After a little time longer the moon paled and the stars disappeared, and soon the sky became overspread with the changing coloring and the splendor of dawn. Then the sun rose out of the glory, but still they kept on their way until the heat began to overcome them. Then they halted where some pines and high rocks made a shelter, but this time the big man did not build a fire. He gave them a little coffee which he had saved for them from what he had steeped during the night, and they ate and rested, and the mother fell quickly into the sleep of exhaustion, as before.
Thus during the middle of the day they rested, Amalia and the big man sometimes sleeping and sometimes conversing quietly.
“I don’t know why mother does this. I never knew her to until yesterday. Father never used to let her look straight ahead of her as she does now. She has always been very brave and strong. She has done wonderful things––but I was not there. When troubles came on my father, I was put in a convent––I know now it was to keep me from harm. I did not know then why I was sent away from them, for my father was not of the religion of the good 190 sisters at the convent,––but now I know––it was to save me.”
“Why did troubles come on your father?”
“What he did I do not know, but I am very sure it was nothing wrong. In my country sometimes men have to break the law to do right; my mother has told me so. He was in prison a long time when I was living in the convent, sheltered and cared for,––and mother––mother was working all alone to get him out––all alone suffering.”
“How could they keep you there if she had to work so hard?”
“My father had a friend. He was not of our country, and he was most kind and good. I think he was of Scotland––or maybe of Ireland; I was so little I do not know. He saved for my mother some of her money so the government did not get it. I think my mother gave it to him, once––before the trouble came. Maybe she knew it would come,––anyway, so it was. I do not know if he was Irish, or of Scotland––but he must have been a good man.”
“Been? Is he dead?”
“Yes. It was of a fever he died. My mother told me. He gave us his name, and to my father his papers to leave our country, for he knew he would die, or my father never could have got out of the country. I never saw him but once. When I saw you, I thought of him. He was grand and good, as are you. My mother came for me at the convent in Paris, and in the night we went to my father, and in the morning we went to the great ship. We said McBride, and all was well. If we had said Manovska when we took the ship, we would have been sent back and my father would have been killed. In the prison we would have 191 died. It was hard to get on the ship, but when we got to this country, nobody cared who got off.”
“How long ago was that?”