"I don't remember my mother at all," went on Kaituna, idly leaning her arms on the terrace. "She died when I was a child; but I often picture her to myself."
"And the picture?" asked Mrs. Belswin, unsteadily, her face turned away.
"Oh, a tall, beautiful woman, with dark eyes and haughty bearing. Proud to all, but loving to me. I once saw a picture of Pocahontas, and I always fancied my mother a woman like that--wild and free and majestic. Ah, it was a great sorrow to me that she died. I should have loved her so. I used to envy other girls when I saw them with their mothers, because I have none. Oh, it must be very, very beautiful to have a mother to take care of you--to whom you can appeal for comfort and sympathy; but--but--Mrs. Belswin, why, you are crying!"
She was crying--crying bitterly, and the tears ran down her dark cheeks in great drops that showed how much she was moved by the girl's idle words--tears that were caused by the terrible agony of carrying on the part she was playing. Kaituna, in great wonder, approached her; but at the light touch of the girl's fingers the woman shrank back with a low cry of fear.
"Don't touch me!--don't touch me, child!"
Kaituna paused with a puzzled look on her face, upon which Mrs. Belswin dried her eyes hurriedly, and took the girl's hand.
"I beg your pardon, Kaituna," she said, with forced composure, "but you must not mind me, my dear. I am not very well at present. My nerves are out of order."
"I hope I have said nothing to vex you?"
"No, dear, no! But I--I had a little child of my own once, and--and--and she died."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Kaituna, touched to the heart by this pathetic confession. "I should not have spoken as I did."