In the parlor Gertrude and Herman stood gazing into each other’s startled eyes.
The wild, rapturous song paused; then breaking out in steadier notes, even and rich, it gradually mellowed and hushed until it died away in a whispered breath.
“It ended like a prayer of thanksgiving,” said he.
Gertrude caught her breath. “Hush!” She buried her face in her hands, whispering, “It was. I see it all now. It must have been little Chee,—there is no one else.” Lifting her head, she added, with a strange, new light in her eyes, “Oh, Herman, she was thanking God for answering her prayer. I believe it.” And then, half choked with feeling, she told what she knew of her little Indian cousin.
CHAPTER IX.
COUSIN GERTRUDE stole up-stairs. Chee had heard good-byes a few moments before, and was hoping, yet fearing, she might find her.
The child sat by the window removing her stockings. Daddy Joe’s fiddle lay on the bed.
“Birdie, how could you? Oh, how could you?”
“I don’t know,” answered Chee, in an excited voice. “I tried not to play out loud, but I got feeling sorrier and sorrier, and wishing He would only let me help. And I forgot to play still, and then I heard a man’s voice, and heard you answer, and I knew everything was all right, and I was so happy I just snatched up Daddy’s fiddle and played out my glad. I didn’t care who heard, for a minute; and, oh, Cousin Gertrude, I felt it—I felt it.”
“Felt what, Childie?”