enly gift, Miss Appleby."

Cissy flushed, and her hand involuntarily went to one of her long,
distinguishing curls. It might be THAT. The preacher continued:--

"Yes; a voice like yours is a heavenly gift. And you have properly
devoted it to His service. Have you been singing long?"

"About two years. But I've got to study a heap yet."

"The little birds don't think it necessary to study to praise Him," said
the preacher sententiously.

It occurred to Cissy that this was very unfair argument. She said
quickly:--

"But the little birds don't have to follow words in the hymn-books. You
don't give out lines to larks and bobolinks," and blushed.

The preacher smiled. It was a very engaging smile, Cissy thought, that
lightened his hard mouth. It enabled her to take heart of grace, and
presently to chatter like the very birds she had disparaged. Oh yes; she
knew she had to learn a great deal more. She had studied "some" already.
She was taking lessons over at Point Concepcion, where her aunt had
friends, and she went three times a week. The gentleman who taught her
was not a Catholic, and, of course, he knew she was a Protestant. She
would have preferred to live there, but her mother and father were both
dead, and had left her with her aunt. She liked it better because it
was sunnier and brighter there. She loved the sun and warmth. She had
listened to what he had said about the dampness and gloom of the chapel.
It was true. The dampness was that dreadful sometimes it just ruined her
clothes, and even made her hoarse. Did he think they would really take
his advice and clear out the woods round the chapel?

"Would you like it?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes."

"And you think you wouldn't pine so much for the sunshine and warmth of
the Mission?

"I'm not pining," said Cissy with a toss of her curls, "for anything or
anybody; but I think the woods ought to be cleared out. It's just as it
was when the runaways hid there."

"When the RUNAWAYS HID THERE!" said Brother Seabright quickly. "What
runaways?"

"Why, the boat's crew," said Cissy.

"Why do you call them runaways?"

"I don't know. Didn't YOU?" said Cissy simply. "Didn't you say they
never came back to Horse Shoe Bay. Perhaps I had it from aunty. But
I know it's damp and creepy; and when I was littler I used to be
frightened to be alone there practicing."

"Why?" said the preacher quickly.

"Oh, I don't know," hurried on Cissy, with a vague impression that