Wilfred promised,and Lahoma entered on the history of her childhood.Wilfred looked and listened joyously,conscious of the unusual scene,alive to the subtle charm of her fearless eyes,her unreserved confidences,the melting harmony of her musical tones.To be sure,she was only a child,but he saw already the promise of the woman.The petals as yet were closed,but the faint sweet fragrance was already astir.He found,too,that in her nature was already developed something not akin to youth,something impersonal,having nothing to do with one's number of years--like the breath of experience,or the ancient freshness of a new day.It was born of the mountains and nourished in the solitude of the plains.
How different the girls of fifteen or sixteen such as he had known in the city or in sophisticated villages in the East!Lahoma had not been so engrossed by trivial activities of exacting days that she had lacked time for thought.Her housekeeping cares were few and devoid of routine,leaving most of the hours of each day for reading,for day-dreaming,for absorbed meditation.Somehow the dreams seemed to linger in,her voice,to hover upon her brow,to form a part of her;and the longings of those dreams were half-veiled in her eyes,looking out shyly as if afraid of wounding her guardians by full revelation.She wanted to meet life,to take a place in the world--but what would then become of Willock and Bill?
Bill used to live seven miles away at the mountain with the precipice,she went on,after she had told about the wonderful window.But it was too far off.When he got to know me,it tired him,walking this far twice a day,morning and night,--didn't it,Bill!So at last Brick and Bill decided to cut some cedars from the mountain and make me a cabin,--they took the dugout to sleep in.There are two rooms in the cabin,one,the kitchen where we eat--and the other,my parlor where I sleep.Some time you shall visit me in the cabin,if Brick and Bill are willing.They made it for me,so I couldn't ask anybody in,unless they said so.