ed to have lost
their voices and nudged one another in an endeavour to get the hymn
started. Someone insisted that Sonora should go ahead, but that worthy
pupil objected giving as his excuse, obviously a paltry one and trumped
up for the occasion, that he did not know the words. There was nothing
to it, therefore, but that the Indians should render the great American
anthem. And so, standing stolidly facing the others, their high-pitched,
nasal voices presently began:

"My country 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing."

"Well, if that ain't sarkism!" interjected Sonora between the lines of
the hymn.

"Land where our fathers died--"

"You bet they died hard!" cut in Trinidad, rolling his eyes upward in a
comical imitation of the Indians.

"Land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring."

All the while the Indians were singing the last lines of the hymn the
Girl's face was a study in reminiscent dreams, but when they had
finished and were leaving the room, she came back to earth, as it were,
and clapped her hands, an appreciation which brought forth from Wowkle a
grateful "Huh!"

"I would like to read you a little verse from a book of poems,"
presently went on the teacher; and when the men had given her their
attention, she read with much feeling:

"'No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be what we might have been.'"

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Sonora, greatly moved at the sight of
the tears which, of a sudden, began to run down the teacher's cheeks.
"Why, what's--?" came simultaneously from the others, words failing
them.

"Nothin', nothin', only it jest came over me that I'll be leavin' you
soon," stammered the Girl. "How can I do it? How can I do it?" she
wailed.

Sonora gazed at her unbelievingly.

"Do what?" he said.

"What did she say?" questioned Trinidad.

Now Sonora went over to her, and asked:

"What d'you say? Why, what's the matter?"

Slowly the Girl raised her head and looked at him through half-closed
lids, the tears that still clung to them, blinding her almost. Plainly
audible in the silence of the room the seconds ticked away on the clock,
and still she did not speak; at last she murmured:

"Oh, it's nothin', nothin', only I jest remembered I've promised to
leave Cloudy soon an', p'r'aps, we might never be together again--you
an' me an' The Polka. Oh, it took me jest