At Lyle, in the days of his joyous paganism, when he worked and read and wrote, when with happy zeal he collected the lore of the Indians, his life was given an additional zest and grace by the love of Genevra Whitcomb, daughter of a pioneer neighbor. She possessed a provocative wit, which he practiced in himself and liked in others. Besides the fresh but aesthetic beauty that characterized so many girlhoods of early Oregon, with a culture that blossomed and developed without the help of schools, she had this penchant for bright remarks and discomfiting sallies. The sparkle and repartee of their conversation is what is remembered by his sister. This was, of course, in public. We do not know to what extent their communion changed when they were by themselves, when they took long walks in the neighborhood of Lyle, when they sat together on the Washington bluffs and looked down on "the big salmon water" and the uprising Oregon shores beyond.
Nor can we say exactly how much his joining the church and dedicating himself to the ministry, was responsible for what now took place. It is to be expected that his zealotry, unless she shared it, would have alienating implications for their relationship. Her conversation had taken place the same time as his, during that December revival at the Lyle school house, but this much of acquiescence of her spirit did not suffice. "He soon became absorbed in his work," says his sister, "and thought no more about this girl, sometimes remarking that he evidently had been mistaken about his feelings for her, as she meant nothing to him now." She left Lyle in the fall of 1885 and went to
