I saw my conjecture from her arms was
correct: she was above the human scale throughout, but not
greatly.
"Why do you call yourself a beech-tree?" I said.
"Because I am one," she replied, in the same low, musical,
murmuring voice.
"You are a woman," I returned.
"Do you think so? Am I very like a woman then?"
"You are a very beautiful woman. Is it possible you should not
know it?"
"I am very glad you think so. I fancy I feel like a woman
sometimes. I do so to-night--and always when the rain drips from
my hair. For there is an old prophecy in our woods that one day
we shall all be men and women like you. Do you know anything
about it in your region? Shall I be very happy when I am a
woman? I fear not, for it is always in nights like these that I
feel like one. But I long to be a woman for all that."
I had let her talk on, for her voice was like a solution of all
musical sounds. I now told her that I could hardly say whether
women were happy or not. I knew one who had not been happy; and
for my part, I had often longed for Fairy Land, as she now longed
for the world of men. But then neither of us had lived long, and
perhaps people grew happier as they grew older. Only I doubted
it.
I could not help sighing. She felt the sigh, for her arms were
still round me. She asked me how old I was.
"Twenty-one," said I.
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