SITTAH.

How I am pleased with thee, sweet girl! But do Shake off this perturbation, be not anxious, Be not alarmed, I want to hear thee talk - Be cheerful.

RECHA.

Princess!

SITTAH.

No, not princess, child.

Call me thy friend, or Sittah, or thy sister, Or rather aunt, for I might well be thine; So young, so good, so prudent, so much knowledge, You must have read a great deal to be thus.

RECHA.

I read--you're laughing, Sittah, at your sister, I scarce can read.

SITTAH.

Scarce can, you little fibber.

RECHA.

My father's hand or so--I thought you spoke Of books.

SITTAH.

Aye, surely so I did, of books.

RECHA.

Well really now it puzzles me to read them.

SITTAH.

In earnest?

RECHA.

Yes, in earnest, for my father Hates cold book-learning, which makes an impression With its dead letters only on the brain.

SITTAH.

What say you? Aye, he's not unright in that.

So then the greater part of what you know -

RECHA.

I know but from his mouth--of most of it I could relate to you, the how, the where, The why he taught it me.

SITTAH.

So it clings closer, And the whole soul drinks in th' instruction.

RECHA.

Yes, And Sittah certainly has not read much.

SITTAH.

How so? Not that I'm vain of having read; But what can be thy reason? Speak out boldly, Thy reason for it.

RECHA.

She is so right down, Unartificial--only like herself And books do seldom leave us so; my father Says.

SITTAH.

What a man thy father is, my Recha.

RECHA.

Is not he?

SITTAH.

How he always. .h.i.ts the mark.

RECHA.

Does not he? And this father -

SITTAH.

Love, what ails thee?

RECHA.

This father -

SITTAH.

G.o.d, thou'rt weeping

RECHA.

And this father - It must have vent, my heart wants room, wants room.

SITTAH.