“Ho-[=a]-[=a]!  Heiti-na!  Ho-[=a]-[=a]!  Heiti-na!”

In the meantime Hayoue had drawn closer to Say in the kitchen, saying,—­

“Sister-in-law, I have come to speak to you concerning Okoya.”

She motioned to him to remain where he was, and said, half in jest, half in earnest,—­

“Stay where you are, I hear you.  You talk loud enough for me.”

“Rest easy, sam[=a]n,” he replied, with a peal of laughter that fairly shook his tall and slender form.  “Have no fear, I am tired out after yesterday.  But I must talk to you about the mot[=a]tza.”  He patted his knees and looked straight into her face.  “Are you aware that your child goes with the child of Tyope?”

“I am,” said Say, with a smile.

“What do you think of it?”

“Good,” was the simple reply.  “And you?”

“Good, yes, in one way, and not good in another.”

“What do you think of the girl?” the woman inquired.

“Very, very good!” Hayoue emphatically exclaimed.  “But her mother and her father,”—­he hissed through his teeth and shook his head with every sign of disgust,—­“they are very, very bad.”

“I think as you do,” said Okoya’s mother, “and yet I know that the boy is good and the girl is good.  Why should they not go together?”

“I say the same, but how comes it that you believe so now?”

“I presume the mot[=a]tza has told you a different story?” Say suggested, with a smile.

Hayoue nodded.

“I thought differently,” she explained, “but now my heart has changed.”

“You are right,” the young man said approvingly, adding, “but he must avoid the snares which that turkey-buzzard Tyope may set for him, and we must preserve him from them.”

“I warned him.”

“So have I, and he promised to be wise.”

“Had we not better speak to Zashue?” suggested Say Koitza.

Hayoue remained thoughtful for a while; then he said,—­

“I dislike to say aught against my own brother, but in this matter I dislike to speak to him.”

“He is Okoya’s father,” objected Say.

“True, but he is Koshare, and completely under Tyope’s influence.  Nevertheless do as you like, for you know him better than I do.”

“He ought to come soon,” Say said, and rose.

She went out.  A noise of quarrelling children was approaching the door.  Soon she clearly distinguished the voice of Shyuote scolding.

“Come with me, worm!  Go home, frog!” he yelled, and mournful cries succeeded to his kind invitation.  At the same time his young sister, propelled by a violent push of his fist, stumbled into the outer room and grasped the dress of her mother for protection.

“Satyumishe is beating me,” whined the little one, glancing anxiously toward the entrance.  In the doorway appeared Shyuote himself, a solid lump of mud from head to foot.  His black eyes stared out of the dirty coating that covered his face, like living coals.  The appearance of his mother put an end to his hostile actions,—­he felt uncertain about the manner in which they would be viewed by his parent.  Say quickly changed his forebodings into absolute certainty.