“They are mourning,” he was told.
“What for?” he asked.
“They have lost a child; their little daughter died the other day.”
“What was her name?”
“Nipisartángivaq,” they said.
Then Qasiagssaq cleared his throat and said in a loud voice:
“To-day my little daughter Nipisartángivaq is doubtless crying at her mother’s side as usual.”
Hardly had he said this when the mourners looked up eagerly, and cried:
“Ah, how grateful we are to you![2] Now your little daughter can have all her things.”
And they gave him beads, and the little girl’s mother said: