This they willingly did, and Miriam found a pale, delicate-looking
woman, who, notwithstanding the raggedness of her dress, still bore
traces of having been at one time different to a poor fisherman's
wife.
Encouraged by the soft tones of her mysterious visitor, the woman
gradually unburdened her troubled heart by telling her the history of
her wretched life; how she had been doomed to follow her husband, an
Indian chief, to death; but, loving life better, she escaped with her
little children, but would have died of hunger on the seashore if
Jarima, her second husband, had not rescued her and offered her his
name and home.
"He is very good to me and my children; the past seems but a dream
now. If only we had money, all would be well."
Miriam, with a few gentle, consoling words, slipped a few bright coins
into the tiny brown hands of the astonished babies; then, with a sigh,
she bade the grateful mother adieu and went out to where Diniz was
waiting.
He read by her face that she had no better tidings, and, drawing her
hand through his arm, he turned away.
"Will it never come--the proof I want?" he said, half bitterly.
Scarcely had the words left his lips when a glad cry of "Father!" rent
the air, and three small forms bounded over the white shingle towards
a tall man, dressed in white linen.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236