During these two months while Miela, with uncanny rapidity, was mastering their language, the Newlands had of course learned from her all she had to tell them. The situation in Wyoming did not necessitate haste on their part, and so they had waited. And now, with a decision reached, they sent for me.
That evening after supper we all went out on the bungalow porch, and Miela told me her story. She spoke quietly, with her hands clasped nervously in her lap. At times in her narrative her eyes shone with the eager, earnest sincerity of her words; at others they grew big and troubled as she spoke of the problems that were harassing her world and mine—the inevitable self‑struggles of humanity, whatever its environment, itself its own worst enemy.
"I am daughter of Lua," Miela began slowly, "of the Great City in the Country of Light. My mother, Lua, is a teacher of the people. My father, Thaal, died when still I was a child. I—I came to your earth—"
She paused and, turning to Beth, added appealingly:
"Oh, there is so much—to begin—how can I tell—"
"Tell him about Tao," Beth said.
"Tao!" I exclaimed.
"He leads those who came to your earth in the north," Miela went on. "He was my"—she looked to Alan for the word—"my suitor there in the Great City. He wished me for his wife—for the mother of his children. But that—that was not what I wished."
"You'd better tell him about conditions in your world first, Miela," said Alan. He spoke very gently, tenderly.
I had already seen, during supper, how he felt toward her; I could readily understand it, too, for, next to Beth, she seemed the most adorable woman I had ever met. There was nothing unusually strange about her, when her wings were covered, except her quaint accent and sometimes curious gestures; and no one could be with her long without feeling the sweet gentleness of her nature and loving her for it.