Katipah!"

"Oh, Gamma-gata l" cried Katipah, "tell the other winds, when they come, to
blow courage into me, and to blow me back to you; and do not let that be
long!"

"I will tell them," said Gamma-gata; and suddenly he was gone. Katipah saw a
drift of white petals borne over the treetops and away to sea, and she knew
that there went Gamma-gata, the beautiful windy youth who, loving her so well,
had made her his wife between the showers of the plum-blossom and the
sunshine, and had promised to return to her as soon as she was fit to receive
him.

So Katipah gathered up her field-sorrel, and went away home and ate her
solitary midday meal with a mixture of pride and sorrow in her timid little
breast. "Some day, when I am grown brave," she thought, "Gamma-gata will come
back to me; but he will not come yet."

In the evening Bimsha looked over the fence and jeered at her. "Do not think,
Katipah," she cried, "that you will ever get a husband, for all your soft
looks! You are too poor and unprofitable."

Katipah folded her meek little body together like a concertina when it shuts,
and squatted to earth in great contentment of spirit. "Silly Bimsha," said
she, "I already have a husband, a fine one! Ever so much finer than yours!"

Bimsha turned pale and cold with envy to hear her say that, for she feared
that Katipah was too good and simple to tell her an untruth, even in mockery.
But she put a brave face upon the matter, saying only, "I will believe in that
fine husband of yours when I see him!"