of the mission school we hope to start for the native children. She has such a pretty name—Zell’”
Here Marion was interrupted by a cry from the girl at her side.
“Was it really me, Miss?” she asked. “Surely Mrs. Norris didn’t write all that about me!”
“Yes, she did, dear, and there is more. Listen: ‘The Indians have been coming in and out of the house all the evening, and we have been so busy. But my mind is so full of the little child that I can hardly think of anything else. She is asleep now in a cozy place I have made for her. My heart is overflowing with gratitude. As I sit here, with the house at last quiet, and Charles reading his letters, which came while he was away, I could sing for joy. But not being able to do that for fear of waking the child, I think of that wonderful psalm, and can understand the feeling of him who wrote it: ‘Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His Holy Name.’ God grant that this little one brought so unexpectedly to my arms may grow in grace, and in the knowledge and fear of the Lord.’”
Thus page after page Marion read, the girl listening with almost breathless interest. The story of the forming of the Indian school was told in detail, the number of children in attendance, their names, and the efforts made to instruct them. Then there was the story of the falling away of the natives, and the great changes that took place at The Gap. Marion read only a portion of this, and when she saw what was written about Zell’s departure, she closed the book and laid it on the table.
“There, I think I’ve read enough this evening,” she said. “You must be sleepy, and want to go to bed.”
