“I know your father well.  He is one of us, a Koshare.”  Her eyes remained fastened on his features; she was manifestly more and more pleased with his appearance.  But at the same time she occasionally glanced toward her daughter Mitsha, and it struck her forcibly that Mitsha, too, was handsome.

“I know who you are,” she said smilingly.  “You are Okoya Tihua, your little brother is called Shyuote, and Say Koitza is your mother’s name.  She is a good woman, but”—­and she shrugged her shoulders—­“always sick.  Have you any cotton?” she suddenly asked, looking squarely into the eyes of the boy.

“No,” he replied, and his features coloured visibly, “but I have some handsome skins.”

Mitsha too seemed embarrassed; she started to go into the room below, but her mother called her back.

“Sa uishe,” she coaxed, “won’t you give the mot[=a]tza something to eat?”

The faces of both young people became fiery red.  He stood like a statue, and yet his chest heaved.  He cast his eyes to the ground.  Mitsha had turned her face away; her whole body was trembling like a leaf.  Her mother persisted.

“Take him down into the room and feed him,” she repeated, and smiled.

“I have nothing,” murmured Mitsha.

“If such is the case I shall go and see myself.”  With these words the woman descended the beam into the room below, leaving the two alone on the roof, standing motionless, neither daring to look at the other.

While the colloquy between Okoya and Mitsha’s mother was going on, Shyuote had recovered somewhat from his fright and grief and had sneaked off.  Once on the ground he walked—­still trembling and suspiciously scanning the cliff wherein the Corn people had their abodes—­as straight as possible toward the big house.  Nobody interfered with him; not even his two defenders noticed that he had gone; they both remained standing silent, with hearts beating anxiously.

“Okoya,” the woman called from below, “come and eat.  Mitsha, come down and give sa uishe something to eat.”

A thrill went through Okoya’s whole frame.  She had called him sa uishe,—­“my child.”  He ventured to cast a furtive glance at the maiden.  Mitsha had recovered her self-control; she returned his shy glance with an open, free, but sweet look, and said,—­

“Come and partake of the food.”  There was no resisting an invitation from her.  He smiled; she returned the smile in a timid way, as shy and embarrassed as his own.

She descended first and Okoya followed.  On the floor of the room, the same chamber where Tyope had taken rest the night before, stood the usual meal; and Okoya partook of it modestly, said his prayer of thanks, and uttered a plain, sincere hoya at the end.  But instead of rising, as he would have done at home, he remained squatting, glancing at the two women.