"Mitsha Koitza," she repeated, "where does she belong?"
"Tyame hanutsh."
"Who is her father?"
"Tyope Tihua. Do you like her?" and he looked at his mother pleadingly, as if asking her forgiveness and her consent to his choice.
The woman's brow clouded at the mention of a name so hateful to her. She looked hard at her son and said in a tone of bitter reproach,—
"And you go with that girl?"
"Why not!" His face darkened also.
"Have I not told you what kind of man Tyope is?"
"The girl is no Koshare," he answered evasively.
"But her mother is, and he."