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The kind Rector gave all his attention to Dorcas and her children. He soothed as much as was in his power the awful hours when death is the family visitant. The machines arrived sooner than they were expected. The Rector went off first with the sorrowing wife, her children and the dead.

John still stood staring wide-eyed at Will Benton; remained thus while the young man assisted his sister into the machine and followed himself.

“Oh, it is excellent to have a ‘giant’s strength,’” said Clarence, catching John’s arm.

Rieler came to from his trance, and smiled enthusiastically. “Oh, Crickey!” he answered, “you bet it is.”

CHAPTER XVIII
In which there are a joyful return, a sad duty and a picnic, ending with a reunion of loved ones

The ride back to Campion College, so far as the boys and Dora were concerned, was a thing of joy. Dora nestled beside her brother and gazed her fill of that splendid young man. John Rieler, seated on the other side, took his share of the gazing; love was in Dora’s eyes; admiration, deep, unspeakable admiration, in John’s. Occasionally, he put forth a timid hand to feel the muscle of the strong left arm.

“Will is a southpaw,” he explained to Clarence, when that watchful youth happened to catch him in the act.

“What does he diet on?” asked Clarence seriously.

But Dora’s admiration was not confined to her big brother. She drew from the willing lips of Clarence an account of his arrival at Campion College. In detailing Rieler’s share in the event Clarence waxed so eloquent that the young water-rat flushed furiously.

In a word, the little party, very soon resolved itself into a highly satisfactory mutual admiration society, of which Will Benton, in view of his recent exploit, was incontrovertibly the uncrowned king.

“Clarence,” said the giant, “it is owing to you that my sister has been found. You have put our family under an obligation we shall never forget.”

“If John hadn’t fished me out of the river, she’d be with the gypsies yet,” said Clarence. “Thank John and not me.”

“And,” said John, “if you hadn’t cranked Pete’s hand and struck out with your good left arm there wouldn’t be any Dora to save. Thank yourself.”

“It is Dora that has saved me,” said Clarence.

“I? How, Clarence?”

“Well, you got me to thinking right about the Catholic Church. I was almost ready to join when I left you by the river route. The boys at Campion – especially John and Will – got me to thinking of it still more. But when I heard you as we got near your tent, talking to Ben and asking him if he wanted to be baptized, there seemed to be a sort of explosion in my brain. When it passed away, I was determined to be a Catholic. All hesitation was gone. If that Church doesn’t save my soul, nothing can do it.”

“Say, Clarence,” said Dora with a smile, “how about that lawyer?”

“Lawyer?”

“Yes: you proposed to adopt me. Can’t we find the right man at Prairie du Chien? Clarence,” exclaimed the child to her brother, “told me one day at the gypsy camp that he proposed to adopt me, because he had no sisters of his own.”

“I’d be delighted,” broke in Will Benton, “to have you as a brother, Clarence: you have been in very deed, a brother to my little sister. She told me all about your lively scrap with Ezra. And I’m sure my father and mother would make our home yours.”

Clarence, thinking of his own dear ones, struggled hard to keep down his emotion. His lips quivered.

“O, I beg pardon!” said Will much confused. “I forgot.” And in a few words he told Dora of the railroad accident.

“Clarence,” said Dora, “did you pray to our Blessed Mother for the safety of your parents?”

“Yes;” said Clarence humbly: “I thought of what you would do, and so I prayed to her.”

“I’ll join with you. And tomorrow, Clarence, I’m going to Communion again. Oh, I never felt so happy in all my life. I’m going tomorrow.”

“We’ll all go tomorrow,” added Rieler, “and we’ll all pray for your parents.”

And then the four innocents fell to laughing and talking till at length Campion College was reached.

Dora at once demanded a confessor; and while John Rieler hastened to do her bidding, Clarence and her brother brought her to the students’ chapel. For the first time in four long, long months, Dora had the privilege of visiting the Blessed Sacrament. Presently a confessor arrived, the young sinner entered the confessional, and came out within a few minutes in an almost perceptible aura of peace and joy.

The President, in the meantime, had returned. He was awaiting them outside.

“Well,” he said, “everything has been arranged. Ben is to be buried at the Bohemian Church tomorrow at seven o’clock. Will Benton, you should serve; and you may get John Rieler to help you.”

“Thank you, Father,” cried Will.

“On Sunday next – the day after – Ben’s wife and children will be received into the Church. They are now quartered with a friend of mine in the lower town.”

Dora grew happier than ever.

“I want to be received with them, Father,” pleaded Clarence.

“I can’t grant you that permission, I fear, Clarence. Besides, you need instruction.”

“But I’ve had instruction already – at least,” Clarence added, correcting himself, “I’ve had some. Dora told me a lot, and I’ve done some reading.”

“And I’ll teach you enough, Clarence, before Sunday,” said the girl.

“Well, we’ll see,” said Father Keenan.

The group, as this conversation went on, was moving slowly towards the concrete walk which fronts the entire line of the main Campion College buildings. In the meantime, Master John Rieler had been holding spellbound nearly every lad of the Junior division with his account of Dora’s rescue, and of Will Benton’s wrench and blow. As the party then reached the walk, coincidently with the conclusion of John Rieler’s exciting narrative, the small boys, detecting their approach, spread out and, keeping at a respectful distance, devoured with their eyes Clarence, who swam to Campion; Dora, who lived a gypsy life four months; and, though his face had been familiar enough, the big Prefect of the Sodality. It is only fair to state that it was to Will Benton that they paid the most respectful attention. He was the hero of the hour. The Rector – a most unusual thing – was hardly considered.

Dora smiled and waved her hand.

“Three cheers for the Gypsy Queen,” yelled an enthusiast. They were given with wild and artless energy.

“And three cheers for Strong-Arm,” piped another. The cheers were deafening: Bedlam had broken loose.

“Let’s run,” said Will to Dora.

The child took him at his word: and the two darted along the walk, and tripped up the steps of the middle building.

The Rector with Clarence caught up with them shortly.

“Dora,” he said, “we have no place for you here; but there’s a nice family just north of our residence building who’ll keep you as long as you’re with us. I’ve sent them word already, and they have prepared a fine supper – a sort of banquet, for you and Will and Clarence and John Rieler.”

“Did I hear my name?” asked John, just then joining the group.

“Yes, you go to the banquet, too.”

“Oh,” said John, “this whole thing is like taking candy from a child. Say, Clarence,” he added in a whisper, “they’ve got a first-class cook there, and I am hungry.”

“I feel that way myself,” admitted Clarence.

“I’ll wager,” said the Rector, his eyes twinkling, “that you two are talking about the supper.”

“We just said we were hungry,” explained Rieler.

“For that matter, I’m famishing myself,” said the Prefect of the Sodality.

“And I’m hungry, too,” added Dora.

“Very good: clear out all of you, and you boys will be back in time for night prayers.”

And away they scampered like children – the big fellow, “Strong-Arm,” leading in the romp.

The funeral of the faithful and well-beloved Ben was simple and solemn, and the mourners fit though few. The Reverend Rector himself offered up the holy sacrifice of the Mass. Very quietly the simple cortege proceeded to the Catholic burying ground; and when the last shovelful of earth was thrown on the coffin Dora stepped forward and laid upon the mound the flowers such as Ben once joyed to collect and place at the shrine of “that good woman who was the Mother of God.”

They were scarcely outside the graveyard, when the Rector addressed them:

“You have all had too much of tragedy these last days for your tender years. Dora is a free agent; Clarence is simply our guest; they have a right to a holiday. As for you, Will, I give you the day in honor of the efficiency of your strong arm; and you, John, for saving Clarence.”

The long faces shortened; eyes dimmed with tears grew bright. A holiday to the school boys! What trouble, what sorrow can hold its own against a holiday?

“I’ve secured a fine motor-boat for you – ”

“I can run a motor all right,” broke in Rieler his face deeply gashed by a smile.

“And I suggest,” continued the Rector, “Pictured Rocks and a ride down the river.”

“Ah-h-h-h!” gurgled Dora.

“Oh-h-h-h!” cried Clarence.

“Say – say,” blurted John, “what about our breakfast? We’ve just been to Communion, you know, all except Clarence, and he hasn’t eaten yet.”

“There are some things, John,” observed the Rector, “that you never forget. However, I haven’t overlooked that particular item either. All you need do is to run down to the Prairie du Chien boat landing. You’ll find a man there, John Durkin, the boat-owner, who’s waiting to see that you get off with everything in good order. Then, John, you motor over to North McGregor, and bring the party up to Mr. Berry’s hotel. He’s heard of your wonderful adventures, and you are his breakfast guests.”

“I took a meal there with my pa,” whispered the radiant Rieler, “when he came up to see me last year. I’m glad I’m hungry,” he added simply.

“I should think, John,” observed the Rector, “that you must have that cause for rejoicing a good many times in the day. After your breakfast, you must get together provisions enough for a good dinner. The commissary department will be in charge of Will Benton. Here, Will, are a few dollars for that purpose. Mr. Berry will help you do the buying.”

“And I’ll be the cook,” said Dora, skipping about in uncontrollable glee.

“The only thing left for me,” said Clarence with his most radiant smile, “is to be dishwasher. I accept.”

“Hurry away now,” continued the Rector; and at the words they were all dashing down the street, Dora in the lead.

“Last one down is a nigger,” yelled Rieler.

It should not be accounted to the discredit of that happy lad that he did not succeed in overtaking the fleet-footed Dora. Not for nothing had she lived for four months in the open. As a matter of fact Dora retained her lead – owing, it may be, to the chivalry of Clarence and Will. Nevertheless, John, despite his efforts, was the last, of which fact all were careful to remind him till he had succeeded in setting the motor-boat whirling off toward North McGregor.

Of that happy morning, of the breakfast at Berry’s hotel, where John Rieler by his execution regained the prestige he had lost in the race, of the ride down the river, during which the hills of Iowa threw back in multiplied echoes happy laughter and gleeful shouts, of the ascent to the heights above Pictured Rocks, where Dora led the way skippingly, and paused not for breath till they reached the summit; of the lively chatter and flying jest; of the tumbles, unnecessary most of them, as they went down; of the wonderful dinner prepared – gypsy-wise – by Dora at the gypsy fire set going by Clarence; of the ride down the river till they paused and surveyed the very place where Clarence’s boat was taken in tow by “good dear Ben” – of all these things there is a record in the unwritten book of sheer joy. There never was a jollier, happier party on the broad bosom of the upper Mississippi. A little joke evoked thrills of laughter; a good one, an explosion. No pen is adequate to give an idea of how these pure, innocent and loving hearts laughed and jested and drank deep of the unpolluted joy of life.

They turned their boats at sunset homeward; and, as the twilight began to creep from its hiding place in the East, Clarence begged Dora to sing them a song of her gypsy exile.

The clear, pure voice – the sweeter, the more pathetic, doubtless, for all Dora’s long days of suffering – rose and added its beauty to the splendors of the dying day. Dora had just finished “Mother Dear, O Pray for Me,” and at the request of all, was about to begin another hymn, when Will Benton cried out:

“Look: there’s a boat making for us from Smith’s Creek. I believe it’s the Campion.”

“So it is,” cried Rieler, keen of eye. “And Father Rector’s in it. And – ”

Suddenly a scream of joy rang from Dora’s throat.

“Oh! oh!” she cried. “It’s mama and papa!”

CHAPTER XIX
In which John Rieler fails to finish his great speech, and Clarence is seriously frightened

There were, as the two boats came together, shouts and joyous cries and a quick interchange of crews. Dora was in the arms of father and mother. Laughter and tears – the tears of strong emotion – were intermingled with incoherent sobs. Feelings were beyond the power of human language.

It was then, in the midst of all this, that Master John Rieler, filled with an enthusiasm which could no longer be bottled up, mounted the prow of the boat, of which he had that day been the happy engineer, and raising his cap aloft, bellowed at the top of his voice:

“Three cheers for – ” But John did not finish this splendid sentence, and to this day no one knows for whom he intended the signal honor; for, happening to wave his cap wildly with these opening words, he lost his balance, and plumped into the water.

“Oh!” cried Mr. Benton, pulling off his coat.

“Stay where you are,” called the grinning Rector. “Don’t hurt Rieler’s feelings. To go to his help would be less sensible than carrying coals to Newcastle.”

John rose just then, and, shaking his locks, smiled graciously at the crews of the two boats.

“We don’t want you,” said the Rector.

“Thank you, Father,” John made grateful answer, and once more sank for a long, delicious dive. And thus did the youth continue to disport himself while huggings were renewed and Babel continued beside him.

“But, Father,” said Will Benton, “what I can’t understand is this! Dora was lost; after two weeks her body was recovered and she was buried in her coffin from our church.”

“You saw the coffin, Will?”

“Yes, Father.”

“But did you see Dora in it?”

“No, Father; you told us she was disfigured and bloated from being so long in the water; and you said we were not to see her.”

“Exactly. The facts are these: On one day, fourteen bodies of the flood victims were recovered. Very soon all were identified except that of a girl dressed in a white dress with a blue sash. I went to view the body, and really couldn’t make up my mind whether it was Dora’s, or not. Everybody insisted that it must be Dora. In the meantime, your mother was so broken-hearted by anxiety that it looked as if she would lose her mind. It occurred to me that even the recovery of the body and the Holy Mass over it would set her at rest, so I took the benefit of the doubt, and allowed the corpse in white and blue to be buried as though it were Dora’s. But mind, I never said it was Dora. I allowed the others to do that without contradicting them; and also my intention in having that Mass offered was that if Dora were alive, the Mass should go to the poor abandoned child who took her place.”

“Do you see,” said Dora, “how good our Blessed Mother is? That little girl because she was in blue and white got a Mass and Christian burial.”

“Hey, John Rieler,” called the Rector fifteen minutes later, “haven’t you had enough swimming yet?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Father Rector, I’d like to swim home.” John, while disporting in the water, had taken off his shoes and thoughtfully aimed them at the head of the admiring and envious Clarence.

“It isn’t all the same to me,” responded the Rector. “Here, give me your hand. Now suppose we start.”

And as they spun homeward, Dora told her wondering parents the tale of four months on the open road.

“And,” concluded the child, “when I think of dear Ben, who died a saint, and of Dorcas and her children, who join the Church tomorrow, and of Clarence who is going to join – ”

“You bet I am,” Clarence broke in from the other boat.

“I can’t say that I am sorry.”

“To those who love God all things work together unto good,” quoted Father Keenan.

“And when I recall,” said Mr. Benton catching Dora by the arms and beaming with joy and gratitude as he looked upon her radiant face, “how four months ago, you were pale, anaemic, and sentenced by the doctor to death within a few months – ”

“What!” gasped Will.

“Yes; sentenced to death. The doctor said the child had no sort of constitution.”

“That doctor was loony,” said Rieler indignantly. “You ought to see her run. Those fawns you read about in poetry books haven’t anything on her.”

“I should say not,” added Clarence no less indignantly. “You should have seen her skipping up Pictured Rocks Hill. She never lost her wind, never turned a hair, and she’s as sure-footed as a chamois.”

“All the same,” said the happy father, “the doctor was right. He was a specialist and knew his business. He told me to keep her in the open as much as possible; he told me so the very day before the gypsies ran away with her. For four months she has lived the life the doctor prescribed – and lived it, I rather think, more abundantly than had she lived at home. Now, look at her. She is the picture of health.”

“She’s the picture of something more than health,” whispered Clarence into the ear of her big brother. “Do you remember those lines of Wordsworth:

 
“‘And beauty horn of murmuring sound
 Shall pass into her face’?”
 

“I don’t read much poetry,” admitted Will Benton.

“Well, I’ve often thought of those lines in regard to Dora, only I make them read:

 
“‘And beauty born of heavenly thought
Hath passed into her face.’
 

Good old Ben said she was an angel. If she isn’t she is, as the gentlemanly druggists say, ‘something just as good.’”

“Beware of imitations,” said John Rieler.

Whereupon to the manifest discomfort of those in the boat, John and Clarence set playfully to punching each other.

“Well,” sighed Clarence, as he jumped from the boat at the Campion landing, “now for a quiet hour before going to bed.”

“Don’t forget supper,” said John.

“I don’t; but that is a quiet affair.”

“All the same,” continued John, “I’m going to keep near you. If anything happens, I want to be around.”

Then came Dora with her father and mother to greet Clarence; and the child, as she introduced him, made such comments on their short but lovely acquaintance as caused Clarence to blush to the roots of his hair.

“Remember, Clarence,” said Mr. Benton, “that our home is yours, day or night, winter or summer, in any year, in any season. God sent you to our little girl.”

“I think,” said Clarence modestly, “that it was, the other way around. God sent Dora to me. It’s made me – different. Everything I see and hear now I see and hear from a different angle – and a better one.”

As they walked up toward the college, Clarence, ably assisted by the eager John Rieler, pointed out their path of progress toward Campion on his first arrival. He was at pains to expatiate on John’s delicacy as to introducing him personally to the Rector.

“It wasn’t so very wrong, anyhow,” said Rieler.

“Didn’t God send me to save Clarence from drowning?”

“Don’t reason that way,” remonstrated Will Benton, whose reputation as a student of logic was not brilliant only because his prowess on the athletic field blinded the boys to what were in their eyes less shining qualities, “Out of evil God draws good; he took occasion of your breaking the rule to save Clarence’s life.”

“I’m beginning,” said Clarence solemnly, “to lose all faith in the bright-eyed goddess of adventure. As Betsy Prigg said of Sairey Gamp’s Mrs. Harris, I don’t believe there ain’t no sich a person.”

“What are you talking about now?” asked Rieler. “Who’s Betsy Prigg? Who’s Sairey Gamp? Who’s Mrs. Harris? The bright-eyed goddess has gone to your head, and placed a few bats in your belfry.”

“John Rieler,” said Clarence, “at your age you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You ought to know your Dickens. Read Martin Chuzzlewit, and start tonight.”

“No,” continued Clarence, “I disavow here and now, forever and forever, the squint-eyed goddess of adventure. I thought I was in her hands; but now I firmly believe that all along I was in the loving hands of God.”

Father Keenan, who had preceded the party, was now seen coming down the steps of the faculty building. He was doing his best to carry off his Indian immobility of face, but with partial success.

“Clarence,” he cried, “come here.”

“Another adventure,” said Rieler.

Clarence turned deathly pale. Something had happened – something serious.

“Oh, Father, what is it?” he cried running to the side of the Rector.