And now the simple, loving preparations were all complete. Not without self-sacrifice, a feast had been provided for the visitors, forage for the visitors’ horses, fresh vestments for the clergy, and candles for the plain little altar. Near the little Gothic church at the agency rose a wide circle of teepees, looking as if a flight of great, white birds had suddenly alighted upon the sunburned grass. Children ran joyously to and fro, men gathered in groups, matronly women bent over their camp-fires, and the soft music of their greetings was in the air.
Before the church bell should ring to summon the dark-skinned congregation to their first service under the open sky, the Bishop sat at meat in the modest rectory, reaping the year’s harvest of rewards and perplexities, and now and then dropping a quiet seed of counsel, or straightening a tangled skein of anxiety.
“And where is my little Stella?” he asked presently, with a smile. “I understand that she has come back to Cherry Creek as a field matron.”
“I have heard no complaints of her work, Bishop,” the missionary acknowledged, frowning slightly nevertheless. “I—a—I believe she is quite efficient; however, we do not see her at church as often as I could wish. Certainly I expected her to-day, but we have seen nothing of her.”
“The truth is,” his wife added, rather sharply, “it isn’t easy to get into touch with Stella Waring. She—well—she’s almost too much the lady for Cherry Creek. Too well-dressed, even; I fancy people think she puts on airs. That good Moses Blackstone was quite seriously interested at one time; I really think Stella treated him badly. Don’t you think, Bishop, it’s apt to spoil them a little—this going east for an education?”
“Spoil them? Why, yes, my dear lady; for hewers of wood and drawers of water no doubt it may spoil them. We must not expect them to slip back into quite the old place,” suggested the Bishop, mildly. “It may even be possible that she has outgrown our good Moses. Stella was always a dear child; let me see—it’s just six years since I confirmed her. I should like very much to see her again.”
The missionary parlor had quickly filled, meantime, with the Bishop’s friends and disciples of both races, among them Stella herself, her lithe, girlish figure half hidden behind a window curtain, her soft eyes fastened eagerly upon the closed door. At last a quick, decided step was heard, and the gracious form of the Bishop, as erect as of old but looking to the girl much frailer and older than she had remembered him, entered the crowded room. His keen, kind eyes, darting rapidly from one face to another, flashed instant recognition into her own, and almost before she knew it, Stella found herself standing before him, all a-tremble with timid happiness, and both slim, brown hands drawn into the Bishop’s strong clasp.
“Can this tall girl be my little Stella?” she heard him say, while over a face in repose a little sad and stern there broke that smile like winter sunshine—a spirit radiance that none who saw it can ever forget. The rest fell back instinctively, or else the Bishop drew her into a quiet corner, and for a minute they two were alone together.
“I hope I may hear that you are happy in your work for our poor people?” began the Bishop, very gently.
The quick tears shone in Stella’s expressive eyes.