is the blissid Virgin ter the child in thim picters. Oi sez ter mesilf, this lady is as good a Catholic as Oi wish ter see. An' she learns 'em all ter git on. Oi'll sind ivery child o' mine ter day school an' Bible school. Oi hope yez'll all do the same."

Mrs. Murphy's face was a suppressed thunder-storm; but Patrick was oblivious of this as he talked on.

"This was a godless region. Miss Bright come like a angel ter tell us av our sins. Oi belave the Lord sint her.

"See what she done fur us! Her nate little talk ter us, the picters an' her prisints. All who wish ter thank our koind frind, join wid me in three cheers fur Miss Bright!"

Then cheer on cheer rose from the people.

As Patrick took his seat, John Clayton rose.

"Now," said he, "three cheers for our good friend, Mrs. Carmichael, who made the Christmas cookies."

Again the hearty cheers echoed on the still night air.

But Mrs. Carmichael raised a protesting hand. She didn't deserve such a compliment, she said.

Then the guests went their various ways. John Harding covered the embers of the fire and took from his teacher's hands whatever she had to carry, going directly to the Clayton home. She and Kenneth Hastings were the last to leave. Outside the door, they stood for a moment, watching the moonlit scene. In the distance, they heard a man's rich voice singing, "In the Cross of Christ I glory." They listened. Then they walked on in silence for some moments, the gaze of each fixed upon a colossal burning cross through whose yellow flames violet, and green, and red, and blue leaped and died away, then leaped again.

"The cross!" he said at last. "How it has gone in the van of civilization!"

She stopped and laid her hand on his arm. He, too, stopped and looked questioningly into her lifted face, which he could see but dimly.

"The world for Christ!" she said, deeply moved. "It will surely be! Followers of the wonderful Nazarene, filled and actuated by His spirit of brotherhood, are reaching the uttermost parts of the earth. We shall live to see the awakening of nations. We shall live to see strong men and women enlisted on the side of Christ to bring right and justice and purity into life, God into men's lives."

Again silence.

"I know nothing of God," he responded, "save as I see power manifested in the physical world. I have read the Bible so little. I am not intimately familiar with the life and words of Jesus. Before meeting you, I had always thought of religion with more or less contempt. I confess my ignorance. But I am learning to know you. What you are and what you do convince me there is something in your religion I have not found. I am as untaught in spiritual truth as a babe. But now I want to learn."

"I am glad you do. Will you study your Bible?"

He did not tell her he had no Bible, but he promised to study one.

"Will you pray too?" she asked, with a little choke in her voice.

"Would you have me read the prayers of the church?"

"No; the prayer of your own heart."

Then the man became rash.

"The prayer of my heart?" he repeated, with evident emotion. "The prayer of my heart? That prayer is that I may win your love, and your hand in marriage. That is my religion; you, I worship."

"Don't! Don't!" she said, withdrawing her hand from his arm. "Don't; that seems blasphemous."

"If you could only love me, I might begin to comprehend what you tell us of the love of God. I love you. That I know, I understand. You are the embodiment of all I hold sweet and dear. Can't you love me—sometime?"

"I do not know," she responded. "What I do know surely is that I do not love you now. I believe that love of the deep and abiding kind does not fall at man's feet as manna, nor does it grow like a mushroom in a night. It takes time for the mighty, resistless forces of nature to develop a single blade of grass. So love, I take it, must have time to grow."

"Then I may hope to win your love?" he said eagerly.

"Oh, no; don't think of love. You have my friendship; let us not spoil the friendship by dreaming of a love that I cannot give you."

"Do you believe," he asked, "that you will never love any other man?"

"I believe if such love ever grows in my heart, I shall walk in glory all my days. It is a sacred thing, and I could never speak of it lightly, as many do."

"Good night," he said, "and God bless you."

They had reached the Clayton home. The door closed, and Kenneth was alone. He turned; and before him, on the foothills, flamed the burning cross.

CHAPTER XIII

He was not always good. Far from it. He was a healthy little animal, bright and attractive. His activity sometimes got him into trouble. Then to divert his mind, his teacher would tell him little stories. When she would finish, he would say coaxingly, "More."

After a while, he would call for certain stories she had already told him, and interrupt her all the way along, his face alive with intelligent interest. At last he himself wanted to tell the stories to his teacher, with many interpolations and funny variations.

But the funniest thing happened one day when he refused to go home, and announced that he would stay with his adopted mother.

"Oh, no, Bobbie dear," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "What would your father do without you?"

"He tan det another wain," he said, in a tone of satisfaction.

"No, Bobbie," insisted the teacher; "you must go home."

Still he refused. Then all his Scotch stubbornness asserted itself. He could not be driven or coaxed home. And when the older children tried to carry him, he kicked and screamed and fought, till he had freed himself. He ran to his teacher with heart-rending sobs. She sent the other children home, and took him in her arms. Gradually his sobs ceased and he fell asleep. His face was wet with tears. In his sleep, great sighs, the aftermath of the storm, seemed to come from his innermost heart.

The adopted mother sat with her arms clasped about him. Such a look of tender love came into her face as one sometimes sees in the face of a young mother, bending over her sleeping babe. If ever Esther Bright was beautiful, it was at that moment. Kenneth Hastings stood a short distance away, watching her. He lifted his hat and stood with bowed head. At last he spoke her name. She turned, and nodded toward the sleeping boy in her arms.

"Come sit down," she said, moving to make room for him on the doorstep.

"You seem to be a good nurse, too," he responded, taking the proffered seat. "What's Bobbie doing here this time of day?"

She told him of the child's decision to stay with her, and his refusal to go home, his fight, and his stormy sorrow. He listened, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Poor little chap," he said; "he has my sympathy in refusing to be parted from you."

She flushed slightly.

"Don't waste your sympathy," she replied saucily. Somehow that provoking smile of his nettled her. He had found her vulnerable.

"Bigger chaps than he feel the same way towards you," he said, smiling still.

He saw that she was badly teased, and the spirit of mischief led him on.

"Now I'd like to stay with you always, myself."

She looked as though she would annihilate him.

"And what is more, I'd like to change places with Bobbie this very minute."

She rose suddenly, but with some effort, for the child was stout and heavy for his years.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, looking admiringly upon Bobbie.

"I'm going to carry him home."

"How cruel to Bobbie!" he said, stepping near her and extending his arms for the child. "Let me carry him, do."

"I can carry him myself, thank you," she said, with a sudden air of independence.

Again she saw his look of amusement, and struggled with her heavy load, knowing full well that she could not carry him far.

"No, you must not carry him," he said firmly. "He is too heavy for you." And without more ado, he took Bobbie from her arms.

"Come," he said amicably, "we'll both take him home—to Mrs. Carmichael's."

So on they trudged. Bobbie roused a moment, but seeing a familiar face, he reached up his grimy hand and patted the bronzed cheeks, then cuddled comfortably into the strong arms.

"So Bobbie wanted to stay with you," he was saying.

"Yes, he calls me mither, you know."

"I'd like to call you 'mither' myself some day. It's a beautiful name."

She felt provoked with herself. Why in the world had she made that unfortunate remark?

"You love children, don't you?" He was not smiling now.

"Oh, yes; from my childhood up I have loved every child I have seen."

"I see."

But at this juncture Bobbie again roused, rubbed his eyes and demanded to be put down. So Kenneth set him on his feet. The little lad stood in sleepy bewilderment a moment, then with an engaging smile, offered one hand to Esther, and the other to Kenneth. He began to chatter.

"Bobbie loves his mither."

"So do I," responded Kenneth.

Esther bit her lip. She would not look up. But she felt her cheeks flush.

"Mr. Kenneth love Bobbie's mither?"

Kenneth laughed, a free, happy laugh. It was contagious, and the child laughed too. So did Esther in spite of herself.

"Mr. Kenneth tan't love Bobbie's mither."

"Can't, eh?" Again the happy laugh. "Who says I can't?"

"I do, his adopted mother," said the girl, demurely.

"I'll just capture you the way Bobbie did, and you can't help yourself." And again the stern eyes that seldom smiled, were filled with laughter.

Esther suddenly stopped.

"I can take Bobbie home."

"So can I," he said carelessly, with a suggestion of laughter still in his voice.

"I command you, Mr. Persistency, to turn about and leave me to take Bobbie home."

"I refuse to obey, Miss Obstinacy." A low chuckle.

"I suppose I'll have to endure you, then," she said, with mock seriousness.

"I suppose you will," he said. He seemed to enjoy the tilt. "But Miss Bright—." He stood still and faced her. "—I didn't know you were such a fighter. Here I have been trying to make you understand how I appreciate you, and you almost give me a black eye."

"You had two before—ever you saw me," she said.

"You have looked into them, then," he said, maliciously, "so that you know their color?"

He was, provokingly confident in his manner. Suddenly she stopped again. They were almost at Mrs. Carmichael's door, and Robert Duncan's shack was not far away.

"Really, Mr Hastings," she said, resuming a serious tone, "I do wish you would leave me."

"No," he persisted, "I am going to see you safely home."

Mrs. Carmichael met them at the door. Donald had already reached home, and had told her of Bobbie's refusal to return with him. She patted the little one on the head. He was an attractive little boy, and it was evident Mrs. Carmichael loved him. She stooped and extended her arms, and the child ran into them.

"So my Bobbie was nae coming home tae his auntie? What'd I dae wi'oot him?"

Bobbie hung his head and then said softly:

"Bobbie hae found a mither."

The call was prolonged in order to get Bobbie into a staying frame of mind. At last they spied Robert Duncan approaching his shack, when Kenneth stepped over to tell him of Bobbie's decision and afternoon experience. At first the man smiled, then the tears trickled down his face.

"Puir bairn, puir bairn," he said, huskily. Kenneth laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. He knew that Duncan was disheartened, and had spent much time, lately, in the saloons.

"Come," he said. "Come get the little chap. It is evident he misses his mother."

"Yes, he misses her, an' I miss her. I'll gie mair time tae him."

So saying, he accompanied Kenneth to the Carmichael home and soon Bobbie was in his father's arms.

The call of Kenneth and Esther drew to a close.

As the two walked briskly toward the camp, Esther Bright paused from time to time to draw in great breaths of air, and to drink in the glory of the world about her.

"Come," her companion said, "we shall be late to dinner. Did you know I am invited to dine with the Claytons to-night?"

"Really!" She tossed back the curls the stiff breeze had blown across her eyes.

"Really!" he echoed, in a tone of mockery. "Miss Bright, pardon me, but you—" He paused.

"Well?" she said. "What about you?"

"You look altogether charming."

She stopped. He walked on.

"You are perfectly incorrigible," she called. "Unless you promise to talk sense, I'll not go a step further with you."

He turned.

"Sense?" he said with mock seriousness, "that's what I have been talking when in your society all these weeks past. And here you make me play second fiddle to Jack Harding, Wathemah and Bobbie."

"And you prefer to be first fiddle?"

"Of course!"

She seemed in high spirits, ready for a tilt.

"Do be sensible," she said gayly.

"Sensible? I was never more sensible in my life." He made a long face.

"Unfortunate man!" She sighed, as though his condition were utterly hopeless.

He laughed.

"Miss Bright!"

"Mr. Hastings!"

"I have been thinking!"

"Marvelous!" She seemed like some mocking sprite.

"Why don't you ask what I am thinking about?" He seemed provokingly cool.

"Because you are just dying to tell me." She was piquant.

"I vow I'm not. I won't tell you!"

"All right," she returned, quickening her pace.

"Really, now, don't you wish to know what I have been thinking about?" He stepped nearer to her.

"I'm not the least bit concerned," she answered with airy indifference. "I wouldn't know for anything."

"Then I'll tell you. I was just thinking what fun it would be to meet you in society, and have a rattling flirtation with you."

"Indeed!" She lifted her head. "You'd find Greek had met Greek."

"I've no doubt. That would be the fun of it."

"And you might die of a broken heart." Her tone was full of laughter.

"That's what I'm doing already." He looked comical. "And you take no pity on me."

"You might take a dose of soothing syrup." She looked extremely solicitous.

"How extremely kind of you, Miss Bright. But my malady is in the region of the heart. I suspect you think I haven't a heart. But really, Miss Skeptic, a heart happens to be a part of my anatomy."

"I thought we were to talk sense," she reminded him.

Just then they heard a familiar call, and turning, saw Lord Kelwin hastening towards them.

"By George!" he said, breathing hard. "I have been trying to overtake you two for a half mile. You seemed to be having a mighty good time."

"Good time?" echoed Kenneth. "Miss Bright has been abusing me all the way." He assumed an injured air.

"I have no doubt, Miss Bright, that Mr. Kenneth enjoyed the treatment he received," remarked Lord Kelwin.

"Enjoyed it?" Kenneth interjected. "I have been a perfect martyr to feminine cruelty. And would you believe it? Miss Bright has been trying to palm off on me that she is not a daughter of Eve."

"You are a veritable son of Adam," she rejoined, gayly. "And to think that I shall have to endure you at dinner!"

"You'll have to endure another son of Adam, too," interjected Lord Kelwin, "for I am invited also."

At once new light broke in upon Esther.

"I believe you are letting the cat out of the bag," she said, "for I am sure this is intended to be a surprise for me. I have a birthday to-day."

"A birthday?" Kenneth said. "Let me see—" he said with comic gravity,"—you are getting to be a venerable lady. I presume you'll never see fifty again?"

"Oh, I assure you that is altogether too young." Then she turned to Lord Kelwin.

"Do you think it proper to suggest such frivolity as a flirtation to one of my advanced years?"

"Highly improper. Highly improper," said the Irishman, "but I'd like a hand in such a flirtation myself." He seemed to enjoy the nonsense.

"Then there would be two victims."

"You and I?" questioned Lord Kelwin.

"No; you and Mr. Kenneth."

"I was just thinking—." Lord Kelwin paused, to think of something that would make him a score.

"Thinking! Thinking!" as though that were quite incomprehensible. "Mr. Hastings also claimed to be thinking."

"Better leave her alone, Kelwin," laughed Kenneth. "She will have the last word. She's like the woman with the scissors."

"Good avenin'," said a rich brogue just at hand.

"How are you, Patrick?" said Kenneth.

"Well, sir. How are yez, Miss?" He gave his slouch hat a jerk. "Good avenin', Lord Kelwin."

They walked on together, and the talk drifted to the Gila Club.

"I'm really surprised, don't you know," said Lord Kelwin, "at the interest these fellows take in the club."

"It's the first dacint thing the byes has had ter go to. Look at that saloon there!" he said, pointing to an overgrown shack, where women of the coarsest type presided. "And look at that opium den," he said, indicating a small building at their right. "And see that haythen," he said, pointing to a female who stood in the door of a saloon, her cheeks painted, and puffing away at a cigarette. "Thim is the things as has sint the byes to desthruction."

Kenneth Hastings and Lord Kelwin made no reply.

"If yez kape on, schoolma'am," continued Patrick, "yez'll wipe out the saloons and opium places, an' make dacint min an' women out of these poor crathers." He nodded his head.

"So pitifully sad!" Esther's vivacious mood suddenly vanished. She was again grave and thoughtful.

"Aye," said Patrick, "but yez kin do it, Miss, niver yez doubt it. Yez can do it! Oi used ter go ter the saloon mesilf, but Oi'll go no more, no more. That's what yez has done fur me."

Just then Wathemah came running and leaping from Keith's saloon. In a moment he spied them, and ran full tilt towards them.

"It makes me sick at heart," Esther said in a low tone to Patrick, "whenever I think of Wathemah living longer in the saloon."

"Yez air right, Miss," answered Patrick, "but Misthress Keith is a purty dacint sort av a woman, and she has been good ter the lad."

"Yes, I realize that. But I wish I could take him myself."

By this time the child was trudging along beside his Beloved.

Lord Kelwin liked to tease him, and said in a bantering tone, "What are you always hanging on to Miss Bright's hand for, Wathemah? She don't allow the rest of her admirers to do that."

Wathemah placed his other hand over the hand he clasped.

"Me teacher mine!" he said, defiantly.

The men laughed. The teacher placed one hand on the child's head. He rested his cheek against her hand, as he said softly, "Me mother."

"Your mother, eh?" Lord Kelwin looked amused. "I wish she'd mother the rest of us."

The child did not understand the laughter, and fancying himself ridiculed by Lord Kelwin, turned, ran and leaped like a squirrel to his shoulder, and struck him in the face.

"You little savage," the Irishman said, angrily, as he grasped the child and shook him.

"Let me settle with Wathemah," said Esther, firmly. She stepped forward, and took him by the arm, and held him. "Go on," she said to the men, "I will follow."

They sauntered on, leaving her with the refractory urchin. When she and the child finally overtook them, Wathemah's face was tear-stained.

Nothing more was said to the child until they reached the Clayton door.

"I guess you had better go back now, dear," Esther said, placing her hand on Wathemah's shoulder.

"No," he said stoutly, "Mrs. Clayton ask Wathemah he Miss Bright party."

"Oh, yes," she said, with sudden understanding, "you came to celebrate my birthday, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"You want me to wash your face and hands, don't you, Wathemah?" she asked. And off she went with the child.

"By George," said Lord Kelwin, "I never saw such a woman."

"Nor I," returned Kenneth. "There is no other like her."

The other whistled, and Kenneth flushed. His companion went on, "I'd like to know if she really has a fortune."

"Better ask her." Lord Kelwin did not observe the look of contempt on Kenneth's face.

But host and hostess had entered the spacious room, and were extending gracious welcomes.

"Does either of you happen to know of the whereabouts of Miss Bright?" questioned Mr. Clayton.

On learning of her arrival with them, he rallied them on spiriting her off. In the midst of the raillery, Esther and Wathemah entered the room. The latter found his way at once to Mr. Clayton's side, for they were great friends. The entrance of Esther was the signal for further badinage.

"John, what do you think of a young lady who tells her escort she supposes she'll have to endure him?"

"Mr. Clayton," she said, with a saucy tilt of her head, "what do you think of gentlemen who tell a lady they would like to flirt with her?"

"That depends," he answered, with a broad smile, "upon who the lady is. Now if I were not a staid married man—"

"You do not answer my question," she said. "You introduce an altogether extraneous matter. I asked you what you thought of gentlemen who would tell a lady they would like to flirt with her." Here both Lord Kelwin and Kenneth Hastings tried to present their cases. Esther raised her hand. "Would you not consider this great frivolity, Mr. Clayton?" And she assumed a prim, shocked expression so funny that all laughed.

"If you wish to know my candid opinion," he said, with the air of a judge, "I believe they were within the law; but, if they were guilty offenders, they have my sympathy."

Wathemah looked from one to another with a puzzled expression as he listened to their laughter. He seemed to sense the fact that his Beloved was in some way the butt of their fun. In a moment he had slid from his place on John Clayton's knee, and was standing leaning against Esther.

"That's right, Wathemah," she said, pretending to be greatly injured, "you take my part."

"Look out here, young man," said Lord Kelwin, as Wathemah approached him with a threatening fist. Kenneth caught the child, and held him close in his arms, whispering to him, "We're only fooling, Wathemah."

But he said aloud:

"Did you know, John, that Miss Bright has become an adopted mother?"

"No. Whom has she adopted? You?"

"Me? No. That's a good one. She's adopted Duncan's little boy, Bobbie. And when I suggested that I'd like to change places with Bobbie, she almost annihilated me."

All seemed to be enjoying the nonsense.

"Really, Miss Bright," continued Lord Kelwin, "I think you should be at the head of an orphanage."

"I suppose you'd like to be chief orphan," suggested John Clayton.

Then the talk drifted to serious themes, until dinner was announced. A birthday cake with sixteen lighted candles, in the center of the table, was the signal for another fusillade of fun.

"Sixteen! sixteen!" said Kenneth Hastings. "I accused Miss Bright, to-day, of being fifty, and she assured me she was not so young as that."

"Sixteen! sweet sixteen!" said Lord Kelwin, bowing low.

She, in turn, bowed her head.

"You see," she said, "our good prophet, Mrs. Clayton, cried out, and the shadow has turned backward on the dial of Ahaz."

"It is not so much the number of years we count on the dial, after all," spoke Mrs. Clayton, who had thus far listened smilingly to the others; "it is what we live into those years. And you have lived already a long life in your few years, dear friend."

"You are right," Kenneth rejoined. "Miss Bright has lived more years of service to her fellow men in the few months she has been in Gila, than I have lived in my thirty years." Then, half in jest, half in earnest, he continued, "I wish Miss Bright could have been my grandmother, then my mother, then my—" He halted in embarrassment, as he saw a deep blush sweep over Esther's face.

"And then—" suggested Lord Kelwin, in a provoking tone—"and then?"

"I should like her for my friend."

"So say we all of us," rejoined John Clayton. Then observing Esther's face, he changed the drift of the conversation.

"How would you good people like to make up a party to go to Box Canyon sometime in the near future?"

"Delightful!" spoke several, simultaneously. And thereupon they began to describe for Esther the canyon and what she would see.

Before leaving the table, every wineglass save one was filled with sherry. That glass was turned down. John Clayton rose and lifted his glass.

"Here's to our dear friend, Miss Bright. May she always be sixteen at heart, with her ideals of life as true and as sweet as they are now; may the cares of life sit lightly upon her; may she be given strength to do all that she will always seek out and find to do; may the love of the true of heart enfold her; may the Heavenly Father keep her in all her ways; may the shadow ever turn backward on the dial."

And lifting their glasses, they drank to this toast.

Ah, little did they realize how prophetic in some ways that toast would prove to be, nor how great was the work that lay before the lovely and fragile-looking girl. All were happy and light-hearted; at least, all save Carla Earle. She sat quiet and retiring, when her duties were over. Wathemah had found refuge in her lap, and his regular breathing assured her he was fast asleep. So the evening wore on. At last all the guests except Wathemah had departed. The fire burned low. And soon all were asleep in the quiet house.

CHAPTER XIV

"'Taint no use," he answered, in a drunken drawl, "no use. I ain't nobody; never was nobody. Let me be, I say. Nobody cares a blank for me." He threw an arm out impatiently.

"'Sh!" she interrupted. "Jesus cares. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton care. I care. Miss Edith cares. Come home with me, John."

So saying, she led him on to the Clayton ranch.

After a field has lain fallow many years, it must be turned and overturned again, in order to yield an abundant harvest. So it is with a soul.

John Harding's soul was slowly but surely being prepared to receive the seeds of truth. There were days when it seemed as though a demon possessed him. Then he would mysteriously disappear, and be gone for days. He always returned worn and haggard, but gentle. Then he would seek Esther Bright, and say simply:

"I have conquered!"

He seemed to know intuitively that she never lost faith in him. He felt certain that he would yet become what she wished him to be,—a true man. And this conviction made every battle with himself less terrible. At last he knew that the good in him was master.

All this did not come about at once. Months passed before he knew that he could feel sure of his victory.

In the meantime, the church service had become established in Gila. Esther Bright preached with deepening spiritual power. The cowlasses now attended regularly. Other women, too, had come. Miners, dirt begrimed, had astonished their cronies by coming to hear the teacher talk. Even men from the charcoal pits and burro camps found their way to the crowded room.

One Sunday, the atmosphere of the meeting was so remarkable it still stands out in the memory of many a Gilaite of those early days.

Esther Bright had preached on the Healing of the Lepers. She had told them of the disease of leprosy, its loathsomeness, its hopelessness. Then she vividly pictured the ten lepers, the approach of Christ, and their marvelous restoration. She showed them sin, its power to degrade men and women, and to weaken the will. She urged the need of God's help, and the necessity for each one to put forth his will power. Her low, earnest, heart-searching voice seemed to move many in that audience. Again and again rough hands brushed away tears they were ashamed for others to see. Ah, could there be help for them! Could there!

The speaker seemed filled with a power outside of herself, a power that was appealing to the consciences of men.

Kenneth Hastings, caught in this great spiritual tide, was swept from his moorings, out, out, on and away from self, Godward. He rose and spoke with deep feeling. Then some one sang the first stanza of "Where are the Nine?" The singing ceased. The Spirit of God seemed brooding over all. The pregnant silence was followed by a succession of marvels. A Scotch miner rose and said:

"I am a sinner. Jesus, Maister, hae mercy on me."

Then voice after voice was heard confessing sin and praying for mercy.

At the close of the service, there were many touching scenes as men and women long hardened and burdened, came to this young girl for words of hope and encouragement.

If ever human being was an instrument in the hands of God, Esther Bright was that day.

The attendance at the meetings increased so that the schoolhouse could no longer accommodate the people. It was still too cool to hold out-of-door meetings. In the midst of Esther's perplexity, she received a call from one of the saloon keepers.

"I 'ave been attending the meetings," he said, "and see that you need a larger room. I 'ave come to offer you my saloon."

"Your saloon, Mr. Keith?" she said, aghast.

"Yes," he replied, "my saloon! I'm one of the lepers ye told about the other day. I 'ave decided to give up the saloon business."

This was beyond Esther's wildest dreams.

"You have decided to give up the saloon?" she said, overjoyed. "I am so glad! But how will you make your living?"

"I'll go to minin' again, an' my wife'll keep boarders. She's glad to 'ave me give up the dram shop."

Esther's eyes filled with happy tears.

The first Sunday in February had arrived. Nearly all vestiges of a saloon had disappeared from what had been Keith's saloon. Masses of mistletoe and fragrant spruce had taken the place of indecent pictures. A cabinet organ, borrowed for the occasion, stood at one side. A small table served as the speaker's desk. The billiard tables had disappeared, and chairs now filled the room.

The crowd that gathered about the door the day of this first service in the saloon was unusually large, for word had gone out that David Bright, the grandfather of their pastor, would speak at the meeting.

The saving of the souls of men had come to be the vital question of the hour in Gila.

As the crowd caught sight of a stately white-haired man accompanying their leader, there was a respectful hush. Men and women stepped aside, leaving a passage to the door. The two entered. The singers were already in their places. The congregation assembled, and the song service began. At its close, there followed an impressive stillness, broken only by the joyous notes of a Kentucky cardinal.

The aged preacher sat with bowed head. One would hardly have been surprised to hear a voice from on high.

At last he rose. Everyone looked intently into his benevolent, kindly face. Slowly and impressively he repeated:

"Repent ye; for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand."

He repeated the words a second time, then took his seat.

Again the pregnant silence. When David Bright rose the second time, he read Matthew III., and closing his Bible spoke to them for an hour, holding their undivided attention.

"Beloved," he said, "this voice is speaking to us to-day. 'Repent ye: for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand.' The kingdom comes to us individually. It comes only as men's hearts are prepared for it."

Then he carried his audience with him as he preached the need of repentance, and Christ's compassionate love for every human soul. His voice rose and fell, and the roughest men listened, while down many faces flowed repentant tears. Oh miracle of miracles,—the turning from sin to righteousness! Oh greatest experience of the human heart,—the entrance of the Divine!

As the godly man took his seat, Esther Bright rose, and sang, with face shining, "I Love to Tell the Story." As she sang, the notes of the Kentucky cardinal burst forth, a joyous accompaniment to her glad song.

To the amazement of all, Ben Keith rose and said:

"I 'ave been a sinful man. May God forgive me. I repent me of my sins. I 'ave led men and women astray in this saloon. May God forgive me. I 'ave determined to turn face about, and to lead an honest life. I 'ave sold my last drop o' whiskey. I 'ave poured all I 'ad left on the ground. I shall keep no more saloon. May God 'ave mercy on my soul, and on the souls of them as I 'ave led astray."

A sob was heard. It came from the long-suffering Mrs. Keith. Then another stood, asking for prayers; then another, then another. Last of all, David Bright rose, and after speaking a few fatherly encouraging words, he dismissed them with the benediction.

He was soon surrounded by men waiting for a word, a hand grasp. They asked for personal conferences with him.

"Let us go down to the timber," suggested Jack Harding. So together these men strolled down to the river bank.

"Thou art troubled about the unpardonable sin, thou sayest?" the preacher said to a young man walking by his side.

"Yes," replied the youth addressed. "I've been a bad one, but now I really want to be a Christian. I fear I have committed the unpardonable sin. Do you suppose—" he asked in a voice that choked a little, "that God could pardon such a sinner as I am?"

"With God all things are possible," reverently replied the other, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder. "The only sin that seems to me to be unpardonable is that unrighteous obstinacy that forever refuses the offer of salvation."

And into the old man's face came an expression of sorrow.

"But if the offer of salvation is forever passed by, what then?" asked another.

"I believe the soul is lost."

"You mean the soul is in a place of fire and torment, literal hell fire?" asked the first speaker.

"I said I believe the soul is lost."

"Then you don't believe in hell?" asked another.

"No," answered David Bright; "not as some believe in it,—literal fire. Spirit or soul is, I believe, immortal. It lives on. To know God, and Jesus Christ, His Son, is eternal life; not to know them is death. To obey the laws of God here on earth means a foretaste of heaven; to disobey them, means a foretaste of hell."

"And you think there can be hell on earth?" asked one.

"Yes: a man's own evil mind and life make for him a constant hell."

"And you believe heaven may begin on earth?"

"I do. Heaven is the rightful heritage of the soul. Heaven is accord with the Divine. It is the natural environment of the soul. It is more natural to do right than wrong. It is evil environment that perverts the soul."

They seated themselves on a dead tree trunk.

"Here," said David Bright, laying his hand on the fallen tree, "you see an illustration of what happens to many a life. Its environment has brought a parasite that lays hold upon the life of the tree, saps its strength, and decay follows. Destructive agencies in a sinful environment lay hold of human life, sap its strength, and moral decay follows. Many a strong man has fallen as has this magnificent tree. Nothing can revitalize the tree once fallen into decay; but, thanks be to God, there is a force that can revitalize the human being long after he seems dead and lost to the world, and that is the redemptive power of Jesus Christ. There is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved."

The look of one who bears the sorrow of his race upon his heart came into the beautiful face. And the men watched him with deepening reverence for their kind.

One who had thus far been silent spoke.

"But if the soul is immortal, spiritual death cannot come."

The old man looked keenly into the young man's eyes. He spoke with deepest conviction as he said:

"I believe there is almost no limit to the possibilities of the mind and soul to him whose ideals are high, whose courage is great, and who holds himself to the very highest ideals of living. Christ paved the way for such a life for every young man. That sort of life is real living, for it means constructive work in the world. It means growth, immortality.

"To come short of what one might be, steadily, increasingly, brings moral deterioration, atrophy;—to my mind, the saddest form of death. It is life to grow toward the Divine. My son, it will soon be too late. Turn Godward now. Shall we pray?"

Then up to the throne of God went a prayer for these young men,—sons of parents who had long ago lost their grip on them.

For about two weeks, religious meetings were held daily. Night after night the room was crowded. The services consisted of talks by David Bright, songs, short prayers and testimony. Sometimes several men and women would be on their feet at once, eager to voice their repentance, and to testify of God's mercy.

The interest did not end here. Down in the mines, brief meetings were held daily at the noon hour. One group of miners would start a hymn; then way off, another group would catch up the refrain. On many lips the oath or unclean story died unspoken.

Men sought David Bright as they would a father confessor, pouring the story of their lives into his kind and sympathetic ear. They seemed to know intuitively that he was a man of God. What mattered, if he were Catholic or Protestant? He found men evil, and left them good.

And Esther Bright's influence was hardly less marked. Her deep spirituality made her a great power for righteousness.

John Harding seemed scarcely less interested in saving men's souls than she. "Giving men a chance," he called it. He went from mining camp to mining camp, carrying the tidings of salvation, and urging men to repent. And those who heard him not only came to the meetings, but began to bring others also. And so the work grew.

It was at the close of David Bright's second week in Gila that the most impressive meeting was held. At its close, the aged evangelist bade them farewell. Then they crowded about him, thanking him for all he had done for them, and asking him to remember them in his prayers.