"You are Okoya Tihua, your little brother is called Shyuote, and Say Koitza is your mother's name.
She is a good woman, but"-- and she shrugged her shoulders--"always sick.
Have you any cotton ?" she suddenly asked, looking squarely into the eyes of the boy.
"No," he replied, and his features coloured visibly, "but I have some handsome skins." Mitsha too seemed embarrassed; she started to go into the room below, but her mother called her back.
"Sa uishe," she coaxed, "won't you give the mot[=a]tza something to eat ?" The faces of both young people became fiery red.

He stood like a statue, and yet his chest heaved.

He cast his eyes to the ground.

Mitsha had turned her face away; her whole body was trembling like a leaf.

Her mother persisted.
"Take him down into the room and feed him," she repeated, and smiled.
"I have nothing," murmured Mitsha.
"If such is the case I shall go and see myself." With these words the woman descended the beam into the room below, leaving the two alone on the roof, standing motionless, neither daring to look at the other.
While the colloquy between Okoya and Mitsha's mother was going on, Shyuote had recovered somewhat from his fright and grief and had sneaked off.