bout the altar, the same seat beside the door.

The priest spoke to us in low tones befitting sanctuary stillness. "You
have come on a long journey, but it is one of mercy. I only pray you do
not come too late," he said.

"Tell us about it, Father," Eloise urged. "The men will get the story
from Felix Narveo, but Gail and I seem to belong up here." She smiled up
at me with the words.

I could have almost hoped anew just then, but for the thought of
Beverly.

"Let us pray first," the holy man replied.

Beverly and I had been confirmed in the Episcopalian faith once long
ago, but the plains were hard on the religion of a high-church man. And
yet, all sacred forms are beautiful to me, and I always knew what
reverence means.

"You may not know," Father Josef said, "that I have Indian blood in my
veins--a Hopi strain from some French ancestors. Po-a-be, our Little
Blue Flower, is my heathen cousin, descended from the same chief's
daughter. The Hopi's faith is a part of him, like his hand or eye, and I
have never gained much with the tribe save through blood-ties. But
because of that I have their confidence."

"You have all men's confidence, Father Josef," I said, warmly.

"Thank you, my son," the priest replied. "When Santan, the Apache, came
back from a long raid eastward, he told Little Blue Flower that Beverly
had spared his life beside a poisoned spring in the Cimarron valley,
urging him to go back and marry her; life had other interests now to
white men who must forget all about Indian girls, he declared, and with
Apache adroitness he pressed his claims upon her. But Santan had slain
Sister Anita beside the San Christobal Arroyo. A murderer is abhorrent
to a Hopi, who never takes life, save in self-defense or in legitimate
warfare--if warfare ever is legitimate," he added, gravely.

"My little cousin was heart-broken, for all the years since her rescue
at Pawnee Rock she had cherished one face in memory; and maybe Beverly
in his happy, careless way had given her cause to do so."

"We understand, I think," Eloise said, turning inquiringly to me.

I nodded, and Father Josef went on. "She knew her love was foolish, but
few of us are always wise in love. So Santan's suit seemed promising for
a time. But the Hopi type ran true in her, and she put off the Apache
year after year. It is a strange case in Indian romance, but romance
everywhere is strange enough. The Apache type also ran true to dogged
purpose. Besid