nful cry, then sunk, and at
the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.

"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you!
Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."

But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me
see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike
and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no
response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.

"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you
know that you will see her again some day?"

"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."

"The priest?"

"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is so
far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--just
here; and on this side--trees, trees."

This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge I
wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement she
had named, and of which I had never heard.

"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did not
know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words she
had spoken.

Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what do
you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Your
grandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room."

"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.

"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut. "Out here
in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping quickly, she raised
a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through her
fingers.

Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slipped
from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture.
After an interval she added: "Only mother is here--always with me."

"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your old
grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away to
the starry country where your mother is?"

She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: "You are
here."

"But when I go away?"

She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed to
pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay with
me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you?
Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your old
grandfat