se St. Vrain, who is to leave here on the stage for Kansas City
to-morrow," I hesitatingly offered my letter of introduction, which
told all that I had tried to say, and more.

The woman's calm face was gentle, with the protective gentleness of the
stone that will not fail you when you lean on it. One felt sure of
Mother Bridget, as one feels sure of the solid rock to build upon. She
looked at me with keen, half-quizzical eyes. Then she said, quietly:

"You will find the little girl down by Flat Rock Creek. The Indian girl,
Po-a-be, is with her. There may be several Indian girls down there, but
Po-a-be is alone with little Eloise."

I bowed and turned away, conscious that, with this good nun's sincerity,
she was smiling at me back of her eyes somehow.

As I followed the way leading to the creek I passed a group or two of
Indian girls--St. Ann's, under the Loretto Sisterhood, was fundamentally
a mission school for these--and a trio of young ladies, pretty and
coquettish, with daring, mischievous eyes, whose glances made me flush
hot to the back of my neck as I stumbled by them on my way to the
stream.

The last sun rays were glistening on the placid waters of the Flat Rock,
and all the world was softly green, touched with a golden glamour. I
paused by a group of bushes to let the spell of the hour have its way
with me. I have always loved the beautiful things of earth; as much now
as in my childhood days, when I felt ashamed to let my love be known; as
now I dare to tell it only on paper, and not to that dear, great circle
of men and women who know me best to-day.

The sound of footsteps and the murmur of soft voices fitted into the
sweetness of that evening hour as two girls, one of them an Indian, came
slowly down a well-worn path from the fields above the Flat Rock Valley.
They did not see me as they sat down on some broad stones beside the
stream.

I started forward to make myself known, but caught myself mid-step, for
here was a picture to make any man pause.

The Indian girl facing me was Little Blue Flower, the Kiowas' captive,
whom we had rescued at Pawnee Rock. Her heavy black hair was coiled low
on her neck, a headband of fine silverwork with pink coral pendants was
bound about her forehead and gleaming against her jetty hair. With her
well-poised head, her pure Indian features, her lustrous dark eyes, her
smooth brown skin, her cheeks like the heart of those black-red roses
that grow only in richest s