says. But what is that to me? I am here—am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and tell her everything. In the daytime—in the woods, when we are together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast—so, and say, 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say, 'Oh, why will you never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother—mother—mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you—cannot hear you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths—its fancies so childlike and feelings so intense—had fallen again; and my words brought no response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa—do you know? Mother died there when I was small—it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river—just here; and on this other side—trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the
