She straightened up to rest her back and looked out through an open window. "I thought you were just coming here."
"No." He watched her for a sign of pleased astonishment when he continued, "I'm on my way to St. Paul."
She turned swiftly, her eyes open wide. "College?" she questioned in a low, strained voice.
"Nearly that; I shall prepare for West Point. The bishop has chosen a school for me."
Her eyes went back to the window, but a mist was over them now, and she could not see the square of cottonwoods and barley framed by the sash.
"I left the Wyoming post a week ago," he went on. "Father's orderly brought my trunk to Chamberlain, and I rode down from there to the reservation—and then came here. I shall take the train at the station. It's changed to morning time, I believe, and goes by about 10:30."
She seemed not to hear him. Her face was still turned away, and she was murmuring to herself. "The bishop!" she repeated; "the bishop!" All at once she ran out of the room. When she returned, she held a tin spice-box in her hand. She took a letter from it and held it toward the colonel's son. "Read this," she said. "It's from the bishop to mother."
He spread out the written sheet, which was dated two years back, and read it aloud.
"'Whenever that spirited little maid of yours is ready to take up the studies she cannot enjoy where you are, send her to me. I will get her ready for the college she dreams about, and, if God takes you from her soon, as you fear, and as I pray not (though His will be done!), I will watch over her like a father.'"
When he finished, he looked up at her, his face fairly sparkling. "Of course you'll go," he said.