We missed Lucy in Haverford when she went away to Chicago to study music. She had that singular brightness of young beauty: flower gardens have it for the first few hours after sunrise. Life seemed to lie very near the surface in her. Photographs of Lucy mean nothing to her old friends. Her mouth was so warm and impulsive that every shadow of feeling made a change in it. Her skin was rather dark, and the colour in her lips and cheeks was like the red of dark peonies–deep, velvety. They were not gentle brown eyes, but flashed with gold sparks like that Colorado stone we call the tiger-eye. There was something in her nature that was like her movements, something direct and unhesitating and joyous, and in her golden-brown eyes. On she came, past hedges and lilac bushes and woolly-green grape arbours and rows of jonquils, and one knew she was delighted with everything with her summer clothes and the air and the sun and the blossoming world. When the old women at work in their gardens caught sight of her in the distance, a mere white figure under the flickering shade of the early summer trees, they always knew her by the way she moved. But Lucy covered the distance a dozen times a day, covered it quickly with that walk so peculiarly her own, like an expression of irrepressible light-heartedness. People said out to the Gayhearts’ and thought it rather a long walk in summer. The Gayhearts lived at the west edge of Haverford, half a mile from Main Street.

Cold, she used to say, made her feel more alive heat must have had the same effect. In the breathless glare of August noons, when the horses hung their heads and the workmen took it slow, she never took it slow. And in the heat of summer she came just as swiftly down the long shaded sidewalks and across the open squares blistering in the sun. When there is a heavy snowfall, the older people look out of their windows and remember how Lucy used to come darting through just such storms, her muff against her cheek, not shrinking, but giving her body to the wind as if she were catching step with it. But when they do mention her name it is with a gentle glow in the face or the voice, a confidential glance which says: Yes, you, too, remember? They still see her as a slight figure always in motion dancing or skating, or walking swiftly with intense direction, like a bird flying home. They do not talk of her a great deal, to be sure life goes on and we live in the present. In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart.

Lucy Gayheart by Willa Cather