fishness looked at him from the faces in the room and at the windows,
from "Iadaka" and the wrinkled Hopis, from the sentimental tourist girl
and Van Shaw and his two friends, from the dull visaged Apaches and the
smirking traders, one of whom, to Master's own knowledge, had for years
been cheating the rug weavers all the way from Black Bear Canyon to the
Spanish Peaks.

And yet for some reason or a number of reasons, these humans were all
here in front of him and as he looked at them, Masters had soul hunger
for them. He loved the multitude. And it never entered his simple
thought that anything else was possible but that in the long run they
would all have to go down before the conquering Carpenter's Son. Yes,
even old "Iadaka." He would some day see the light and he would walk and
run all the way from Crested Buttes to the Bottomless Pit and throw his
da'aka in there and kneel at Jesus feet and call him Lord. Have not the
peoples of the earth been doing that all through the ages? Is not the
miracle of regeneration greatest of all miracles since Jesus lived? Is
anything too hard for God?

So Masters's simple unswerving faith spoke that night. He told in the
simplest possible way the story of the cross. The old, old story that is
changing the history of the world every day. The old story that is not
afraid of modern philosophy, nor antique prejudice nor even the scoffing
and sneering of Athens and the jeers of Vanity Fair and the complacent
self satisfaction of the modern pharisee.

Then he told Talavenka's story as he knew she would be willing to have
it told. The Hopi girl had sat on the front seat close to the platform.
She was dressed in white and Helen wondered with herself more than once
if Talavenka was like other girls and really knew or understood how
marvellous was her black hair and her perfect coloured skin. And then
almost as if someone had asked her, Helen asked herself if Talavenka had
ever known a lover and if the great romance of life could come to her
now that she had cut herself off from her people, and the swift runner
in the corn dance might no longer look for her to come out in the grey
morning and with the other maidens snatch from his arms the cool dew
washed corn leaves and from his glowing eye the message which is the
same between youths and maidens the world over.

But Talavenka was conscious herself of no other thought here to-night in
the mission chapel at Oraibi. Masters spoke to her of