Lillian Morris, and Other StoriesSienkiewicz, Henryk
General
Lillian Morris, and Other Stories
Sienkiewicz, Henryk
Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.) -- Fiction; Short stories, Polish -- Translations into English
During the first weeks I exchanged with Miss Morris barely a couple
of words beyond the usual daily “good morning.” Taking compassion,
however, on her youth and loneliness,—she had no relatives in that
caravan,—I showed the poor girl some trifling services. I had not the
least need of guarding her with my authority of leader nor with my fist
from the forwardness of young men in the train, for among Americans
even the youngest woman is sure, if not of the over-prompt politeness
for which the French are distinguished, at least of perfect security.
In view, however, of Lillian’s delicate health, I put her in the most
commodious wagon, in charge of a driver of great experience, named
Smith. I spread for her a couch on which she could sleep with comfort;
finally, I lent her a warm buffalo-skin, of which I had a number in
reserve. Though these services were not important, Lillian seemed to
feel a lively gratitude, and omitted no opportunity to show it. She was
evidently a very mild and retiring person. Two women, Aunt Grosvenor
and Aunt Atkins, soon loved her beyond expression for the sweetness of
her character. “Little Bird,” a title which they gave her, became the
name by which she was known in the caravan. Still, there was not the
slightest approach between Little Bird and me, till I noticed that the
blue and almost angelic eyes of that maiden were turned toward me, with
a peculiar sympathy and determined interest.
That might have been interpreted in this way: Among all the people of
the train I alone had some social refinement; Lillian, in whom also a
careful training was evident, saw in me, therefore, a man nearer to
her than the rest of the company. But I understood the affair somewhat
differently. The interest which she showed pleased my vanity; my vanity
made me pay her more attention, and look oftener into her eyes. It was
not long till I was striving in vain to discover why, up to that time,
I had paid so little attention to a person so exquisite,—a person who
might inspire tender feelings in any man who had a heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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