"But I think I understand. Nobody can sing what she doesn't feel—what she hasn't felt. Oh, I know," she broke off suddenly. "I can sing songs of the woods—the water—the pretty things like you've been givin' me. But the deep things—sorrow, pain, regret—like this—I'm not 'up' to them."
Peter sat beside her, puffing contentedly.
"Don't worry," he muttered. "Your voice will ripen."
"And will I ripen too?"
He laughed. "I don't want you ever to be any different from what you are."
She was thoughtful a moment, for Peter had always taken pains to be sparing in personalities which had nothing to do with her voice.
"But I don't want always to be what I am," she protested, "just growin' close to the ground like a pumpkin or a squash."
He laughed. "You might do worse."
"But not much. Oh, I know. You're teachin' me to think—and to feel—so that I can make other people do the same—the way you've done to me. But it don't make me any too happy to think of bein' a—a squash again."
"Perhaps you won't have to be," said Peter quietly.