“You have not been here for a long time, mot[=a]tza.”  It sounded like a friendly reproach.  He modestly grasped her fingers, breathed on her hand, and replied,—­

“I could not come.”

“You did not want to come,” said the woman, smiling.

“I could not,” he reiterated.

“You could had you wished, I know it; and I know also why you did not come.”  She added, “Well, now you are here at last, and it is well.  Mitsha, give your friend something to eat.”

The significant word “friend” fell on fertile soil.  It eased Okoya at once.  He sat down closer to the hearth, where the maiden was very busy in a rather confused manner, her face turned from him.  Still as often as the strands of hair accidentally parted on the left cheek, she shot quick side-glances at him.  Okoya, balancing himself on his heels, quietly observed her.  It was impossible to devote to her his whole attention, for her mother had already taken her seat close by him and was claiming his ear.  She offered slight attraction to the eye, for her squatting figure was not beautiful.  Okoya grew lively, much more lively than he had been on his first visit.

“Why should I not have wanted to see you?” he good-naturedly asked.

“I will tell you,” Hannay chuckled; “because you were afraid.”

“Afraid?” he cried, “afraid?  Of whom?” But within himself he thought the woman was right.  Hannay smiled.

“Of Mitsha,” she said; adding, “she is naughty and strong.”  A peal of coarse laughter accompanied this stroke of wit.  The girl was embarrassed; she hid her face on her lap.  Okoya replied,—­

“Mitsha does not bite.”

“She certainly will not bite you,” the mother answered, causing the maiden to turn her face away.

“Does she bite others?” Okoya asked.  Again Hannay laughed aloud, and from the corner whither Mitsha had retreated there sounded something like a suppressed laugh also.  It amused her to think that she might bite people.  Her mother, however, explained,—­

“No, Mitsha does not bite; but if other boys should come to see her she might perhaps strike them.  But you, sa uishe,”—­the woman moved closer to him,—­“you, I am sure, she will not send away.  Is it not so, Mitsha?  Okoya may come to see you, may he not?”

The poor girl was terribly embarrassed by this more than direct question, and Okoya himself hung his head in confusion.  He pitied the maiden for having such a mother.  As Mitsha gave no answer, Hannay repeated,—­

“Speak, sa uishe; will you send this mot[=a]tza away as you do the others?”

“No,” breathed the poor creature thus sorely pressed.  A thrill went through the frame of Okoya; he looked up, and his eyes beamed in the reflex of the fire.  The woman had watched him with the closest attention, and nothing escaped her notice.  Her eyes also sparkled with pleasure, for she felt sure of him.

“Well, why don’t you give the mot[=a]tza some food?” she asked her daughter again.  “On your account he has walked the long way from the big house.  Is it not so, Okoya?”