Arkansas might be called by the one name--Oklahoma; a name to stand
forever as a symbol of the marvelously swift and permanent growth
of a white people, in spite of its Choctaw significance--"Red
People."

Although Wilfred had stayed close to his farm, near Oklahoma City,
he had kept alive to the rush and swing of the western life; and
now that he had leisure to ride with Mizzoo among the bustling
camps, and view the giant strides made from day to day by the
smallest towns, he was more than ever filled with the exultation of
one who takes part in world-movements. He began to view the
hurrying crowds that overran the sidewalks, with a sense of close
kinship--these people came from all points of the Union, but they
were his people. A year ago, six months ago, they might have been
New Yorkers, Californians, Oregonians, but now all were westerners
like himself, and though they believed themselves Texans the name
made as little difference as that between "Red River" and "Prairie
Dog Fork"--in spirit, they were Oklahomans.

If Wilfred had not been a simple visitor, he would have had no time
for thought; but now he could look on the life of which he had for
a few years been a part, and study it as related to the future. It
was as if his boyhood and youth had not been passed in Chicago--the
West had blotted out the past as it ever does with relentless hand,--
and every thought-channel led toward the light of the future.
Lahoma's letter had revived the picture of other days, of another
existence, without rousing one wish to return.

The only desire it had stirred in his breast was that of seeing
Lahoma again, of taking her by the hand to lead her, not back to