“They were crying, all except you,” I answered. “I was looking for her, down at the brook spring; something told me to walk on—on—on till I came here. I saw Cora and that beautiful lady on the satin pillow, with all the black velvet lying so heavily over her. Cora was very unhappy; so was I; that is all.”
“But who are you? What is your name?” he asked, looking tenderly in my face.
“Zana is my name?”
“Zana, what more? You have another name!”
“No—Zana, that is all.”
“But who is your father?”
The question puzzled me; I did not know its meaning; no one had ever asked after my father before.
“My father!” I said, doubtfully.
“Yes, your father; is he living?”
“I don’t know!”