“Lightning,” said she, indicating with her finger a sinuous black line that issued from one side of the arches resting on a heavy black dash.

“Cloud,” he added, referring to the arches.

“Rain,” concluded the maiden, pointing at several black streaks which descended from the figure of the clouds.  Both broke out in a hearty laugh.  His merriment arose from sincere admiration, hers from equally sincere joy at his approbation of her work.  The mother laughed also; it amused her to see how much Okoya praised her daughter’s skill.  She was overjoyed at seeing the two become more familiar.

Okoya returned to his former position, placing the vessel on the floor with tender care; and Mitsha resumed her sitting posture, only she sat much nearer the boy than before.  He still examined the bowl with wonder.

“Who taught you to make such nice things?” he asked at last.

“An old woman from Mokatsh.  Look,” and she took up the vessel again, pointing to its outside, where near the base she had painted two horned serpents encircling the foot of the bowl.

“Tzitz shruy,” she laughed merrily.  The youth laughed, so did the women, all three enjoying themselves like big, happy children.

“For whom did you make this?” Okoya now inquired.

“For my father,” Mitsha proudly replied.

“What may Tyope want with it?” asked the boy.  “I have seen uashtanyi like this, but they stood before the altar and there was meal in them.  It was when the Shiuana appeared on the wall.  What may sa nashtio use this for?”

“I don’t know,” Mitsha replied, and her eye turned to her mother timidly askance and with an expression of doubt.

Hannay saw here an excellent pretext to put in a word of her own which she had wished to say long before.

“I will tell you, sa uishe; I will speak to you as I would to my own child.”  The artful flattery had its desired effect.  Okoya became very attentive; he moved closer apparently to the mother,—­in reality, to the daughter.

“You know Tyope is a Koshare, and I am Koshare too; and he is very wise, a great man among those who create delight.  Now it may be that you know also what we have to do.”

“You have to make rain,” said the youth; for such was the common belief among the younger people about the duties of the society.

Hannay and Mitsha looked at each other smiling, the simple-mindedness of the boy amused them.

“You are right,” the woman informed him.  “After we have prayed, fasted, and done penance, it ought to rain, in order that yamunyi may grow to koatshit, and koatshit ripen to yakka.”  In these words she artfully shrouded the true objects of the Koshare.  It enhanced their importance in the eyes of the uninitiated listener by making him believe that the making of rain was also an attribute of theirs.  “See, uak,” she proceeded, “on this bowl you see everything painted that