“Why, Miss, you talk just like Mrs. Norris used to. She often told us the same thing. But she was a good woman, and her prayers were not all answered. Why was that?”
“Are you sure they were not, Zell?”
“I am certain, Miss. She prayed for the Indians that they might all be good. But look how they have wandered, and have nearly all left the mission.”
“Perhaps her prayers will be answered, Zell,” Marion quietly replied. “She prayed that you might come back, and be a good girl. And here you are, changed, and sorry for what you have done.”
“Did she pray for me?” the girl asked in surprise. “How do you know that? You never met Mrs. Norris, did you?”
Marion made no immediate reply. She picked up a cup and spoon from the table, and going to the stove dipped out some soup from a steaming pot. Then going into the bedroom, she offered a little to the missionary, who was now lying very still.
“Take this,” she said; “it will do you good.”
As the man paid no heed to her words, she filled the spoon with soup and held it to his lips. Like a child he opened his mouth and drank it, the first nourishment he had taken since the shooting. In this manner Marion was able to feed him, and she gave him all the cup contained. This, she felt, was an encouraging sign, and she returned to the other room with greater hope for the invalid. She found Zell just where she had left her, with hands clasped before her, and quietly sobbing.
“Come, dear,” Marion brightly began. “I want to read something to you. The good missionary took a little nourishment, and seems to be resting comfortably.
