be given up. The children slipped away, one by one, a number of the girls being led astray by white men. The loss of Zell affected them keenly. They had hoped much from this girl, who was brighter than the others, and possessed of nobler qualities. They had made much of her, and she was to them almost like a daughter.
But the greatest blow of all to Charles Norris was when his wife sickened and died. For a time he was completely bewildered. He laid her to rest in the little Indian burying place nearby, and once again took up his weary and lonely task. Nothing could induce him to leave his post of duty. His Bishop came, pleaded, and reasoned with him, but to no purpose.
“My place is here,” he had quietly replied. “The Indians may come back, and when they do, I must be waiting to receive them. I have no other home, and the interests of the outside world are nothing to me.”
And so he remained, living alone in his house, attended by Kate, the Indian woman. She washed and cooked for him, and did what she could for his welfare. His wants were few, his mind now being entirely occupied with earnest prayers on behalf of his wandering flock, and preparing a larger manual of worship for the natives.
“They may need it some day,” he had told his Bishop. “I have spent many years in studying the language, and it may be a help to others when I am gone. I feel sure that the Lord will not let all my work come to naught.”
So great were his hope and faith, that every evening, both summer and winter, he held the simple service in the log church. Exactly at seven o’clock he would ring the little bell, which was fastened to a rude frame
