CHAPTER IV.
HE grew to eight years old without ever seeming to think of accounting for her own existence.
Then, abruptly one day she said to Joconda:
'Are you my mother?'
Joconda's weatherbeaten hard face broke into a laugh.
'Lord! baby—why I am seventy years old and more!'
'Where is my mother, then?'
'In heaven,' said Joconda; and thought, 'poor soul, more like in hell!'
The child was silent, pondering.
'Where is my father, then?'
'Why do you ask such things?'
'Because the others, they have a father and a mother apiece, where are mine?'