It was a substantial stone house, built against the mountainside, overlooking a picturesque canyon. A woman sat on the broad veranda. Occasionally, she turned her head, and looked down the mountain road, listening as though expecting some one. Then she walked down the path, and stood watching. A little five-year-old girl joined her, flitting about like a sprite.

"Will father come soon, mother?" she asked.

"I hope so, Edith. He said he would come to-day." There was a far away look in the mother's eyes.

"Why doesn't father come?" the child continued.

"Oh, he has been a long way, and has traveled many days, dear. Something may have happened to detain him."

"What could have happened, mother?" the little one asked.

"Oh, business, or the rails might have spread, or there might have been a washout, or a landslide."

The mother again looked down the road. Then she walked slowly back to the veranda and took up her sewing. The child leaned against her knee.

"Mother, when you were a little girl, did you have any little girls to play with?"

"No. I had just my dear grandfather."

"Then you know how lonely I am, mother. It's pretty hard to be a little girl and all alone."

"Do you think you are alone, little daughter, when you have father, and aunt Carla, and mother?"

"But you are big, mother, don't you see? When a little girl hasn't any other little boys and girls to play with, the world's a pretty lonesome place."

The mother sighed.

The child rested her chin in her dainty hands, and looked up through her long lashes into her mother's eyes.

"I have been thinking, mother."

The child was given to confidences, especially with her mother.

"What did you think, Edith?" The mother smiled encouragingly.

"I thought I'd pray for a brother."

A tear trembled on the mother's cheek.

"A little brother?" The mother looked far away.

"Oh, a b-i-g brother!" said the child, stretching her arms by way of illustration.

"What would you say, sweetheart, if a big brother should come to-day?"

The little one clapped her hands.

"A really, truly, big brother?" she asked, dancing about in glee.

"A really, truly, big brother,—Wathemah. You have never seen him, and he has never seen you, since you were a baby. But he is coming home soon, you know."

"Will he play with me?" she asked. "You and Aunt Carla just 'nopolize father and the big ladies and gentlemen when they come. But sometimes father plays with me, doesn't he, mother?"

"Yes, sometimes. He loves his little daughter."

"I don't know." She shook her head doubtfully.

"I heard father say he loved you bestest of ev'rybody in a world."

She threw up her arms and gave a little jump.

"Oh, I wish I had some one to play with!"

"Let's go watch for father again," said the mother, rising.

This time they were not disappointed. They heard the sound of wheels; then they saw the father. The little daughter ran like the wind down the road. The father stopped the horses, gave the reins to the driver, and stepped to the ground. In an instant the little sprite was in his arms, hugging him about the neck, while her ripples of laughter filled the air. The wife approached, and was folded in the man's embrace.

"Father," said the child, "I am to have a big brother, mother says."

"You are?" Great astonishment.

The parents smiled.

"An', father,"—here she coquetted with him—"you and mother are not to 'nopolize him when he comes. He's going to play with me, isn't he, mother?"

"I think so." A grave smile.

The child was given to saying her father "un'erstood."

"When did you hear from Wathemah, Esther?" the father asked.

"About ten days ago. I'll read you his letter. I shall not be surprised to see him any day, now."

"Wathemah is my big brother, Father. Mother said so. She says he's always been my big brother, only I didn't re'lize it, you know."

The parents looked amused.

"Yes, Edith, he is your brother, and a dear brother, too," said the father.

When they were seated on the veranda, and the child was perched on her father's knee, Esther brought Wathemah's last letter, and read it aloud to her husband.

"Dear Mother Esther:

"This is probably the last letter I shall write you from Harvard for some time. As soon as Commencement is over, I shall go to Carlisle again for a brief visit, and then start for Arizona, to Father Kenneth and you, my dear Mother Esther, and my little sister and Carla and Jack. Now that the time approaches for me to return to you, I can hardly wait.

"I may have expressed my gratitude to you and Father Kenneth in different ways before, but I wish to do so again now.

"I am deeply indebted to him for his generosity, and for his fatherly interest and counsel. But it is to you, my beloved teacher, I owe most of all. All that I am or ever may be, I owe entirely to you. You found me a little savage, you loved me and believed in me, and made it possible for me to become a useful man. As I have grown older, I have often wondered at your patience with me, and your devotion to the interests of the Indian. You have done great things already for him, and I am confident that you will do much more to bring about a true appreciation of him, his character and his needs. The Indian in transition is a problem. You know more about that problem than almost anyone else.

"I never told you about my birthday, did I? Do you know the day I count my years by? My first day, and your first day at the Gila school. Then my real birth took place, for I began to be a living soul.

"So, in a spiritual sense, you are my real mother. I have often wondered if the poor creature who bore me is still living, and living in savagery. All a son's affection I have given to you, my beloved foster mother. It is now nearly sixteen years since you found me a little savage. I must have been about six years of age, then; so, on the next anniversary of your first day in the Gila school, I shall be twenty-two years old. From that day till now, you have been the dearest object in the world to me. I am sure no mother could be more devotedly loved by her son than you are loved by me. I strive to find words to express the affection in my heart.

"And Grandfather Bright! How tender and gentle he always was to me, from the time we had our beautiful wedding journey until his death! He came to Carlisle to see me as he might have gone to see a beloved son. He always seemed to me like God, when I was a little fellow. And as I grew older, he became to me the highest ideal of Christian manhood. I went over to Concord Cemetery not long ago, and stood with uncovered head by his grave.

"And our dear little David Bright! That was a sore loss for you and Father Kenneth.

"You don't know how often I wish to see little Edith. I was greatly disappointed that you and Father Kenneth did not bring her with you the last time you came to see me. You didn't realize such a lean, lanky, brawny fellow as I cared so much to see a little girl, did you? I had always wished I might have a little sister. I have shown her pictures to some of the fellows who come to my room, telling them she is my baby sister. They chaff me and say I do not look much like her.

"The fellows have been very courteous to me.

"Now that the time has come to leave Harvard and Cambridge and Boston, I am sorry to go. I have met such fine people.

"Dr. —— urges me to return in the fall, to continue my work for my Master's degree; but I have thought it all over, and believe it wiser, for the present, to work among my people, and get the knowledge I seek at first hand. After that, I'll return to Harvard.

"Long ago, your words gave me my purpose in life,—to prepare myself to the uttermost for the uplift of my race.

"Daily, I thank you in my heart, for the years I had at Carlisle. But most of all, I thank you for yourself and what you have been to me.

"I must not close without telling you of a conversation I had with Col. H—— of Boston. He heard your address on 'The Indian in Transition' at the Mohonk Conference. He told me it was a masterly address, and that you presented the Indian question with a clearness and force few have done. He told me that what you said would give a new impulse to Indian legislation. He seemed to know of your conferences at Washington, too.

"I hear great things of Father Kenneth, too; his increasing wealth, his power for leadership, and his upright dealings with men.

"Do you remember how jealous I used to be of him when I was a little chap? Well, I am jealous no longer. He is the finest man I know.

"But I must stop writing. This letter has run on into an old-fashioned visit.

"I am coaching one of the fellows in mathematics. Strange work for a savage!

"With love for all of you, including my dear Carla,

"Your loving boy,
"Wathemah."

"He's a fine fellow, is Wathemah," said Kenneth, as he cuddled his little girl up in his arms.

"Yes, he's developed wonderfully," responded Esther.

"How's Carla?" the husband asked.

"Carla's well, and just now deeply interested in the Y.M. and Y.W.C.A. work."

Here Carla herself appeared, and joined in the welcome home. She was the picture of wholesome content.

While they were talking, there was a sound of wheels again. The wagon stopped, a young man jerked out a trunk, paid the driver, and ran towards the veranda. How happy he seemed!

"It's Wathemah," all cried, hastening to meet him. The sprite was in advance, with arms outstretched.

"I guess you don't reco'nize me," she said. "I'm your little sister."

He laughed, stooped and lifted her in his arms, and kissed her several times.

Then came Esther's turn. At the same time, Kenneth enfolded Wathemah. Then came Carla, whom Wathemah kissed as he used to do in childhood days, and laughingly repeated a question he was accustomed to ask her then—"Is my face clean, Carla?"

And all laughed and talked of the days when they had found one another, of the Claytons and Jack Harding, and Patrick Murphy and his family, and the Rosses and Carmichaels, and the changes that had taken place in Gila since they left there.

"I was so sorry to hear of Mr. Clayton's death," said Wathemah. "What a great-hearted man he was! Such a generous friend! Do you suppose Mrs. Clayton and Edith will ever come back to America?"

"No," answered Kenneth, "I fear not. Mrs. Clayton's kindred are in England, you know. She never liked America. It was a lonely life for her here, and doubly so after her husband's death."

"And how's Jack? Dear old Jack! I must see him soon," said Wathemah.

"I'll call him up," said Kenneth, going to the phone.

"Give me 148, please."

"No,—1-4-8."

"Hello! Is Mr. Harding within reach?"

"Gone to the store, you say? Send some one for him at once, please, and tell him Mr. Hastings wishes to talk with him. Important."

He hung up the receiver and returned to his place.

"Do you know, Father Kenneth, I have received a letter from Jack every week since I left Gila, except the time he was sick? He insisted upon sending me money, saying that it was he who found me, and wanted me to live."

"Yes, Jack is a generous fellow," assented Kenneth.

"I tried to make him understand that I was strong and able to earn my own way; but it made no difference."

"Just like him! Bless him!" said Esther.

"So I have invested his money for him, in his name, and it will make him very comfortable some day."

Kenneth smiled.

"Jack is becoming a rich man by his own work, and his own wise investments."

Just then the telephone rang.

"Hello! Hello! Is that you, Jack?" asked Kenneth.

"That's good.

"Yes, yes.

"Something interesting is up. Whom would you like to see at this moment?

"Mother Esther? That's good. Who next?

"Wathemah? Hold the phone a minute."

He turned to Wathemah.

"Jack says he'd like to see you. He doesn't know you're here. Here! Talk to him yourself."

So Wathemah stepped to the phone.

"Hello, old Jack!"

There was a happy laugh.

"You'll be over to-morrow?"

"What's that you say? Your boy? Well, I guess!"

"How happy Jack will be!" said Kenneth.

"Your little pard?" There was a chuckle from the lithe, muscular young Indian.

"To be sure, I'm still your 'pard,' only I'm far from little now. I'm a strapping fellow."

"What's that? You feel the education has come between us? No more o' that, old fellow! You're one of the biggest-hearted friends man ever had!"

"Tell him to come over as soon as he can," interrupted Kenneth.

"Father Kenneth says 'Come over as soon as you can.'"

"You will? Good! What a reunion we'll have! Good-by."

He hung up the receiver, and the conversation drifted on.

"Has Jack made a successful overseer?" questioned Wathemah.

"Very. He's a fine fellow. He is still very religious, you know, and the men respect him. He has become an indefatigable reader and student of labor questions. Recently I heard him give a speech that surprised me. He grasps his subject, and has a direct way of putting things."

"I should expect Jack to be a forceful speaker," commented Wathemah, "if he ever overcame his diffidence so as to speak at all. But tell me about the school at Gila. That little spot is dear to me."

"You should see the building there now," said Esther. "Do you know that the people who were most lawless when we were there, are now law-abiding citizens? Gila is said to be one of the best towns in Arizona."

"That seems like a miracle,—your miracle, Mother Esther." He rose from his chair and stood for a moment behind her, and said in a low voice, as in childhood, "Me mother, me teacher." There was a suspicious choke in his voice, and, turning, he lifted Edith, tossed her to his shoulder, and ran with her down toward the road. Kenneth overtook him, and as they strolled along, they talked of many things, but chiefly of Esther, and her great work for the Indian.

"How did it all come about?" asked Wathemah.

"Oh, in a roundabout way. Her magazine articles on the Indian first drew attention to her. Then her address at the Mohonk Conference brought her into further prominence. She was asked to speak before the Indian Commission. Later, she was sent by the Government to visit Indian schools, and report their condition. She certainly has shown marked ability. The more she is asked to do, the more she seems capable of doing."

"A wonderful woman, isn't she?"

"Yes. Vital. What she has done for the Indian, she has also done for the cause of general education in Arizona."

"I fear she will break down under all this, Father Kenneth."

"Never fear. Work is play to her. She thinks rapidly, speaks simply, and finds people who need her absorbingly interesting."

"Yes, but she gives herself too much to others," protested the Indian youth.

"Well, we must let her. She is happier so," responded Kenneth.

"What about your own work, Father Kenneth? I have heard in Massachusetts that you are a great force for public good throughout this region. But tell me of the mines."

"I invested much of my fortune here," said Kenneth, giving a broad outward sweep of his arm. "Some of the mines are paying large dividends. My fortune has more than doubled. But Arizona has been unfortunate in being infested with dishonest promoters. I am trying to bring about legislation that will protect people from this wholesale robbery."

"I suspect you enjoy the fight," laughed the youth.

"It has created bitter enemies," said Kenneth, gravely.

So talking, they again sought the house, and found Esther and Carla on the veranda. The latter sat where Wathemah could see her delicate profile as she bent over some sewing. Quiet happiness and content had transformed her into a lovely woman.

"How beautiful you are, Carla!" said Wathemah, admiringly.

He enjoyed her confusion.

"Do you remember the day I played truant, Carla, and you found me in the canyon, and made me ashamed of myself?"

Did she?

He did not notice the shadow over the winsome face.

"Do you know, Wathemah," said Esther, "Carla would not remain at college, because she felt I needed her. But she has become an indefatigable student."

Later, Wathemah discovered for himself that she really had become a fine student. One day he asked her how she came to study Greek.

"Oh," she said, hesitatingly, "I loved Grecian literature, and history, and art. And I had often heard that my father was a fine Greek scholar. So I began by myself. Then I had Sister Esther help me. And after that, it became to me a great delight."

They were a merry party that day. All were in fine spirits. In the midst of their talk and laughter, the telephone rang.

"Some one for you, Esther," said Kenneth, returning to the veranda.

On her return, he looked up questioningly.

"The superintendent of education wishes me to give an address before the teachers at Tucson next month," she said, quietly.

"And will you do it?" asked Wathemah.

"Do it?" echoed Kenneth. "Of course she'll do it! She doesn't know how to say 'no.'"

Esther smiled indulgently.

"You see, Wathemah, the needs of the new country are great. They would not invite me to lecture so frequently, if they had enough workers. To me, the opportunity to help means obligation to help."

"Our Mother Esther has just returned from a conference at Washington, and another in Montana," said Kenneth, "and here she is going off again. The truth is she has become an educational and moral force in the Southwest."

"We are glad to share her with all who need her," said Carla, simply.

"Yes, lad," added Kenneth, rising, "we are glad she has the power to help."

The next morning, they were awakened early by John Harding, calling Wathemah to let him in. Such a meeting as that was! Jack did not seem to know how to behave. The little unkempt lad, untutored, and undisciplined, whom he had known and loved, was gone; and in his place, stood a lithe, graceful, really elegant young man. Jack stood back abashed. His Wathemah, his little Wathemah, was gone. Something got in his throat. He turned aside, and brushed his hand across his cheek. But Wathemah slipped his arm around his neck, and together they tramped off up the mountain for a visit. Then Jack knew that his boy had really come back to him, but developed and disciplined into a man of character and force.

That was a gala day for Jack Harding and the Hastings household. No one had ever seen Jack so happy before.

Late that afternoon all stood on the veranda.

"My little kid," said Jack, laying his hand on Wathemah's shoulder, "I've worked fur ye, prayed fur ye, all the years. And now you've come, now you've come," he kept saying, over and over.

"Say, Jack," said Wathemah, "do you remember the time you found me asleep up the canyon, and took up a collection to send me East with Mother Esther?"

Jack nodded.

"Well, that money, with all that you have since sent me, has been invested for you. And now, Jack, my dear old pard, that money has made you a little fortune. You need work no more."

Jack choked. He tried to speak, but turned his face away. Esther slipped her arm through his, and told him she wanted to visit with him. So the two walked up and down the road in front of the house, talking.

"We are all so happy over Wathemah," she said. "I know you must be, too. He is really your boy, for you saved him, Jack."

Then Jack Harding poured his heart out to her. She understood him, all his struggles, all his great unselfish love for the boy. She knew the pain of his awakening, when he found that the child whom he had loved, whom he had toiled for all these years, needed him no more. It was pathetic to her.

"But, Jack dear," she was saying, "I am sure Wathemah will always be a joy to you. Only wait. My heart tells me he has some great purpose. He will tell us in time. When he does, you will want to help him carry out his plans, won't you?"

Up and down the veranda, walked Kenneth and Wathemah. Kenneth's hand and arm rested on the youth's shoulder.

"Yes, Wathemah," he was saying, "little David's death was a great sorrow to us. He was shot by an unfriendly Indian, you know."

For a moment his face darkened. The two walked on in silence.

"And Mother Esther?" Wathemah said in a husky tone; "how can she still give her life for the uplift of my people?"

"Oh, you know as well as I. She serves a great Master."

They talked from heart to heart, as father and son.

At last all the household gathered on the veranda to watch the afterglow in the sky. Esther slipped her arm through Wathemah's, and they stood facing the west.

"And so my boy is to enter the Indian service," she said. "Yes," he answered. "You know I majored in anthropology and education. My summers among various Indian tribes were to help me know the Indian. My thesis for my doctorate is to be on 'The Education of the Indian in the United States.' When I have my material ready, I'll return to Harvard and remain until I complete my work for my doctorate."

"What next, Wathemah?" There was a thrill in Esther's voice.

The Indian youth squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and said, as though making a solemn covenant:

"The uplift of my race!"

And Esther's face was shining.