"Thank you, Senhora, I will stay," she said simply. "There is no one at all to worry about me." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 16: Land breeze] [Footnote 17: Sea breeze.] [Footnote 18: A lamb without a mother.] CHAPTER XII GUACHA CHIQUITA and Guacha proved a pleasant addition to the happy circle of little folk, for, though shy at first, the little Indian soon thawed out in the genial atmosphere about her. Many quaint little stories she told of Indian ways and customs, legends of the times of the Inca conquests, and stories of the days when her forefathers had been Caciques of the tribe. She was a sweet-natured little soul, and the Senhora kept her with them until the last day of their stay. The evening before they were to return to Sao Paulo, all sat around the camp-fire, laughing, talking, and telling stories, Guacha beside Maria, for the two little girls had grown nearly inseparable. The green and red cockatoo was perched upon Guacha's shoulder, half asleep, but when his little mistress laughed, he chuckled sleepily, that half amused, half contemptuous laugh which makes a parrot seem so human. "To-morrow we start toward home," said Lola dreamily, as she sat resting her head against her mother's knee. "_Saudade_,[19] little daughter?" asked her father. "Oh, no, papa, how could I be really homesick when I am having such a delightful time with my cousins," said Lola sweetly. "But I should like to see grandmamma in Para and my dear old nurse at the _fazenda_." "I want to see Joachim and Vicente," said Affonzo. "I want to see mamma," said Martim. Big boy that he was, he was not ashamed of being devoted to his mother. Maria's eyes filled with tears, and she slipped one hand into her father's and he held it tight. The Senhora hummed lightly under her breath the sweet Brazilian "Home Sweet Home,"[20] then the young folk took up the strain and sang together: "Mine is the country where the palm-trees rear Their stately heads toward the azure sky, And where, in accents ever soft and clear, The sabiá sings her hymn of melody; Here, in my exile, say what warblers rare Can with the sabiá's notes their own compare? "Friendless, alone, at night, I dream of thee; My slumbering senses wrapped in peace and bliss I see the palms; the sabiá's melody Falls on my ears; once more I feel the kiss Of lips I love; I wake, the vision's gone, The sabiá to his native woods has flown. "Spare me, O God, until in peace I lie Asleep for ever in the land I love, Then may the sabiá carol joyfully, Perched in the palms, my resting-place above. So gathering in the first-fruits of my love, No longer homesick, every heart-ache past, Bearing the sheaves for which in grief I strove, A plenteous harvest may I reap at last."