“Yes, Birdie.”
“Would—would—shall I ask Our Father—to make it better?” The moonlight was falling clear on Chee’s upturned face. Her eyes shone softly, their usual glittering brightness mellowed. Her long black hair appeared blacker than ever as it fell upon the whiteness of her night-robe.
A feeling of awe came over the older girl. “Can this be the same child,” she meditated, “who with expressionless features obeys Aunt Mean’s abrupt commands? Can this be the same little girl who once blushed to tell me her Indian name—this tiny being so strong and trustful, who looks now as though bringing a message from the angels, if she be not one herself? Shall I tell her God cannot help, that I have brought my own trouble upon myself, and I only am to blame?”
But the longer those eyes looked their message into hers, the more unwilling she became to speak this bitterness. “She is but a child, after all. I will not dim the brightness of a faith so beautiful.” Finally she answered, in a low and tender voice, “Yes, Birdie, you may ask Him.”
“Then good night, Cousin Gertrude.” A kiss—and the little comforter was gone.
The next day Gertrude did not leave her room. She had told Aunt Mean that a severe headache made her feel weak. Chee thought she might honestly have said “heartache.”
The little girl cheerfully waited on the sufferer, but when once outside the best bedroom, her face was very sober.
“Of course Our Father will make it all right soon, ’cause I asked Him to be very quick, but I do wish so hard He’d let me help.”
Finally the long day drew to a close. Aunt Mean and Uncle Reuben retired. Chee again returned to Gertrude.
She was in the parlor. It was very dark in there, even the dim twilight was shut out. Chee, following Cousin Gertrude’s voice, found her sitting by the window.