Whitey taught Launa music, and the child worked earnestly, undismayed by the drudgery, with the hope of some day being able to play like her teacher, and her reward always came in the form of freedom for a while. With Whitey, she read many books, stories, history, and poetry. And as Miss Black had travelled far and wide she made all she taught interesting.
This odd couple were very happy together. In the winter they snowshoed, going for long tramps through the woods. They were frequently out in stormy weather, for Miss Black loved the wind as much as Launa did, and the wild turmoil of snow and tempest attracted them both. They explored the whole surrounding country together. Miss Black and Launa were also very fond of wandering to the far away lakes—the big black lakes with long shadows and deep reflections of trees and rocks—lakes whose solitude and silence filled one with a sort of apprehension, that whispered of horrors, past or to come—the ghosts of dead braves might wander there as a foretaste of the happy hunting ground. The hills were high and steep, covered with brushwood which was very thick, and at intervals there were rocks and holes that made climbing perilous, but Launa and Miss Black did not mind difficulties. On one occasion Mr. Archer took them to camp out for a week and to fish. How they loved it! The queer smell of the wood smoke, the joy of cooking in the ashes, and the talk round the fire in the twilight before bedtime, when the stars came out and the moon hung half-way up in the sky, while the firelight threw shadows all around, making the white birch trees look ghostly in the dim light, while in the distance the little stream rushed on to the sea.
CHAPTER III
When Launa, who had a queer, passionate temper, a horror of restraint of any kind, and a great dislike to being disappointed or thwarted, was fifteen, she was tall, and slight, all arms and legs, with long thin fingers, and well-shaped feet. Her skin was tanned, with a tinge of red in her cheeks, her eyes were brown, as was her hair. She could paddle, and walk on snowshoes like an Indian, her voice had a low soft richness in it that reminded Mr. Archer of a squaw—which made him wonder whether there had been Indian blood in Naomi or not?
But Launa had a stronger look than her mother; she was less of the dainty French girl, and she possessed a greater desire to rise, to achieve something, possessing a less sublime acquiescence in fate or destiny than Naomi, who had been sweeter, more yielding, and fulfilling Mr. Archer’s preconceived, primeval idea of a woman. Sometimes he feared for his daughter, and that curious belief in herself, which she displayed with a half-expressed idea, that she would be able to command fate, an early sign of her masterful independence.
“When I am big,” Launa said to her father one day, “I shall write a book about the woods and the Indians; no one writes about them, or seems to know how.”
Her father smiled.
“You must learn to keep still.”
“The arranging and selecting of ideas must be difficult,” she said, “and I always come to grief over commas. I love full stops, but Whitey says my sentences are jerky. It must be difficult to disguise one’s mood when writing books, to write when one is tired or weary; I could not do it.”