"Where do you belong?" she inquired in a quieter tone.
"I am Tanyi."
"Who is your father?"
"Zashue Tihua."
The woman smiled; she moved still nearer to the young man and continued,—
"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 motātza something to eat?"