Kenneth Hastings was the last to speak with him. He asked for a personal interview. Then arm in arm, they strolled up the mountain road.

What was said during that interview no one ever knew. But when the two returned to Clayton Ranch, David Bright walked with his hand resting on the young man's shoulder. Esther heard her grandfather say to him:

"I honor thee for it, my son. I believe under the same circumstances, I should feel as thou dost. It is a serious question."

Kenneth said something in reply that did not reach Esther's ears. She heard her grandfather speaking again:

"Yes, she is an unusual woman, as thou sayest. She has always been a delightful character, and Christlike in her purity. She is compassionate and loving because she has always walked in the Master's steps."

The two men entered the house, and John Clayton advanced to greet them.

"That was a great meeting," he said.

"Yes," David Bright replied, "God has touched the hearts of the people."

He sat down by his granddaughter, put his arm about her, and drew her to him.

"The field is white unto the harvest, Beloved," he said, looking into her upturned face.

"I hadn't thought of the harvest yet, Grandfather," she said simply. "We have been getting the soil ready to sow good seed at every opportunity. We are on the verge of the growing time."

"Well, well, as you will, little philosopher," he said, releasing her.

It was a lovely picture to see the two side by side. The white head of the one suggested a life work near completion; while the golden brown of the other, suggested life's work at its beginning. Happy would it be if godly and beautiful age could give up its unfinished tasks to those who are content to prepare the soil, and sow good seed, intent on the growing time!

The social hours in the Clayton home that day were ones to be long remembered. David Bright was a man enriched from many sources. He gave himself to his companions in intercourse as rare as it was beautiful. Conversation had never become to him a lost art; it was the flowering out of the life within.

And Kenneth Hastings listened. If he had only had such a father! He was beginning to see it all now,—life's great possibility.

At last he was drawn into the conversation.

"I hardly know," he responded to a question from David Bright. How many things he now realized he "hardly knew!" How vague a notion he had, anyhow, of many questions affecting the destiny of the human race! He thought aloud:

"You see Mr. Bright, I was reared in a worldly home, and I was brought up in the Church of England. My religion is simply a beautiful ritual. But, further than that, I know nothing about it. I never felt any interest in religion until—" here his face flushed "—until your granddaughter came. She found me a heathen—" He hesitated, and glancing toward Esther, caught her glance. How lovely she was! As he hesitated, David Bright finished his sentence, smiling genially as he did so.

"And made you a Christian, I hope."

"I fear not. I am plagued with doubts."

"You will conquer the doubts," responded David Bright, "and be stronger for the struggle. Triumphant faith is worth battling for."

"Well," said Kenneth, "I feel that I am adrift on a great sea. If anyone pilots me to a safe harbor, it will be your granddaughter."

"No," she said, looking into his face with a sudden radiance in her own, "but the Man of Galilee."

And so the talk drifted, talk where each one could be himself and speak out of his innermost heart, and not be misunderstood. So blessed is friendship of the higher sort.

The day passed and the morrow dawned. Then David Bright journeyed eastward again, to minister to the world's unfortunate ones.

He left behind him in Gila an influence that men speak of to this day. But to no one, probably, did his coming mean more than to John Harding. John's transformation was now complete. He became the self-appointed evangelist to numbers of unfortunate and tempted men. He had risen in the scale of life, and had become a Man!

CHAPTER XV

She felt Kenneth looking at her, expecting her to say some word. She seemed suddenly dumb. At last she heard him speak her name. He hesitated, then continued:

"I wish I had gone when you suggested it, Miss Bright."

He bowed his head upon his hand.

"I wish you had gone," she said, simply. "It might have been a comfort to you."

After awhile he spoke cheerfully of his return, and of what they would do.

"Don't let Miss Bright work too hard," he said, smiling gravely. "She does enough work for five men."

"I shall miss your help," was all she said. But she felt a sudden longing to comfort him. Into her face flashed a look of sympathy. He knew it was for him.

"It almost makes me homesick, Kenneth, to hear you talk of going home," said Mrs. Clayton. "England always will seem home to me," she added, turning to Esther.

"It is a beautiful country to call home," responded the New England girl. "I love England."

They talked till late, Kenneth receiving message after message from them to kindred and friends across the sea.

He rose to go, taking leave of Esther last of all. Then he turned to her with both hands extended. She placed her own in his. He drew her towards him, and without a word, turned and was gone.

Esther withdrew, and Edith and Carla soon followed, leaving John Clayton and his wife seated before the fireplace.

"Well, John!" said the wife.

"Well, my dear?" responded the husband, apparently surmising what was coming.

"Kenneth loves Miss Bright."

"Well, is this the first time you have suspected that?" As though he had always suspected it.

"No! But—"

"But what?"

"Is he worthy of her, John?"

"Don't be foolish, Mary. Kenneth is a true and honorable man. Yes—" pausing to listen to her expostulations,—"I know he used to drink some; but I never saw him intoxicated. He played cards as we do here, and when he was in the company of men who gambled, he gambled too."

"But morally, John. It's goodness that a woman cares most about. Is he all right morally?"

He drew his chair close to hers.

"I believe Kenneth to be clean morally. If he had been immoral here, I should have known of it. And yet he, like the other men, has been surrounded by temptation. What is gross does not appeal to him. I have never known him to speak lightly of any woman. For you and Edith he has the deepest respect; for Carla, he has the utmost compassion; and for Miss Bright, (bless her!) he has a reverence I have never seen any man show to any woman."

"Then he loves her, doesn't he?"

"He never told me so," he answered, smiling; "I doubt if he has told her."

"But after that good-by to-night," she persisted, "I know he loves her."

"I hope he does, Mary, and that she cares for him. I don't see how she could help it. I'd like to see them happy,—as happy as you and I are, Mary."

He leaned toward her, resting his cheek against hers.

"As happy as we are, Beloved. Twenty years married. Am I right? And lovers still."

"Yes, twenty happy years," she said, "twenty happy years. But, John, do you think Miss Bright would make Kenneth happy? Would she give up her philanthropic ideas to devote herself to one ordinary man?"

"Oh, that's what's troubling you now, is it?" he asked, laughing outright. Then he spoke seriously:

"I believe Miss Bright could and would make Kenneth supremely happy. You know she is domestic in her tastes, and I believe home would always be her first consideration. But she is such a broad, public spirited woman she would always be a public benefactor. And Kenneth is not an ordinary man. You know that well. He is superior. I do not know of any man for whom I have such a strong friendship."

"I like Kenneth, too," she admitted. "But I was just thinking."

He rose and covered the embers for the night.

"Better leave them alone," he suggested. "Their story is so beautiful I'd not like to have it spoiled."

"John!"

"Yes, Mary."

"I just thought of something!"

"Remarkable! What did you think of?"

"Kenneth will inherit a large fortune, won't he?"

"Of course."

"That might change his plans."

"I think not. He loves America, and the woman he loves is here. He will return. Come! Let's to sleep."

The going of Kenneth Hastings brought a shadow over the household. His departure was likewise the signal for frequent calls from Lord Kelwin. It grew more apparent that he felt a marked interest in the teacher. But whether she felt a corresponding interest in him, no one could have determined. A few times she went horseback riding with him. He assured her she was becoming an excellent horsewoman.

Lord Kelwin now became a constant attendant at the meetings of the club, on all of which occasions he was Esther's self-appointed escort.

Once he ventured a remark about how it happened that a woman of her rank and fortune and accomplishments should be teaching in a mining camp.

"My rank? My fortune? My accomplishments?" she repeated, mystified.

"Yes," he said, patronizingly, "a lady of rank and fortune. I have met several Americans of fortune,—great fortune,—in London and Paris—ah—I—"

"But I am not a woman of rank and fortune, Lord Kelwin. I am just a plain working woman."

He did not observe the amused smile about her eyes and mouth. "You are not likely to find women of rank and fortune in a mining camp."

"It's wonderful how much these American heiresses think of titles, don't you know, Miss Bright. Why, a man of rank can marry almost any American girl he pleases."

"Just so," she assented. "He wins a fortune to pay his debts, and squander otherwise; and she wins a title, dragged into the dust by a degenerate nobleman, plus enough unhappiness to make her miserable the rest of her life. An interesting business proposition, truly!"

"Why, really, Miss Bright,—ah—I—ah—I fear you grow sarcastic."

"Really! Did you discern any approach to sarcasm in my remarks? I am surprised!"

He was not prepared for the mockery in her voice, nor for something about her that made him feel that she was his superior. Before he could formulate a suitable reply, one quite in accord with his sentiments and feelings, she continued:

"We shall doubtless live to see a social evolution. The American man of genius, and force, and character is too intent on his great task of carving out a fortune, or winning professional or artistic distinction, to give his days and nights to social life.

"Now there are noblewomen of the Old World who are women of real distinction, vastly superior to many men of their class, and who have not been spoiled by too great wealth simply because their profligate brothers have squandered the family fortunes.

"Now it occurs to me that it might be a great thing for the progress of the human race, if the finest noblewomen of the Old World, who are women of intellect, and culture, and character, should seek in marriage our men of brains and character.

"The time has come when the American man of the highest type needs something more than a fashion plate or a tailor's model for his mate."

"And have you no American women who could match your paragons, your American tradesmen?" he asked, contemptuously.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "We have fine and noble American women. I was just thinking how the Old World could be invigorated by the infusion of fresh blood from the vital, progressive New World. Just think of a brainy, womanly Lady Somebody of England, refusing to ally herself with an inane, worthless nobleman of any country, and deliberately choosing a man of the people here, a man whose achievements have made him great! Is there not a college of heraldry somewhere that places intellect and character and achievement above rank and fortune?"

He could not fathom her.

"How queer you are, Miss Bright! Such marriages," he continued, in a tone of disgust, "would not be tolerated."

"Why not? They would be on a higher plane than the ones you boast of. You exploit the marriage of title and money. I suggest, as an advance upon that, the marriage of the highest type of the noblewoman of the Old World, with no fortune but her intellect, her character, and her fine breeding, with the highest type of noble manhood in America, a man large enough and great enough to direct the progress of the world."

"Ally the daughters of our nobility with plebeian Americans?—with working men?"

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because we despise people in trades," he said, contemptuously.

"But the tradesmen who make the fortunes are quite as good as their daughters, who barter themselves and their fathers' wealth for titles. You seem to approve of such alliances."

They had reached the veranda of the Clayton home. Esther Bright's hand was on the door knob, and her companion took his leave.

How radical she must seem to him!

As she entered her own room, she found a letter bearing a London postmark. It was the first letter she had received from Kenneth Hastings, and it was a long one. She read it through, and then reread it, and buried her face in her arms on the table. After awhile there came a knock on the door. It was Carla. She had been crying. Esther slipped an arm about her, and together they sat on the edge of the bed.

"What is the matter, Carla?" she asked gently.

"Oh, I am so unhappy!"

"Has anyone hurt your feelings, dear?"

"Oh, no. It is not that. It is the other. I wish I could die!"

Esther drew Carla to her.

"You still care for Mr. Clifton; is that it?"

"Yes," she answered, with a sob, "that is it. I am so unhappy!"

"Tell me all about it, Carla," said Esther, in a soothing tone. "Perhaps it will be a relief for you to tell me. When a load is shared it grows lighter."

"Well, you see, Papa and Mamma died, and I had no one but distant kindred. They gave me a home, and I became a sort of servant in the family. Mark Clifton was their nephew. He seemed to love me, and he was the only one who did. He talked often of the home we'd have when we are married, as I told you.

"I was sixteen when he came to America. Then he sent me money to come to him, saying we'd be married on my arrival here.

"But when I reached Gila, he said he could not disgrace his family by marrying me."

These words were followed by violent weeping. Then Esther comforted her as best she could, and tucked her in her own bed. At last Carla fell into a heavy sleep.

Again Esther opened Kenneth's letter, read it, and placed it in her Bible.

So days came and went,—homely days, days of simple duties, days of ministration to human need. And Esther Bright was happy.

One day as she lingered late at the schoolhouse, she was startled to see a young Apache, dressed as a cowboy, standing in the doorway. For an instant, she felt a sickening fear. Then her habit of self-control asserted itself. She motioned him to a seat, but he did not seem to understand. He spied her guitar, tried the strings, shook his head, and muttered words unintelligible to her.

The Indian was, apparently, about her own age, tall, muscular, and handsome. His long, glossy, black hair hung about his shoulders. On his head, was a light felt hat, similar to the ones worn by the cow-punchers. His trousers and jacket were of skins and cloth respectively. In a moment he looked up at her, from his seat on the floor, and jabbered something. Apparently, he approved of her. He touched her dress and jabbered something else. [2] "Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´," he said, pointing southward towards the Apache reservation.

She told him, in poor Spanish, that she could not understand; but he apparently understood her, and looked pleased. Again he repeated the same words, using much gesticulation to help convey his meaning.

There was a step outside, and Robert Duncan appeared with Bobbie.

After greeting the teacher, Robert looked with unbounded astonishment at her unusual visitor. Apparently the Apache was there on a friendly visit. The Scotchman was about to pass on, when the teacher asked him to stay. He entered the room, and said something to the Indian, who answered, [3]"Indä-stzän´ ū´-sn-bē-ceng-kĕ´."

Robert seemed to catch his meaning, and answered in Spanish that the people called her the Angel of the Gila.

The Apache nodded his head approvingly, and said,[4] "Indä-stzän´ ū´-sn-bē-tse´!"

He stepped up to the teacher, and took hold of her arm as if to draw her away with him. She shook her head, and pointed to Robert Duncan, who made signs to him that she was his squaw. At last the Indian withdrew, turning, from time to time, to look back at the vision that, apparently, had bewitched him.

Then Robert explained his own errand. He was seeking a mither for Bobbie. The bairn must have a mither. He had understood her interest in the bairn to be a corresponding interest in himself. He was muckle pleased, he said, to be singled out for any woman's favor. He was nae handsome man, he kenned that weel. He was ready tae marry her any time she telt him. Robert looked wonderfully pleased with himself, apparently confident of a successful wooing. His experience had been limited.

"You wish to marry me, Mr. Duncan?" Outwardly, she was serious.

"Yes, Miss, sen ye was sae willin', I thocht I maucht as weel tak ye, an' then I'd not be bothered wi' ither women.

"Have they troubled you?" she asked, with a look of amusement. "Have they been attentive to you?"

"Not as attentive as y'rsel'."

"In what way have I been attentive to you, Mr. Duncan?" she asked, looking still more amused.

"Ye've helpit me bairn, an' cleaned his claes, an' let him ca' ye mither. Ye'd no hae doon that wi'oot wishin' the faither, too."

His confidence was rather startling.

"But suppose I do not wish the father. What then?"

"Oh, that could never be," he said, "that could never be."

"You have made a mistake, Mr. Duncan," she said, quietly. "You will have to look elsewhere for a wife. Good afternoon."

Saying which, she turned the key in the door, and left him standing dumb with astonishment.

After she had gone some distance, he called after her: "Ye are makin' the mistak o' y'r life!"

CHAPTER XVI

"Never mind anything else. Give us the safe team, and we'll start."

A spirited team was soon at the door, and they were placing wraps, cushions and luncheon in the carriage. Then Esther and Edith started.

For a few miles, they repeatedly crossed bridges over the Gila, then their road followed the foothills for some distance. The hills were still yellow with the silky California poppies. Green alfalfa fields, in the valley below, looked like bits of Eden let down into the grimly majestic scene. Higher the travelers rode, and higher. At a sudden turn, they came upon the narrow and perilous canyon road, where they drove slowly, drinking in the grandeur of it all.

The tinkling of a cowbell warned them that they were approaching a human habitation. As they rounded a sharp jag, they came upon a picturesque bridge, near the farther end of which they caught a glimpse of a pine-slab cabin, half hidden by tremulous aspens. A little Mexican child stood near the door, helping himself to the pink and white blossoms of the wild sweet pea. Near by, a white cow, with her clanking bell, browsed on the green turf that bordered that side of the stream.

On and up the mountain, the travelers rode, into the heart of the Rockies.

"Just look at that rose-colored sandstone," said Esther. "How exquisitely veined! See the gigantic, overhanging mass of rock beyond! And oh, the cactus blossoms! How glorious! The large scarlet blossoms! See?"

"Yes. Exquisite, aren't they? But look at those cliffs over in that direction, Miss Bright," said Edith, pointing to her left, as she spoke. "Do you see anything unusual?"

"Yes. Quaint figures. Indian art, isn't it? I do wish I could see it nearer by."

And so they traveled on, reveling in the beauty everywhere about them.

"Does it ever occur to you," asked Edith, "that God is nearer to us here, in the mountains, than anywhere else?"

"Yes. Does God seem nearer to you here?"

"Much nearer. When we went home to England the last time, I missed something. It seemed to me it was God. We went to the churches and heard great preachers, but they did not make me feel the presence of God as the mountains do. When I come out into the open, as you call it, and see the mountains, it seems to me I could reach my hand out and find God."

"The mountains do great things for us," said Esther, looking up at the jagged cliffs.

Suddenly there was a whir of wings. An enormous eagle roused from his perch on the rocks, made a bold swoop, and soared grandly above their heads.

"Look, look!" cried Esther, in excitement. "An eagle, isn't it? Oh, you splendid creature! How magnificently free!" Her cheeks flushed.

"Did you never see one before?"

"Yes, stuffed; but this bird is alive and free." She looked at Edith.

"You look pale, Edith," she said, with sudden alarm. "Are you feeling worse?"

"No. Only tired. We'll soon reach the clearing, and just beyond that, the ford; and just beyond that, the ranch house. So I can soon rest."

Esther drew a deep breath, and said:

"I feel as though the spirit of the eagle had entered into me."

But darkness was coming on apace. To their relief they soon entered the clearing, and reached the bank of the stream, where they halted a few minutes. The horses pricked up their ears.

"Do you think the ford is dangerous now, Edith?"

"It is usually quite safe at this season, unless there has been a cloudburst. The horses know the ford, and are used to crossing. Papa gives them the rein, and they have always brought him safely through. We had better place our luggage on the seat," she said, "and keep our feet up. Tuck your skirts up, or you'll get a drenching."

Then she leaned forward, and called each horse by name.

In a moment they were in the river, with the water up to the horses' shoulders. They felt the carriage swing with the current, and felt the team struggling with the force of the waters. Then Esther called to the horses, in tones that showed no fear, "Well done, Rocket! On, Star, on!"

It seemed hours to her before the faithful animals were once more on the shore, and safe.

"Were you frightened, Miss Bright?" asked Edith.

"Just a little. I never forded a stream before. But how nobly the horses behaved!"

"Yes. It must be a hard struggle for them, though."

In about five minutes, they stopped before a house, tied their team, and knocked at the door. A refined-looking young woman received them.

"Why, Esther Bright!" she exclaimed, with a little shriek, clasping Esther in her arms.

"Why, Grace Gale! Bless your heart! Where in the world did you come from? Grace, this is my friend, Miss Edith Clayton. She is ill, and I am taking her to see Dr. Brown in Carlisle. We are seeking the hospitality of this house overnight."

Before she was through speaking, Grace Gale was half carrying Edith into the house.

"Come right in, come right in!" she said. "I'm delighted! Tickled to death to see some one I know!"

She ushered them into a room guiltless of carpet, meagerly furnished, but immaculately clean. Then she excused herself to send some one to attend to the horses, and to tell her landlady she would entertain two guests over night. She soon returned.

"But how did you happen to come so far from civilization, Esther?" she questioned.

"Oh, a combination of circumstances; but chiefly through Mrs. Clayton, whom I met in England. What brought you out here?"

"I came for restoration of health," she answered, laughing merrily, as though it were all a joke.

"I don't look very sickly now, do I? I had had double pneumonia, and my physician ordered me to leave Boston, and go to a dry climate. So I came to Arizona. I happened to meet the superintendent of education. He needed teachers. So I came here, just for the fun of the thing."

"And has it been fun?", asked Esther, joining in her friend's laughter.

"Fun? There have been so many funny things I have laughed myself into stitches. For example, my landlady refuses to let me have any extra bedding for to-night."

"Never mind. We have our cushions and lap-robe to help out. Who would have dreamed, Grace, when we were at Wellesley, that we should meet way out here in the wilds of Arizona? Oh, I'm so glad to see you!"

"So am I, to see you. Now tell me all you know about the girls of our class, Esther."

They were in the midst of a vivacious conversation, when a sleek, tow-headed woman appeared at the door, and was presented to them. Then she announced supper, and disappeared.

"Don't be frightened," whispered the merry hostess to her guests. "She's tame, and won't bite, and the food is clean."

The landlady entered the kitchen, and after serving them, left the room.

The hours sped merrily. The sick girl lay on the little bed, listening to college reminiscences, and joining occasionally in the conversation and laughter.

"Esther," said Miss Gale, "let's give the Wellesley yell for Edith."

"Well! Here goes!" said Esther, joining her friend. Suddenly, the tow-head appeared at the door.

"Be ye sick?" inquired the surprised hostess.

"No," answered Miss Gale, "only giving our college yell."

"Ye don't say! Is them the kind er doin's ye has where ye goes ter school?"

"A yell is a safety-valve, don't you see, Mrs. Svenson?"

But Mrs. Svenson left the room mumbling to herself.

At a late hour, Grace Gale made a shake down of one blanket, for Esther and herself. Then Esther proposed they use Mrs. Clayton's cushions, and shawls, and robe, to complete the preparations. Edith slept in the bed.

After a while, the hostess asked:

"Are your bones coming through, Esther?"

"No, but I am sorry to put you to such inconvenience. I hope you won't take cold. There is a chill in the air to-night."

"No more o' that, honey. I'm just glad to see you. This is the biggest lark I have had since I came to Arizona."

The visitors laughed with her.

"My! It is eleven o'clock, and I must not keep this sick child awake any longer. Good night, Esther."

"Good night, Grace."

"Good night, Edith."

"Good night."

A long pause.

"Esther," softly, "are you asleep?"

"No."

"I am so glad you came. I was almost dead from homesickness."

"Were you, Grace? I'm so sorry I didn't know you were so near."

On the following morning, the vivacious hostess said:

"I can't let you go. I'm so lonely." And to her surprise, tears rolled down her cheeks.

"You dear girl!" said Esther, slipping her arm about her.

"Get your hat, and go with us on our visit to Dr. Brown. We have enough luncheon to last us a week. Come right along."

So off the three drove.

It was a perfect May day, the kind found only in Arizona. The air was crystal clear, and the sky a deep blue. All along, there were thickets of sweet briar, and sweet peas; and cactuses, just beginning to bloom, made the way one of continual splendor. The air was exhilarating; so was the sunshine; so was Grace Gale.

"Oh, you're just as good as a tonic, Miss Gale," said Edith. All three seemed to see the funny side of everything, and laughed even when there was no excuse for laughing. The gladness of the day was contagious.

The physician looked grave when he saw the unnatural pallor of Edith's face, and noted her heart action.

"It is well Miss Bright brought you to me at once, Edith," he said. "You need immediate medical attention. I wish you could remain with us a few days."

But she insisted upon returning with her teacher.

After a due amount of rest and refreshment, they started homeward, leaving Miss Gale at her boarding place. Then the two approached the ford again. The stream was higher than on the preceding day, and the waters raging.

Once more the spirited team dashed forward. Once more the carriage swung with the current; only, now, it was swifter and stronger than on the day before.

"Oh, this is terrible!" said Edith, grasping her companion's arm.

"Keep up courage, Edith," said Esther. "I think we'll make it."

But she noted the deathly whiteness of the girl's face.

"Steady, Rocket! Steady, Star!" said the teacher. Her own face grew tense and white.

She felt the carriage swing with a sudden lurch, and it began to dawn upon her that the horses might lose in the struggle. She lifted the reins, and called out above the roar of the waters:

"On, Rocket! On, Star! Once more, my beauties! Bravo! Oh, God, give them strength! On!"

She rose in her excitement, and swung the reins.

The noble animals struggled madly. Could they gain the opposite bank? She was filled with sickening fear.

"On, Rocket! On, Star!" she urged again.

At that moment, the exhausted animals gained the mastery, sprang up the embankment, and stopped suddenly on the level beyond, quivering from their terrific struggle.

Esther gave the reins to Edith, and springing from the carriage, she stepped to the horses' heads, patting and stroking them. Her voice trembled as she said:

"Rocket, my brave, Star, my beauty, we owe our lives to you."

They whinnied as if they understood.

She put her cheek to their noses, she laughed, she cried.

"I believe they understand," she said.

"I feel sure they do," answered Edith.

When Esther climbed back into the carriage, she found Edith had fainted. She waited till her patient regained consciousness, and then they started homeward.

"Do you know," said Edith, after they had gone some distance, "we have had a very narrow escape? A little more, and we'd have been swept down the river."

"I didn't realize the full danger until we were in the midst of the torrent," said Esther. "There was no choice but to go on. I thank God that your life is safe, dear," she added, drawing the girl affectionately to her. "I hope our troubles are over now, and that you'll feel no ill effects from the fright."

They had covered miles of the return journey, and had reached the canyon road leading directly to Gila. Here, for a short distance, the canyon stream spreads wide, flowing over a pebbly bottom. The water sparkled in the sunlight like a stream of diamonds. In the shallows, the bed of the stream seemed jeweled with rubies and emeralds, opals and amethysts, as the pebbles below the crystal water shimmered in the late sunshine.

They were within a mile of Gila when they heard the sharp, shrill cry of wolves. Esther tightened the reins, and the horses fairly flew.

"Have we a gun with us, Miss Bright? We ought to have one. I always feel safer when I have a gun. You never know what you may meet on these mountain roads."

"Can you shoot?" asked Esther.

"Oh, yes; father trained me to shoot. Oh, those terrible wolves!" she said, as the shrill, mournful cries came nearer.

"On, Rocket! On, Star!" urged Esther, again.

The animals made a sudden lunge, and sped onward like mad. Around jagged turns they flew, as if inviting death; near precipitous cliffs they swung, till the driver was filled with sickening terror. On they raced, the wolves in hot pursuit.

"Oh, dear!" said Edith, looking back. "One large wolf is far in advance, and close upon us."

Quick as a flash, she stooped, took a great haunch of venison Dr. Brown had sent to her father, and flung it behind them. Then she watched in intense excitement.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, striking her hands together, "the wolf has discovered the venison, and has stopped!"

With that, she took the whip, and gave the already excited animals a stinging blow. They leaped and plunged madly forward. Esther doubled the reins around her hands, and called in low, insistent tones:

"Steady, Rocket! Steady, Star!"

They had gained upon their pursuers, and the horses were running at furious speed.

"The she-wolf," said Edith, looking back, "is again following; but the smaller wolves are snarling over the venison."

"Ow-ee-ow," came the wolf-cry, shriller, sharper, nearer. Esther shuddered. She urged the horses on. Edith grasped her arm in terror.

"The wolf is just behind us!" she said.

Suddenly there was the report of a gun. Esther glanced back, and saw the wolf fall in the road. She glanced ahead, and, at first, she saw no one. Then, out from the shade of a group of pines, rode Kenneth Hastings.

"Whoa! Whoa!" he called, as he leaped from his own horse, and caught Rocket by the bits. With a sudden lurch, the team came to a standstill.

"Whoa, Rocket! Whoa, Star!" he called soothingly, as he held and quieted the team.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Hastings!" said Esther. "When did you reach Gila?"

"We're so glad to see you!" said both, as he stepped to the carriage and extended a hand to each.

"But how did you happen to be here?" asked Esther.

"I came in this morning. Mrs. Clayton told me you had gone to Carlisle, and would be back about this time. I have felt anxious about you ever since I heard you had undertaken this journey."

Again both repeated their gratitude for his timely assistance. He could see they were trembling.

"Your horses were running away," he said. "They are nervous creatures, and are still frightened."

After a while, he suggested that they drive on slowly, while he kept guard, in case wolves should pursue them farther. Then he mounted his horse, and rode beside their carriage.

So they covered the remaining distance, talking of many things that had happened during the weeks of his absence.

As they approached the Clayton residence, Mrs. Clayton and Carla came out to welcome them.

"How are you, Edith?" questioned the anxious mother.

"I hardly know," answered the girl. "I've been frightened nearly to death. I guess the fright cured me."

"I think she is better," added Esther. "Dr. Brown's medicine has helped her."

"But what frightened you?" asked the mother.

Then Edith told of the peril of the ford, and of the pursuit of the wolves, dwelling on Kenneth's opportune assistance.

"We owe a great deal to you, Kenneth," said Mrs. Clayton, her eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, that was only a trifle, Mrs. Clayton," he said, carelessly.

"Come dine with us to-night, Kenneth, won't you?" asked his friend.

After thanking her, he mounted his horse, lifted his cap, and went on his way to headquarters.

And Esther Bright! What was in her heart? We shall see.

CHAPTER XVII

In a little room apart, sat men intent on a game of cards. Lord Kelwin joined them. One of the players, a mining engineer, was a professional gambler, who frequently raked into his pockets the hard-earned wages of many laboring men. Everyone save the engineer seemed tense. Once in a while, a smothered oath was heard. At the close of the game, the Irish lord, also, began to play. He had been drinking, and though an experienced player, he was no match for the sober gambler. He lost heavily. At the close of the game, he drank again, then staggered out of the door. Ah, how many had done the same!

Pete Tompkins followed, gibing him about entering the mare in the race.

"What in blank are ye enterin' her fur?" asked the aforesaid Pete.

The men gathered about expectant of a fray.

"What am—I—entering her—for—(staggering and hiccoughing)—entering her for? Ye blanked Americans!—I'm entering her for Miss Bright—Miss Bright, ye know—Miss Bright—" He laughed a silly laugh. "I'm going to marry her." Here, he indulged in a drunken jest that sent some of the men into fits of laughter.

A few, standing outside the door, had attended the men's club and the Sunday service. Jack Harding, passing at that moment, stopped to speak with one of the men, and overheard the reference to Esther Bright. His face grew sternly white. He stepped in front of the boastful Irishman, and said in a stern, quiet voice:

"Brute, say that you lied."

"Blank you, you religious hypocrite," roared Lord Kelwin, "you can't bully me!"

Jack Harding sprang upon him, gripped his throat like a vice, and demanded that he retract every insulting word he had said about the teacher. "What is that to you? Blank you!" gasped the Irishman.

Jack Harding's grasp tightened.

"Say it," he repeated, in deadly quiet tones. "Say that all you said about that pure, good woman is a lie."

His tone was as inexorable as fate.

The Irishman's eyes grew fixed with terror, his tongue hung from his mouth, his face grew purple. Still that calm intense voice reiterating in his ear:

"Say it! Say that all you said was a lie."

Seeing Lord Kelwin's extreme danger, some one attempted to interfere. Cries were heard:

"Let them alone!"

"It's none of your funeral!"

"Jack Harding was right. Kelwin did lie, and he's a blackguard for saying what he did."

Then man after man took up the cry:

"Kelwin, ye blanked coward, say ye lied! Ye know ye lied!"

At last the Irishman gave the sign. Jack Harding released him. Then, somewhat sobered, he muttered:

"I did lie about a true woman. All I said was a lie."

He staggered from the scene, and Jack Harding passed on his way.

The race was to be on a track in the valley below. As it was Saturday, John Clayton had suggested to Esther that she and Edith take a horseback ride with him, to see the last part of the race; for, he assured her, she would see human life, as well as horse speed, there.

As they approached the track from the mountain road, hoarse cries and yells could be heard. Excitement ran high.

A few thoroughbreds had been entered for the race, but the greater number of entries were for horse-flesh that could boast neither registered sires nor grandsires. They were just "horses."

The last race began just as the Clayton party turned and looked down on the wriggling, shoving, cursing crowd below. It is doubtful if Esther Bright had ever heard such language, in all her life, as she heard that day. She shuddered, and turning to her escort, asked why he had brought her there.

"Just for you to see what animals human beings are, and how great is their need of refining, uplifting influences."

"Is John Harding here?" she asked, uneasily.

"We are all here," he answered, smiling, "including Jack. You need never worry about him again. You found him a sinner, and—"

"And he has become a saint?" she supplemented.

"Not exactly a saint," he answered, "but you have brought about a complete transformation in the man's life and character. Jack could never return to what he was, be sure of that!"

"Kelwin! Kelwin's ahead!" shouted a hoarse voice, above the noise of the crowd.

"Blank ye!" retorted another, "Bill Hines is ahead! I seen 'em turn fust!"

"Ye lie!" continued the first.

Away to the right, speeding around a curve in the race course, four horses were straining every muscle. Occasionally a cow-puncher would lift his quirt, and make it hum through the air, or lash the poor beast, already straining to its utmost speed.

For a few moments, the racers were concealed from view by a mass of rocks. When they emerged again, they were greeted by yells from bystanders. A cowlass, mounted on a spirited animal, was in the lead. She swore almost constantly at her horse, occasionally cutting him with her quirt.

Lord Kelwin, now somewhat sobered, made a close second; and Bill Hines and Bill Weeks were neck and neck behind the Irishman.

The crowd cheered and cheered.

The girl leading was as fine a specimen of the human animal as the horse she rode was of the horse kind. She sat her horse superbly.

Finally, Lord Kelwin gained upon her, and the horses were neck and neck. The girl again whirled her quirt around till it cut the air with a hissing sound, and spoke to her horse. It was enough.

The betting grew louder. The stakes grew heavier.

"I know Kelwin'll win yet."

"No, he won't. Kate Brown'll win. She's a devil to ride, that girl is!"

Again the Irishman gained upon her. Again she sent her quirt singing through the air, and her horse obeyed as though horse and rider were one. He sped faster and faster, passed Lord Kelwin, then the starting point, and the race was won.

"Hurrah for Kate Brown and Lightning!" shouted hoarse voices; and cowboys and cowlasses and everyone else yelled and shouted, and shouted and yelled. It seemed as though pandemonium had been let loose.

Jack Harding had gone to the races chiefly to dog the steps of Lord Kelwin; so, if the Irishman had been inclined to speak lightly of Esther Bright again, he would have had to reckon with him. Kelwin felt himself shadowed by the cowboy, and a great fear took possession of him.

As he dismounted, his scant clothing was wet, and clung to his person. The race had not improved his temper any. To be beaten, and beaten by a woman, and that woman an American cowlass, was the very limit of what he could endure from "raw America" that day. He swore to the right of him; he swore to the left of him. Then glancing over the crowd, he discovered the Clayton party overlooking the scene.

John Clayton, ignorant of the episode at the saloon, was beckoning him to join them. Lord Kelwin was about to do so, when Jack Harding stepped up to him and said:

"Don't you dare enter that woman's presence!"

Lord Kelwin placed his hand on his gun, saying:

"Oh, you needn't give me any of your impudent American advice, you mongrel cur!"

"Never mind what I am," said Jack; "that woman is one of the truest, purest souls on earth. You are not fit to enter her presence. You have me to deal with, remember."

His great eyes flashed upon the Irishman, who quailed before him.

"Oh, you needn't be so high and mighty," said Lord Kelwin, changing his tactics. "I don't care a blank about her, anyway. She's only an American working woman, an Indian at that."

"So this is nobility," Jack said to himself. "Nobility! What is it to be noble?"

The race was followed by a dance in one of the saloons, and the lowest of the low were there. At four o'clock in the morning, those sober enough went to their homes; the others stretched out anywhere, in a deep drunken sleep; and pay-day and its pleasuring were over. Men and women awakened to find their money gone; and for the first time in years, they felt shame.

Sunday came. The hour of the service drew near. Esther Bright had thought out what she would say that day about the Race for Life. But when she rose to speak, she had a strange experience. All she had thought to say, vanished; and before her mind's eye, she saw the words, "The wages of sin is death."

There were perhaps a hundred people before her in the timber (where the services were now held),—men and women among them, who, the day before, had forgotten they were created in the image of God, and who had groveled to the level of beasts.

These men, these women, had come to this spot this day, why, they did not know. Why Esther Bright said the things she said that day, she did not know, either. All she knew was that the words came, and that there were men and women before her whom she must help.

Those who had sunken so low the day before, cried out in repentance, as they listened to her words. God's message, through Esther Bright's voice, had come to men's business and bosoms. Called of God, she said they were,—called to be true men, true women. From time to time, she quoted, "The wages of sin is death." One could almost hear his heart beat.

The meeting was over, so far as Esther Bright's part in it was concerned; then it passed from her control. First one, then another rose, confessed his sins, and asked for her prayers.

And what of Esther? She sat as pale as death, her face alight with a sweetness and compassion that did not seem of earth.

Kenneth Hastings watched her with deepening reverence. Her words had gone to his heart, too, and he sang with deep feeling:

"Just as I am, without one plea."

As the song ceased, Pete Tompkins (to everyone's amazement) sprang to his feet.

"Ye'll be s'prised ter hear from me, I reckon,"—Here he shoved his hand, lean and gaunt, up through his hair. "But I've been listenin' ter schoolma'am ever sence she begun preachin' in the timber, an' all I've got ter say is she ain't our brand, or the Devil's brand either. When the Boss sent out his puncher ter round up folks, he cut her out an' branded her with the mark o' God. I know she's tellin' the gospel truth. She's got more courage 'n any blanked one o' yer. I done 'er a mean trick onct. I said blanked mean things about 'er. I'm sorry I done it, blanked ef I ain't! Ter show 'er an' you that I mean ter be differ'nt, I say, here an' now, that I wanter see these meetin's go on, 's long 's schoolma'am 'll be our angel an' pilot us. Ter prove I mean it, I'll plank down this hunderd dollars" (holding up a hundred-dollar bill) "toward buildin' a meetin' house; an' I'll give more, blanked ef I don't! How many wants a meetin' house in Gila? Stand up!"

Many stood.

"Stand up, the hull blanked lot o' ye!" said the self-appointed leader in forcible tones. To Esther's astonishment, the people rose, and remained standing.

The notes of a thrush were caught up by a mocking bird, then a warbler joined in, and the waiting people listened. The song of the birds "came like the benediction that follows after prayer."

At last the company dispersed, and Esther Bright sat alone, absorbed in silent prayer.

CHAPTER XVIII

Kenneth Hastings studied her, puzzled. He shared the solicitude the Claytons evidently felt for her. All knew she had drawn too lavishly upon her strength in her unselfish service for others. They also knew that warnings and protests availed nothing; that she must learn through experience the necessity of conservation of energy. Too useful a woman, Kenneth Hastings said of her, to wear herself out in service for a lot of common people. But he did not understand. He was to learn.

At the close of a fatiguing day, a day of withering heat, John Clayton came home to dinner, bringing Kenneth with him. Esther Bright and Edith Clayton sat on the veranda as they approached.

"Miss Bright," said the host, "I have a proposition to make:—that you and Mrs. Clayton accompany Mr. Hastings and me to Clifton to-morrow. Fortunately, to-morrow will be Friday. We can start soon after school is dismissed, and return Saturday, riding in the cool of the day."

"Delightful!" she exclaimed, with evident pleasure, "How far is it?"

"About twenty miles, I think," he answered.

"Twenty miles? On horseback? I'm afraid I can't endure the fatigue of so long a ride. I am already so tired!"

"Really!" said Kenneth, in a mocking tone. "You at last acknowledge that you are tired! I am astonished."

But she was unresponsive.

As the plans were discussed for the long ride, Esther gradually roused, and entered into the occasion with spirit. It was decided that the four should go in the surrey. Carla and Edith were to remain at home; and as Jack Harding was still in camp, he was to be general protector of the girls until the return of the party.

As the sun began to lower, Friday afternoon, the party drove away from camp, first north, then east, toward Clifton. They crossed and recrossed the Gila River for some distance, passing many of the abandoned cliff dwellings along the canyon. Everywhere, the desert foothills, and the crevices of jagged, cliffs were ablaze with cactus blossoms. As the cool came on, the air grew delightful, and Esther seemed to awaken once more to the pure joy of living.

Could they tell her anything of the cliff dwellers? They certainly could. And John Clayton told her of the Hopi Indians, and their customs. People of peace they were; keepers of sheep, lovers of the heavens, and knew the mystery of the stars as no one else did. Their men honored their women, he said. And then he laughingly told her that the Hopi Indians were women suffragists. The Hopi women, he said, were given more rights than were the women of civilization.

"What rights?" she asked.

Then he described his visit to Hopi land, telling her of the superior place the Hopi woman occupies in the life of the Hopi people.

The talk drifted to Indians in general, Esther Bright asking many questions, indicating on her part a deep and growing interest in these native lords of the valleys and mesas.

Just as they were crossing a bridge over the river, they met Lord Kelwin on horseback. It was the first time they had met him since the race. John Harding had not seen fit to tell Kenneth or the Claytons of his experiences with the Irishman, as long as he himself was in camp to protect Esther Bright.

John Clayton reined in his horses to greet Lord Kelwin. The Irishman spoke to them, but looked at Esther. After learning their destination and the probable time of their return, he lifted his cap and rode on.

Esther Bright was annoyed. She could hardly have told why.

"Lord Kelwin is a genial fellow," John Clayton remarked, turning to speak to Esther; but, observing the expression of her face, he asked in a surprised tone:

"Don't you like Lord Kelwin, Miss Bright?"

"No," she answered, quietly.

Kenneth laughed. Then, turning around, he said in a bantering tone:

"But he told me you had gone horseback riding with him, daily, while I was away."

"He's mistaken, Kenneth," responded John Clayton. "Miss Bright went riding with him about three times."

"Three times too many," said Kenneth, apparently teasing, but with an undertone of seriousness. Mrs. Clayton adroitly turned the conversation.

"John, tell Miss Bright about your meeting General C."

Then he told how the general came to Arizona, and of his wise dealings with the red men. He explained the reason for the great unrest of the Indians after the general withdrew. He told how he was summoned from the Department of the Platte in 1882, and of the capture of Geronimo and his band.

"And Geronimo is supposed to be the father of our little Wathemah!" Esther exclaimed.

"Some think so," he said. "I have my doubts. He looks as though he might be a mixture of Apache, Mexican and Spanish."

"Whatever he is, he is an attractive child," she said. "How did you come to meet General C.?"

"He and his troops marched through Gila. I entertained the officers at the ranch over night."

As he spoke, they came upon a pappoose, tied to a tree, and blinking in the afternoon sunshine. Just beyond, they found a group of Apaches. The women were cooking fish over live coals of fire. The men seemed to recognize John Clayton. He greeted them in the tongue of the Mexicans, as he drove by, while the Indians jabbered and gesticulated violently.

At the bridge just beyond, they crossed the Gila for the last time before turning northward. There, they saw a young Apache catching fish. He glanced up, and Esther recognized in him the visitor who had found her at the schoolhouse. It was evident he knew her, for he started towards the surrey.

"He is one of the friendly Apaches," explained John Clayton. "He's often on the range, and has adopted some of the cowboy regimentals, you see."

The driver stopped his horses.

The Indian came forward, offering John Clayton a number of fish strung on a withe. As he did so, he turned towards Esther, and said:

"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."

"What does he mean?" asked Esther.

"I think he wants to buy you from me with these fish," answered John Clayton, turning to her with an amused smile.

Putting his hand into a tin box, he took from it a handful of cookies, gave them to the young Indian, and drove on. As they looked back, the last cake was about to disappear down the Indian's throat.

"Poor things," said Esther, "they have had no chance."

Then Kenneth rallied her on becoming a missionary to the Indians.

"I'd be glad to help them as the early Jesuit priests did," she answered. "I cannot but feel that the Indian policy has been very faulty, and that the Indians have been the victims of grafters, some unprincipled Indian agents, and the scum of the white race. You tell me, Mr. Clayton, that the Mexican government offered a bounty of $100 for every Apache man's scalp, $50 for every Apache woman's scalp, and $25 for every Apache child's scalp? I'd fight, too," she continued, indignantly. "I know I'd fight. Poor things!"

The company laughed at her championship, and told her how vicious the Apaches were, and many more matters of Indian history.

The company were approaching a narrow canyon, through which they must pass for some distance. The waters dashed and boiled in eddies, where huge bowlders obstructed the way, making a pleasant murmur to the ear, soft and musical and low.

And Esther Bright listened. Her heart, stirred to sudden anger by the stories of injustice and cruel wrong, was soothed into quiet by this slumber song of the ages. Oh, the music of the waters of the canyon! How, once heard, it echoes in the heart forever! In the midst of the unrest and discord of the world, how the memory of it keeps one close to the very heart of things! How it lingers! How it sings!

They drove under, then around, an overhanging rock, beyond which, like ruins of ancient castles, storm-scarred, majestic, towered cliffs to a height of a thousand feet or more. The shadows had deepened in the canyon, adding to the solemn grandeur of it all. From every cleft of rock, apparently, a cactus had sprung into life, and had blossomed into flowers of exquisite beauty. All the journey was like a triumphal way, garlanded with flowers.

At last they reached an open place in the canyon, and followed a track leading upward to a level plain. A short drive up a rocky way brought them to a vast mesa. Here they halted for the night.

Some distance to the west, Esther spied a covered wagon with horses tethered near. There was a man busying himself about the wagon, and about the bonfire. John Clayton explained to Esther that this was the cook for the squads of cowboys, and that near where the man was working, the men would camp for the night. She watched the movements of the cook with some curiosity.