“No, I was just trying to drown my sorrow when this gentleman interfered and I took a drink instead,” Bess replied facetiously, and when they again resumed their journey each was light-hearted once more.
“Please tell me, James, what was the thing I tried to describe, will you?” Bess asked, as she and James had fallen behind Eagle for a little way.
“Why, that was a cattelo, which is part buffalo and part cow. They are rather dreadful looking creatures, to be sure, and I can’t see why West raises them, unless because the hides are valuable, and perhaps the meat has a rare flavor.”
It was now after eight o’clock and West said that they would soon come in sight of St. Ignatius. A short distance ahead of them walked a hurrying priest. One hand tightly clasped a prayer book, while the other tried in vain to lift the already begrimed cassock out of the dust. The boys lifted their sombreros in salutation, and to Bess’ cheery “Good morning, Father,” the priest gave her a smile and a “God bless you.”
At last they saw the beautiful grounds of the Mission, with its church spire and the roofs of the many buildings, interspersed with the trees, whose fresh, green foliage was invitingly cool. The sun had grown unusually warm for early morning and eagerly the girl reined her horse in the refreshing shadows of the trees.
The bell suddenly pealed forth, and they hastened to dismount. West cared for the horses and James led Bess into the beautiful little church. The sight that met their eyes was strange to Eastern eyes. Indians knelt with their bright-colored blankets wrapped closely about them. The candles fluttered on the altar profusely covered with early spring flowers. James sought the Wests’ pew and led his sister there. As she sunk on her knees to pray the organ sounded and in marched the somberly-clad nuns, followed by the many Indian children who were attending school. The entire service passed like a dream to Bess; and she was often distracted watching the children at their prayers, listening to their sweet, untrained voices in the choir, or analyzing some Indian, stoically moving his lips in prayer.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa—” murmured Bess, half audibly, as she heard others striking their breasts; and she half turned to see if Henry West had yet come into the seat beside them. He was not there, nor did he come. “He is perhaps in the rear,” thought Bess. It was not long till they knelt for the blessing, and soon all were filing out of the church. Bess left James at the door, saying she wished to wander through the gardens.
What a profusion of blooming shrubs! The air was sweet with the fruit blossoms, and all along the paths were wonderfully fragrant pansies, violets, and other early flowers. Near the church was the cemetery with its numerous white-painted crosses. As Bess looked through the enclosure she was attracted by an imposing monument, and, curious to learn what distinguished person had found his last resting place here, she entered God’s Acre. As she neared the grave she saw Henry West kneeling in the shadow of the monument, his face buried in his arm as he leaned against the stone. Bess suddenly halted. Never in her life had she beheld such despair. Either he had heard her approach or intuitively felt she was near, for without lifting his head he stretched forth a hand to her. She could not resist the appeal. She grasped his hard and swarthy hand, and unconsciously clasped it to her breast.
In a moment a face, pale and drawn, was raised to meet her sympathetic gaze. He tried to speak, but could utter no word. Releasing his hand he pointed slowly to the tiny cross at his feet.
Bess dropped to her knees and read the word HELEN. That was all. That was enough. What could cold, hard words tell of her who was sleeping there? “Helen,” the world might read, and perhaps give a sigh. “Helen,” the man now read, and his heart yearned for his dear, lost sister and for the love that had been torn from him. What idle print could show the grief and misery that had broken that young heart?