Willock said nothing, but the next time they came to a clump of blossoms he made a nosegay. Lahoma watched him with a face as calm and unemotional as that of Red Feather, himself. She held her back with the erect grace and moved her limbs with the swift ease of those among whom she had passed the last two years. In delightful harmony with this air of wildness was the rich and delicate beauty of her sun-browned face, and the golden glow of her silken brown hair. Willock's heart yearned toward her as only the heart of one destined to profound loneliness can yearn toward the exquisite grace and unconscious charm of a child; but to the degree that he felt this attraction, he held himself firmly aloof, knowing that wild animals are frightened when kindness beams without its veil.
"What you do with that?" She pointed at the flowers in his rough hand.
"I'm going to put 'em on your mother's grave."
"She not know. Not see, not smell. She dead, mother dead."
"Lahoma, do you know anything about God?"
"Yes—Great Spirit. God make my path white."
"Well, I want God to know that somebody remembers your mother. It's God that smells the flowers on the graves of the dead."
They walked on. Pretty soon Lahoma began looking about for flowers, but they had reached the last barren ledge, and no more came in sight.
"Take these, Lahoma."
"No. Couldn't fool God." They began the last descent. Willock suddenly discovered that tears were slipping down the girl's face. He said nothing; he did not fear, now, for he thought the tears promised a brighter dawning.