e with a band of Indians at
Pawnee Rock. With these Indians was a little white boy, whom O'Meara
rescued. It was his own son, although he did not know it, and he brought
the little one to the Mission on the Neosho.

"Philip, it is vouchsafed to some of us to know a bit of heaven here on
earth. Such a thing came to Patrick O'Meara when he found his wife
alive, and the baby boy was restored to her. They were happy together
for a little while. But Mrs. O'Meara never recovered from her hardships
on the prairie, and her husband was killed by the Comanches a month
after her death. Little O'mie, dying up there now, was left an orphan at
the Mission. You have heard Mrs. Gentry tell of his coming here. Your
father is the only one here who knows anything of O'mie's history. If he
never comes back, you must take his place."

The purple shadows of twilight were folding down upon the landscape. In
the soft light the priest's face looked dark and set.

"Why not tell me now what father knows?" I asked.

"I cannot tell you that now, Philip. Some day I may tell you another
story. But it does not concern you or O'mie. What I want you to do is
what your father will do if he comes home. If he should not come, he has
written in his will what you must do. I need not tell you to keep this
to yourself."

"Father Le Claire, can you tell me anything about Jean Pahusca, and
where he is now?"

He rose hastily.

"We must not stay here." Then, kindly, he took my hand. "Yes, some day,
but not now, not to-night." There was a choking in his voice, and I
thought of O'mie.

We stood up and let the cool evening air ripple against our faces. The
Neosho Valley was black now. Only here and there did we catch the
glitter of the river. The twilight afterglow was still pink, but the
sweep of the prairie was only a purple blur swathed in gray mist. Out of
this purple softness, as we parted the bushes, we saw Marjie hurrying
toward us.

"Phil, Phil!" she cried, "O'mie's taken a change for the better. He's
been asleep for three hours, and now he is awake. He knew Aunt Candace
and he asked for you. The doctor says he has a chance to live. Oh,
Phil!" and Marjie burst into tears.

Le Claire took her hand and, putting it through my arm, he said, gently
as my father might have done, "You are both too young for such a strain
as this. Oh, this civil war! It robs you of your childhood. Too soon,
too soon, you are men and women. Philip, take Marjory home. Don'