“Oh, that is not speaking.”
“Last night you spoke to your mother in Spanish. Did you not tell her everything?”
“Oh no—not then. When I tell her everything I speak in another way, in a low voice—not on my knees and praying. At night, and in the woods, and when I am alone I tell her. But perhaps she does not hear me; she is not here, but up there—so far! She never answers, but when I speak to my people they will answer me.”
Then she turned away as if there was nothing more to be said.
“Is this all I am to hear from you, Rima—these few words?” I exclaimed. “So much did you say to your grandfather, so much to your dead mother, but to me you say so little!”
She turned again, and with eyes cast down replied:
“He deceived me—I had to tell him that, and then to pray to mother. But to you that do not understand, what can I say? Only that you are not like him and all those that I knew at Voa. It is so different—and the same. You are you, and I am I; why is it—do you know?”
“No; yes—I know, but cannot tell you. And if you find your people, what will you do—leave me to go to them? Must I go all the way to Riolama only to lose you?”
“Where I am, there you must be.”
“Why?”