Wallula found it very hard to bear this watchfulness.  She felt as if her mother were glad that her prophecy had proved true, that the white girl had broken her promise; but Wallula was wrong.  Her mother’s bitterness and resentment were the outcome of her anxiety.  She would have given anything, have done anything, to have saved Wallula this suffering.  If something would only happen to rouse Wallula, she thought, as she watched her.  There had come a visitor to their cabin the other day,—­the chief of a neighboring tribe.  When he saw Wallula, he said he would come again and bring his little daughter.  If he would only come soon!  If he would only—­But, hark! what was that?  Was it an answer to her wish,—­her prayer?  Was he coming now—­now?  And, jumping to her feet, the woman ran to the door and flung it open.  Yes, yes, it was in answer to her prayer; for there, over the turf, she could see a horse speeding towards her.  It was coming at breakneck speed.  “Wallula!  Wallula!” she turned and called.  An echo seemed to repeat, “Lula, Lula!” At that echo Wallula leaped up, and sped past her mother with the fleetness of a fawn, calling as she did so, “I’m coming, coming!” In the next instant the wondering woman saw her child running, as only an Indian can run, by the side of a jet-black pony whose coat was flecked with foam, and whose breath was well-nigh spent.  As they came nearer into the pathway of light that the pine blaze sent forth from the open door, something that looked like a pennon of gold streamed out, and a clear but rather shaken voice cried, “Lula, Lula, I’ve kept my promise; I’ve kept my promise!”

The next moment the owner of the voice had slid from the pony’s back into Wallula’s arms, and Wallula was stroking the streaming golden hair, and crying jubilantly, “She’s kept her promise, she’s kept her promise!”

“Yes, I’ve kept my promise.  I’ve brought your Christmas present.  There it is in that box strapped across Tam.  If somebody’ll unstrap it and see to Tam, we’ll go into the house, and I’ll tell you what a race I’ve had.  I can only stay a few minutes, for I must get to the fort if your father’ll go with me.  I don’t dare to go alone now.”

“To the fort?” asked Wallula, wonderingly.

“Yes, I’m going there to dinner; but let’s go in.  I’m so tired I can hardly stand; and Tam—­”

But as a glance showed her that Tam was being cared for, and that Wallula’s mother was carrying the box into the house, Major Molly followed on with a sigh of relief, and, doffing the riding-suit that covered her dress, flung herself down before the blazing fire, and began to tell her story.  When she came to the point where Tam stumbled and fell forward, she burst out excitedly,—­

“Oh, Lula, Lula!  I thought then I should never get here, and I don’t know how we did it, Tam and I; I don’t know how we did it, but I kept my seat, and I gave a great pull.  I felt as strong as a man, and I cried, ‘Tam!  Tam!  Tam!’ and Tam,—­oh, I don’t know how he did it,—­Tam got to his feet again, and then he flew, flew, flew over the ground.  We’d lost a minute, and I expected every second the lariat would catch us sure after that, but it didn’t, it didn’t, and I’m here safe and sound.  I’ve kept my promise, I’ve kept my promise, Lula.”