While he ate, the mother watched him eagerly; her cunning eyes moved from his face toward that of her daughter like sparks; and gradually an expression of satisfaction mingled with that of a settled resolve appeared on her features.  There was no doubt that the two would be a handsome pair.  They seemed, as the vulgar saying goes, made for each other; and there was something besides that told that they were fond of each other also.  Okoya had never before entered this dwelling; but the woman thought that they had met before, nay, that her desire had been anticipated, inasmuch as the young people already stood to each other, if not in an intimate, in a more than merely friendly, relation.

“Why do you never come to see us?” asked the woman, after Okoya had finished his meal.

“I stay at the estufa during the night,” was the modest reply.

“You need have no fear,” she answered pleasantly, “Tyope and your father are good friends.  You should become a Koshare!” she exclaimed.

Okoya’s face clouded; he did not like the suggestion, but nevertheless asked,—­

“Is she,” looking at Mitsha, “a Koshare also?”

“No.  We had another child, a boy.  He was to have become a Delight Maker, but he died some time ago.”  The woman had it on her lips to say, “Do you become one in his place as our child,” but she checked herself in time; it would have been too bold a proposal.

Okoya glanced at the daughter and said timidly,—­

“If you like, I shall come again to see you;” and Mitsha’s face displayed a happy smile at the words, while her mother eagerly nodded.

“Come as often as you can,” she replied.  “We”—­emphasizing the word strongly—­“like it.  It is well.”

“Then I will go now,” said Okoya, rising.  His face was radiant.  “I must go home lest Shyuote get into more trouble.  He is so mischievous and awkward.  Good-bye.”  He grasped the woman’s hand and breathed on it; gave a smiling look to the girl, who nodded at him with a happy face; and returned to the roof again.  Thence he climbed down to the ground.  How happy he felt!  The sun seemed to shine twice as brightly as before; the air felt purer; all around him breathed life, hope, and bliss.  At the foot of the slope he turned back once more to gaze at the house where so much joy had come to him.  A pair of lustrous eyes appeared in the little air-hole of the wall.  They were those of the maiden, which were following him on his homeward way.

Tyope’s wife was right in supposing that her daughter and Okoya were not strangers to each other.  And yet not a single word had passed between them before beyond a casual greeting.  As often as they had met he had said “guatzena,” and she had responded with “raua.”  But at every meeting his voice was softer, and hers more timid and trembling.  Each felt happy at the sight of the other, but neither thought of speaking, still less of making any advances.  Okoya was aware