“I can not,” replied the child, “for the thorns will tear my dress, and the señora will whip me.”
“How dare you call my mother the señora? It is not from respect, but because you are a hateful little beast.” And he struck the child a cruel blow, and made her go for the ball.
Her dress was torn, and her pretty hands bleeding when she recovered it. Just then her own brother came up, and would have fought the unkind boy, but the little Zoie entreated, weeping, “Dear brother, do not strike him. Come with me, while I say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.’”
The heart of the young boy swelled with anger, and his quickened pulse beat fearfully; but, because he loved his sister, he suffered her to lead him away, for well he knew, nothing would grieve her so much as his returning blow for blow.
“Oh! to be a man!” he thought, as the hot tears filled his eyes. “Why don’t the years fly fast? How long must I wait, before I can take care of my little sister like a man?”
Already the manhood was dawning in his heart; and if he could have protected the dear little maiden, he would have dared any thing.
At this moment the garden gate opened, and an old Indian woman came up the walk, crying—“Strawberries! fresh and ripe, red and bright. Strawberries! strawberries!”
All the children ran to meet her, and looked so eagerly at the pretty crimson fruit, that she gave to each of them a handful, but to the little sister, who was so modest and beautiful, she gave a small basket, covered with green leaves, and filled with the delicious berries.
When the other children would have taken the basket for themselves, the old woman prevented them; and, while they went, crying, to their mother, Zoie hid her treasure under the trailing vines of a passion-flower.
“Be quick, little señorita,” said the old Indian. “Your mother once saved the life of my child, and an Indian never forgets. In the basket is a wonderful talisman, which will give you any thing you want, just for the wishing.”