Cousin Gertrude patted Chee’s braids. Mr. Farrar whistled softly to himself. Chee noticed that neither answered her question.
“Well, anyway,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “you can ask just as many people as you like, and every one will tell you that there never was an Indian or anything he owned killed in a thunder-storm.[4] My daddy asked lots of wise people, and none ever could tell of a single one.”
Mr. Farrar could no longer whistle, his lips were trying to smile. With a smothered “Ha, ha,” he hurried out to feed his horse.
Chee was very much displeased. She went to the open door, and leaning her head against the casement, looked over the freshened fields. Before long, Gertrude joined her. Drawing the little girl to her, she too stood watching the landscape.
“Birdie,” she asked, at length, then hesitated, as though loath to go on, “do you honestly believe that pretty little story?”
Chee turned her face toward her questioner, all resentment gone—that soft light in her eyes, only there when she was deeply moved.
“Cousin Gertrude, dear,” she answered, looking clearly into the other’s face, “don’t worry. I know what you mean. Yes, and no. For the time I was telling it I believed it. But now when you ask me, I know quite well that Our Father sends the thunder, just as He sends the rain when we need it. Daddy told me so. But anyway, I shouldn’t be afraid because it’s just the same. He won’t let anything hurt me. Daddy told me that, and I think I should know it, anyway. Sometimes when the breeze blows softly against my cheek, it tells me so, and if ever I forget, the stars at night tell me how wrong it is to fear Our Father who loves us so.”
Cousin Gertrude made no reply, she only held the little one closer. Chee was not a heathen, but she was certainly a strange child.
CHAPTER XIV.
EVENING came. Mr. Farrar drove Gertrude and Chee to the minister’s home, and then hurried to the hotel. Everything looked favorable; the city musicians had arrived, and the night promised to be perfect.