“O mother,” she said, “I cannot bear it!”
She clung crying to her mother’s hand, while the other women crowded comfort upon her.
“Indeed, Daria,” one assured her, “but I knew my mother. There were four others with me when I woke, but I knew her. I did not know what she was to me, nor any name to call her, but my heart chose her from among the rest, and I held out my arms.”
They said many more things to this purport, while the girl turned her face to her mother’s bosom as though she admitted all this, but it did not touch her case.
Then her father, coming forward, distressed for her, but somewhat more concerned for the situation, taking her by the shoulders, recalled her to herself.
“Daughter,” he said, “have you carried the honor of the Outliers so many years to fail us at the last? How do you make life worth remembering with broken faith? And who will respect you if you respect not your word?”
She cleared a little at that and recovered, so that she was able to go through with some dignity the farewells which the elders now came forward to bestow with fixed cheerfulness. Then came her young companions, saying, “We have nothing ill to remember of you, Daria,” and “Good-waking, Daria.” She broke out again, desperate rather than despairing.
“Do not say so to me, I shall not drink it!”
“Shall not?” It was Persilope taking the Cup from Evarra, and moving forward as he spoke. “It is a word that has never been heard before from a Ward.”
Quick red leaped in Daria’s face, which she turned this way and that, searching the meadow for some prop to her determination. It seemed that she found it, though there was nothing I could read there but commiseration and disapproval.