It was as if she had known and loved him always.  She was like a young mother with her first child.  Tendeny she wiped his tears away with her blond, silken hair.  She cut his bonds and he rose and stood before her.  Her face changed like magic.

“Oh what a fool I’ve been!” she exclaimed.

“Why so?” he asked.

“I cried and I kissed you and we never have been introduced to each other.”

She covered her eyes with her hair and with bent head went out of the door.

“I’ll never forget that kiss as long as I live,” said the boy as he followed her.  “I’ll never forget your help or your crying either.”

“How I must have looked!” she went on, walking toward her pony that was hitched to a near tree.

“You were beautiful!” he exclaimed.

“Go away from me—­I won’t speak to you,” she said.  “Go back to your work.  I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

The boy returned to his task pointing up the inside walls but his mind and heart were out in the sunlight talking with Bim.  Once he looked out of the door and saw her leaning against the neck of the pony, her face hidden in his mane.  When the sun was low she came to the door and said: 

“You had better stop now and go home.”

She looked down at the ground and added: 

“Please, please, don’t tell on me.”

“Of course not,” he answered.  “But I hope you won’t be afraid of me any more.”

She looked up at him with a little smile.  “Do you think I’m afraid of you?” she asked as if it were too absurd to be thought of.  She unhitched and mounted her pony but did not go.

“I do wish you could raise a mustache,” she said, looking wistfully into his face.

Involuntarily his hand went to his lip.

“I could try,” he said.

“I can’t bear to see you look so terribly young; you get worse and worse every time I see you,” she scolded plaintively.  “I want you to be a regular man right quick.”

He wondered what he ought to say and presently stammered:  “I—­I—­intend to.  I guess I’m more of a man than anybody would think to look at me.”

“You’re too young to ever fall in love I reckon.”

“No I’m not,” he answered with decision.

“Have you got a razor?” she asked.

“No.”

“I reckon it would be a powerful help.  You put soap on your lip and mow it off with a razor.  My father says it makes the grass grow.”

There was a moment of silence during which she brushed the mane of her pony.  Then she asked timidly:  “Do you play on the flute?”

“No, why?”

“I think it would break my heart.  My Uncle Henry plays all day and it makes him look crazy.  Do you like yellow hair?”

“Yes, if it looks like yours.”

“If you don’t mind I’ll put a mustache on you just—­just to look at every time I think of you.”

“When I think of you I put violets in your hair,” he said.