and intelligence had always needed a richer soil, a finer air. But Joconda had been good to her always. She had been all that the girl had known of motherlike care and watchfulness; she had been always just, and, in her own rough way, indulgent. What she knew of the wild, fierce strain that was in Musa's veins had made her very patient of her wanderings on sea and land, and of her sudden passions. Joconda had always said to herself, 'it is the blood of the Mastarna,' and so had made excuse.
It had been a part of her life to see Joconda always near her; she had never had to take thought for herself; the bread and the broth were always on the board; her linen in summer, her lamb's-wool clothes in winter, were always ready; as she had dropped asleep she had always heard the voice of Joconda muttering her aves in that faith in some answer coming sometime, from somewhere, which had never left her; though an answer she never had got, unless this death which had come to her all unawares in the stillness of the night could be called one.
