“Only a child—a little girl,” he said, softly; “a poor little one who has been imprisoned so long she has come to believe her own cage is gilded, and will not take her freedom when the doors are opened.”
Earnestly she looked into his face.
“And if I go to the West country, you, too, will go with me, will you not, Koma?”
He shook his head, smiling sadly.
“No. I would not have the right.”
“I will not go, then,” she said, simply. “If they should force me I can be as brave as others. I would take my life.”
“No, you would not do so, for then you would break our hearts.”
“Yet you have no pity for mine,” she said, near to tears now.
“Poor little heart!” he whispered, tenderly.
After a moment she inquired, quietly: