A Mountain Woman [38]
every house in the settlement, bidding the people to come to devotions on Sunday morning. He knew that not one of them would refuse his invitation. There was no hero larger in the eyes of these unfortunates than the simple priest who walked among them with his unpretentious piety. The promises were given with whispered bless- ings, and there were voices that broke in making them, and hands that shook with honest gratitude. The priest, remembering these things, and all the awful suffering of the winter, determined to make the ser- vice symbolic, indeed, of the resurrection and the life, -- the annual resurrection and life that comes each year, a palpable miracle, to teach the dullest that God reigns.
"How are you going to trim the altar?" cried a voice behind him.
He turned, startled, and in the doorway stood Mademoiselle Ninon, her short skirt belted with a red silk scarf, -- the token of some trapper, -- her ankles protected with fringed leggins, her head covered with a be- ribboned hat of felt, such as the voyageurs wore.
"Our devotions will be the only decora- tions we can hang on it. But gratitude is better than blossoms, and humanity more beautiful than green wreaths," said the father, gently.
It was a curious thing, and one that he had often noticed himself; he gave this woman -- unworthy as she was -- the best of his simple thoughts.
Ninon tiptoed toward the priest with one finger coquettishly raised to insure secrecy.
"You will never believe it," she whis- pered, "no one would believe it! But the fact is, father, I have two lilies."
"Lilies," cried the priest, incredulously, "two lilies?"
"That's what I say, father -- two marvel- lously fair lilies with little sceptres of gold in them, and leaves as white as snow. The bulbs were brought me last autumn by --; that is to say, they were brought from St. Louis. Only now have they blossomed. Heavens, how I have watched the buds! I have said to myself every morning for a fortnight: 'Will they open in time for the good father's Easter morning service?' Then I said: 'They will open too soon. Buds,' I have cried to them, 'do not dare to open yet, or you will be horribly passée by Easter. Have the kindness, will you, to save your- selves for a great event.' And they did it; yes, father, you may not believe, but no later than this morning these sensible flowers opened up their leaves boldly, quite conscious that they were doing the right thing, and to-morrow, if you please, they will be here. And they will perfume the whole place; yes."
She stopped suddenly, and relaxed her vivacious expression for one of pain.
"You are certainly ill," cried the priest. "Rest yourself." He tried to push her on to one of the seats; but a sort of convulsive rigidity came over her, very alarming to look at.
"You are worn out," her companion said gravely. "And you are chilled."
"Yes, I'm cold," confessed Ninon. "But I had to come to tell you about the lilies. But, do you see, I never could bring myself to put them in this room as it is now. It would be too absurd to place them among this dirt. We must clean the place."
"The place will be cleaned. I will see to it. But as for you, go home and care for yourself." Ninon started toward the door with an uncertain step. Suddenly she came back.
"It is too funny," she said, " that red calico there on the Virgin. Father, I have some laces which were my mother's, who was a good woman, and which have never been worn by me. They are all I have to remember France by and the days when I was -- different. If I might be permitted --" she hesitated and looked timidly at the priest.
"'She hath done what she could,'" mur- mured Father de Smet, softly. "Bring your laces, Ninon." He would have added: "Thy sins be forgiven thee." But un- fortunately, at this moment, Pierre came lounging down the street, through the mud, fresh from Fort Laramie. His rifle was slung across his back, and a full game-bag revealed the fact that he had amused him- self on his way. His curly and wind-bleached hair blew out in time-torn
"How are you going to trim the altar?" cried a voice behind him.
He turned, startled, and in the doorway stood Mademoiselle Ninon, her short skirt belted with a red silk scarf, -- the token of some trapper, -- her ankles protected with fringed leggins, her head covered with a be- ribboned hat of felt, such as the voyageurs wore.
"Our devotions will be the only decora- tions we can hang on it. But gratitude is better than blossoms, and humanity more beautiful than green wreaths," said the father, gently.
It was a curious thing, and one that he had often noticed himself; he gave this woman -- unworthy as she was -- the best of his simple thoughts.
Ninon tiptoed toward the priest with one finger coquettishly raised to insure secrecy.
"You will never believe it," she whis- pered, "no one would believe it! But the fact is, father, I have two lilies."
"Lilies," cried the priest, incredulously, "two lilies?"
"That's what I say, father -- two marvel- lously fair lilies with little sceptres of gold in them, and leaves as white as snow. The bulbs were brought me last autumn by --; that is to say, they were brought from St. Louis. Only now have they blossomed. Heavens, how I have watched the buds! I have said to myself every morning for a fortnight: 'Will they open in time for the good father's Easter morning service?' Then I said: 'They will open too soon. Buds,' I have cried to them, 'do not dare to open yet, or you will be horribly passée by Easter. Have the kindness, will you, to save your- selves for a great event.' And they did it; yes, father, you may not believe, but no later than this morning these sensible flowers opened up their leaves boldly, quite conscious that they were doing the right thing, and to-morrow, if you please, they will be here. And they will perfume the whole place; yes."
She stopped suddenly, and relaxed her vivacious expression for one of pain.
"You are certainly ill," cried the priest. "Rest yourself." He tried to push her on to one of the seats; but a sort of convulsive rigidity came over her, very alarming to look at.
"You are worn out," her companion said gravely. "And you are chilled."
"Yes, I'm cold," confessed Ninon. "But I had to come to tell you about the lilies. But, do you see, I never could bring myself to put them in this room as it is now. It would be too absurd to place them among this dirt. We must clean the place."
"The place will be cleaned. I will see to it. But as for you, go home and care for yourself." Ninon started toward the door with an uncertain step. Suddenly she came back.
"It is too funny," she said, " that red calico there on the Virgin. Father, I have some laces which were my mother's, who was a good woman, and which have never been worn by me. They are all I have to remember France by and the days when I was -- different. If I might be permitted --" she hesitated and looked timidly at the priest.
"'She hath done what she could,'" mur- mured Father de Smet, softly. "Bring your laces, Ninon." He would have added: "Thy sins be forgiven thee." But un- fortunately, at this moment, Pierre came lounging down the street, through the mud, fresh from Fort Laramie. His rifle was slung across his back, and a full game-bag revealed the fact that he had amused him- self on his way. His curly and wind-bleached hair blew out in time-torn