"Don't you like me any more, Paul? Are you tired of me, because I am a Cloud-Mother?"
"No," I would answer. "Lazarre will never be tired of you."
"Do you think I am growing smaller? Will you love me if I shrink to a baby?"
"I will love you."
"I used to love you when you were so tiny, Paul, before you knew how to love me back. If I forget how"—she clutched the lapels of my coat—"will you leave me then?"
"Eagle, say this: 'Lazarre cannot leave me.'"
"Lazarre cannot leave me."
I heard her repeating this at her sewing. She boasted to Marie Grignon—"Lazarre cannot leave me!—Paul taught me that."
My Cloud-Mother asked me to tell her the stories she used to tell me. She had forgotten them.
"I am the child now," she would say. "Tell me the stories."