Mr. Green looked more perplexed. “I don’t yet quite understand you, Chee. Suppose you begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it.”
So Chee commenced, growing more and more interested in her own story as she went on, for were not the minister’s eyes smiling into hers as if to say, “You came to the very right person, little Chee—the very right person.”
“Then I promised Our Father faithfully,” she continued, telling of the night before when she had resolved to consult the minister, “that if He’d do that for me I’d do something for Him. And I will, honest, for He did hear me,” she concluded by saying, in a hushed, reverent voice.
Her listener happened to be searching about for his handkerchief just then. The disturbance in the hay caused the dust to fly. This brought moisture to his eyes. Chee gravely offered her small square of linen.
When she had finished telling all about her Daddy Joe’s fiddle, he said, gaily, “I am not much of a musician, but long ago when I was in college I owned a violin. It must be in the house somewhere, now. I’ll hunt it up, and tell you what little I know about it.”
Chee’s eyes shone more brightly. Catching hold of her new friend’s sleeve,—he had risen to go down the ladder,—she said, her voice deep with emotion, “I wish I could thank you more than tongue can tell.” It was not a very elaborate thank you, but the glow in her eyes made up any loss of words.
“I never before saw a child so thoroughly in earnest,” he mused. “She must possess an exceedingly passionate nature, or else be extraordinarily fond of music.”
“Oh, dear! Aunt Mean’ll miss me. It’s getting so late, and she won’t let me come again in a long, long time.” But even as she spoke in a troubled way, a smile broke over her face. “He fixed it before,” she said, reverently, “I’ll ask Him again.”
The minister understood, and many a day, when his burdens were heavy, he recalled the faith of a little half-Indian child.