Flower Forbidden/Part 1

ORAH LASSELS sat waiting. It seemed years that she had waited. She began to feel that she knew this dingy room in a third-rate London hotel better than any other room in the world. By and by it grew, in her excited fancy, to be the whole world. There had never been anything else for her except this hideous brown room. There never would be anything else.

Sometimes for a minute she would forget that she was waiting for her adored twin brother, Patrick Lassels, to come and bring her news which meant more than life or death—at least, far more than her own life or death. But when she forgot the present, it was only to plunge back into the past, which swallowed her up like a black wave, and let her struggle out, choking for breath, thankful for the ugly brown room again.

Would Pat never come? Dear Pat, so handsome, so brave, once so full of fun and so joyously careless of the future!

She dreaded, yet longed beyond all things, to see him. And he had promised to come the moment he had anything to tell. His quarters were not far away—the barracks of the Grenadier Guards. That was why she had taken a room in this hotel, so that she might be near at hand; and, besides, as it was in a mean street in Westminster—out of the gay, beautiful London which was the only London she had known—there was little danger that she would be recognized there and gossiped about—or Pat, when he came to see her.

The dreadful thing had got into the papers—first the French papers, then the English ones—and the sensational halfpenny dailies had made the most of it, while pretending a discreet reticence and respect for families in high places closely concerned in the affair. Pat, therefore, was sensitive and self-conscious, hating to be looked at, as if every human being who glanced his way must know the disgraceful story that had been invented about the duel, and how his uncle, Lord Grayminster, had turned against him on account of it.

As for Norah, she did not care whether people looked at her or not. She did not matter at all. Nothing mattered but her brother.

A newspaper lay on the table now, given her by the old Irish waiter who had brought her breakfast. “You might like to throw an eye on it, miss,” he had said, overflowing with kindness, because her Celtic eves told him what green island had been the home of her ancestors. She had wondered a little if the queer old fellow could possibly guess who she and Pat were, although she had given the name of Gray, and her twin brother was “Mr. Gray” when he came to see her. But she had not opened the paper. If there were anything there about herself and Pat, or, still worse, about Constantine Prevali, she did not want to read it. Since that horrible interview Constantine Prevali had given the special correspondent of The Daily Messenger in Paris, the very thought of a newspaper had made her heart beat fast.

“Cruel, wicked man!” she said to herself, as his image came up before her; dark, and very Greek, though he and his had called themselves Englishmen for two or three generations. She knew, or believed she knew, that Prevali had lied about Pat to revenge himself upon her. He had guessed that the surest way to hurt her was through her brother! And then the question that would continually ask itself in her mind seemed to scream in her ears: “Does Pat know what happened? Did he insult Constantine Prevali because he found out, or is it really true that they quarreled over a game of bridge?”

As the suspense grew almost unbearable the girl walked about the room, straightening a framed lithograph of some royalty hanging crookedly on the wall, or going to the one window and staring down at the mean street. It was not a great thoroughfare, but jingling hansoms, luggage-loaded four-wheelers, and flashing taxicabs swept along in a constant tide; and it struck her as astonishing that so many people should be comfortably going about their business or amusements under her very eyes, while she and Pat had come to the end of the world.

That was what he had called it in his first passionate outburst, after the newspaper article which had roused the storm, and his interview with Lord Grayminster, who refused to believe his word. “The end of the world!” And of course it would seem like that to them both if Pat must leave the army—leave, not of his own accord, but because the king “no longer required his services.” That was what would happen, Pat said. He would receive such a communication; and when she tried to cheer him up by saying that the war office was surely too wise to throw away a young officer whose life was in his profession, he only laughed—a dreadful, bitter laugh, so different from the young, jolly laughter natural to him, that Norah's heart almost broke in hearing it.

“It's Prevali's word against mine, and he's at death's door—through me,” Pat had said. “Dying men are supposed to tell the truth; while—as for me—one can't help seeing that I've every incentive to lie.”

Often Norah glanced at the bracelet-watch she wore on her wrist, and it seemed that something must have gone wrong, the hands moved so slowly. Pat must know by this time. Then why didn't he come? She asked herself this question with a miserable, helpless impatience; but suddenly an answer flashed into her mind which drove the blood back upon her heart.

“What if he never comes at all? What if he's driven mad with the injustice of his punishment, and kills himself?”

The thought sent her flying to the door, wild to do something—anything rather than wait longer. She threw the door open, with some vague idea of sending a messenger or a telegram, and almost ran into her brother's arms, as he came heavily upstairs.

His step would have told her that the worst had happened, even if she had not seen it in his face. Not that he showed despair in his expression. These Lassels were not of the sort who hoist distress signals; and a stranger might only have thought that here was a handsome young man who had rather a haggard air of having burned the candle at both ends. But Norah knew.

“Oh, Pat, I am thankful to see you!” she stammered, as she retreated into the ugly brown room, he following. “I—I thought—I hardly know what I thought. But I've been expecting you so long! You didn't come, and I was afraid”

“You needn't have been afraid of that, old girl,” said Pat, guessing instantly what was in her mind, in the mysterious way which twins often have with one another. “I'm a lot of bad things, but not a coward, I hope. And I've given you enough to bear already. I wouldn't add that—or I'd deserve all I've got.”

“Then—then it's bad news?” she faltered, though she knew without asking.

“You can hardly call it news, Noll,” he answered. “It was a foregone conclusion.”

“What a fiendish world!” she exclaimed passionately.

“Not a bit of it,” said Pat—handsome Pat, for whom she would have died in torture if she could have saved him this. And the most horrible part, perhaps, was that it might be in trying to save him she had brought about his ruin. She thought of this, but could not put it in words. It was the secret which stood between them. Each had half the secret. She had hers. He had his. And it seemed to her now that, as these awful weeks had gone by without an understanding, they would never be able to open their hearts to one another. But she meant to try again to-day—perhaps this very hour.

“They couldn't do anything else in the circumstances,” he went on, with a kind of hard cheerfulness. “Sneaking across the Channel and fighting a duel would hardly be considered conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman. Add to that the kind of duel I was fool enough to consent to; and on top of all, Prevali's story”

“But they oughtn't to believe it!” Norah broke in. “How can anybody believe—anybody, whether they know you or not—that Pat Lassels would run a man through the body when he was disarmed and asking for his life?”

“I said, when a man's dying his word is taken. I deserve this, 1 suppose, for being drawn into such a hole-and-corner affair, with no seconds, no witnesses. I ought to have known he meant playing a trick of some kind—either killing me if he could, or accusing me of treachery if I got the better of him. But he made me furious, hinting I was afraid to trust myself alone with him. It all comes of my Irish temper and foolhardiness, but it's too late to be wise now. I must take my medicine.”

“Uncle Edward could have saved you if he'd chosen to use his influence,” Norah said. “I can't help hating him.”

“He doesn't think I'm worth saving. You know it isn't the first time I've kicked over the traces.”

“What are a few debts?” exclaimed Norah indignantly. “He was very pleased you should be in the Grenadier Guards. What could he expect? You're young and popular, and you have a position to keep up.”

Pat Lassels laughed. “A position! Son of an impecunious Irish baron, and not a penny to bless himself with!”

“But you'll be a baron yourself when Conron dies.”

“Poor old Conron!” said Pat sadly. “I never wished him dead, and less than ever do I wish it now. His death can do me no good after what's happened to me, and will only rake up this story—which I hope to goodness may be an old one by that time.”

Norah was silent. Their half-brother, Lord Conron, twenty years older than they, had broken his back in the hunting field when they were children, and nowadays was not only a hopeless paralytic, but had lost his mind and was in a sanatorium. When their father had died of grief after the wreck of his small fortune in the days of the great South African boom, the Earl of Grayminster, the twins' uncle on their mother's side, had somewhat reluctantly undertaken their bringing up. He had been too proud to leave his dead sister's children unfriended, but he was a cold man, and a mean man. What he gave, he grudged, and he had never understood Pat, to whom he doled out the smallest possible allowance.

Norah had none, and her few bills were grumbled at, though she was expected to dress well, and had played hostess for her uncle in town and country, on the occasions when he chose to entertain, ever since she had said good-by to her last governess, at eighteen. Now, she and Pat were twenty-four. She was not able to call up much gratitude for Lord Grayminster, and she had always half guiltily looked forward to the day when Pat would be Lord Conron, and have the few hundreds a year squeezed out of such Irish land as was left—money which at present kept the invalid in luxury in his sanatorium.

A pang of despair shot through her heart at Pat's words, but she had to acknowledge that they were true. Out of the army, out of the country, perhaps forgotten by his friends, the title when it came would be of no use.

“Oh, Pat!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Tell me—for pity's sake tell me, why you fought that duel with Constantine Prevali?”

Pat turned his eyes on her, surprised at first, then very grave, and curiously secretive for one so frank. He had Irish eyes, blue as sapphires, between thick lines of black lashes; and though his skin would have been fair if sunburn had given it a chance, his short wavy hair was dark brown. Only in strong sunshine it showed red high lights, like a burnished helmet.

Norah had the same coloring, and looked as much like her twin brother as it is possible for a rather small, very feminine girl to look like a tall, strong-featured young man. She was so slender, so pale now, and wistful-eyed, that she appeared much younger than she was, hardly more than nineteen, while Pat, brown and thin, and six feet in height, seemed older than his twenty-four years. In the last few weeks all the boyishness had gone from his face and manner, so that now, when he looked down at his sister after her question, his sternness and sadness frightened her, as if he were her judge, not the darling, happy-go-lucky twin brother who had always been her other self.

“You know very well why we fought,” he said at last slowly.

“I know what you told me—what everybody thinks. But—but do men fight nowadays over cards? Do they take the trouble to cross to France and try to kill each other just because—because one doesn't like the way the other plays bridge?”

“Human nature's about the same that it always was,” said Pat, with the same air of reserve which seemed to put a barrier between them. “When a man insults you, it isn't much trouble to cross the Channel if you don't want to get mixed up with the law of your own country.”

“Still, I can't help thinking that—that” Norah faltered.

“Don't think any more about it at all. It does no good, only harm—to us both.”

“Think!” she broke out desperately. “I think every minute, day and night. It's never out of my mind for a second. If that man dies, I”

“You have nothing to do with it,” her brother answered almost coldly. “And if you must think about the thing, think only what Uncle Edward and everybody else who knows you and me, thinks now, and will always think.”

It seemed to Norah that Pat laid careful emphasis upon that word “always”; but, when she glanced up at him searchingly, his eyes were turned away.

Tears sprang to hers.

“I can't bear it, Pat,” she sobbed, in a choked voice. “How can we go on like this—you and I? If there's a secret—you might tell me. I—there are things that are hard to say, but if there is something, and we could talk”

“We can't,” Pat cut in sharply. “Let it alone, Noll. Don't make things worse for me. I've got about all I can do with comfortably.”

“Forgive me, dear,” the girl whispered, winking away her tears with her long eyelashes. “I won't say any more.”

Perhaps he was right. There was a thing which she could not tell him, for his own sake—unless, somehow, he drew it out, as she had hoped he might. In that way the truth might have been known without painful explanations. But if Pat had a secret, and she was forced to keep hers, she must just bear it—perhaps as long as she lived. “As long as I live,” she repeated to herself. “Why, how odd I've got to go on living, though this is the end of the world!

“What will become of us both?” she asked aloud. “Can't we go away together, to Ireland perhaps, and live—live things down together? I've got heaps of money from selling the pearls—the pearls poor little mother left for me, you know. I was sure she'd think it right for me to sell them, because it's partly for you. And I've sold the diamond tiara, too—I should never have worn it. So we're quite rich. I”

“You oughtn't to have done that, Noll,” Pat interrupted, “I wouldn't have let you, if”

“Oh, that's why I didn't tell you beforehand. But I wanted money so much, in case things went wrong, and you were sure they would, so I didn't wait. I'm glad I didn't, now! Of course Uncle Edward was furious when I would come up to town to be near you, instead of hiding myself with him in Warwickshire, and naturally I couldn't expect a penny from him, I'd only enough to pay my fare here, and perhaps a day's board at this wretched place, where I can hide far more easily than at Gray Court. So the first thing I did was to go to Bond Street and bargain—oh, I did bargain, I can tell you!—though, really, the people were quite good, and perfectly honest, of course. They gave me five hundred pounds. Just think of it, Pat—five hundred pounds—the one bright spot in the dark. We can live on it for years, can't we, in some little out-of-the-way place, where we could take a cottage, and I could do the cooking? We wouldn't need any servants, and I'd make my own clothes. Don't you think” But Pat's face made her break off in discouragement. “Why wouldn't it work?” she asked desperately.

“Do you suppose for a moment, my dear child, that I'd live anywhere on your poor little money?”

“Why not? It's yours as much as mine. Well, then, we might go to America—for I know you'll hate England if—if you're out of the army, my darling. You could find something to do there—oh, lots of things. You could be an army coach, or a riding master; or teach fencing, you're so splendid at that” She stopped suddenly, seeing his face change. That last suggestion had been unfortunate. It opened a wound not healed yet, a wound which could never heal, if a man now lying in France should die. “I'm sure I could get an engagement as a governess,” she hurried on. Then, seeing no answering light in her brother's eyes, she said humbly “But perhaps you have some other plan?”

He did not answer for a moment. Then he said, with that new gravity of a which made him seem older than she:

“Yes, I have a plan. I've been thinking it over for days—ever since it came into my head, the night I was sure Uncle Edward didn't mean to speak a good word for me, and that my career was finished. It means our parting, Noll, but that's the best thing that could happen to you. Uncle Edward's fond of you in his queer, frozen way. You're useful to him, too. When he's rid of me things will right themselves between you. Not that you'll forget me. Rather not. I should hate to think you could; and I'll remind you of my existence by writing no end of letters.”

Norah had grown very pale.

“Letters from—where?” she asked quietly.

“From Southern Algeria, I hope. That's what I mean to try for. It's out now. My plan's to enlist in the Foreign Legion. At least I'd have adventure, plenty of life and action to help me forget. And I was born a soldier, Noll. A soldier I must be, or rust. Since my own country doesn't want me, another will take me gladly enough, I know, and ask no questions. They never do ask any in the Foreign Legion, I've heard fellows say who know. If you're young and strong it's all they care about. You may be a thief or a murderer, and, if you choose to call yourself Smith or Jones, they won't bother to try and find out if you're really Brown. Oh, it's an opportunity cut out for me, and I've made up my mind to take it as soon as I can.”

All her life Norah Lassels had tried to make it a rule never to urge her brother not to do things he wanted to do, or to do things he wanted not to do. But now, with her whole soul she yearned to persuade Pat into giving up this plan of his.

“I don't know much about the Foreign Legion,” she said heavily, “except that it's French, and that it's stationed in different parts of Africa. But I've read stories—and they make it seem as if the life were awful—not life at all, but a kind of living death. If they accept thieves and murderers you'd have to associate with them”

“If Prevali dies, that's what Uncle Edward and lots of other good people will call me—a murderer.”

“Oh, don't—don't speak like that. You wouldn't be. You only defended yourself. And maybe he won't die.”

“In some ways it will be better if he does. And—I can't regret what I did. It seems to me still it was the only thing.”

Pat was speaking to himself more than to her; and again the shadow of the secret rose between them. He saw it, and pushed it away, changing the subject quickly.

“Don't be afraid of any such thing. Already I've been informing myself what to do. Southern Algeria is the place I want to get to. The desert has always fascinated me in books—and it's healthy enough there. I believe if you're a desirable sort of person, whom they think likely to make a good soldier, they humor you a bit in the beginning, before they're quite sure of you, and let you take your choice where to go. Besides, I shan't have the hardships and humiliations some fellows go through. Uncle Edward has offered to pay up my debts once for all if I'll get out of his sight and never come back to trouble his virtuous and important existence. He even volunteered, in his astonishing generosity, to give me enough money for a third-class ticket to America. Splendid of him, wasn't it? Well, I didn't accept that offer, though I did the first, for the tradespeople's sake. Rather hard on them to let my pride do them out of their money! I've told him I'd go—somewhere. The rest is my business, not his. And I'm like you. I've two or three things I can sell. Don't look so sick, child! Roughing it a little will do me good, and take my mind off myself. Then, there's a place called Bel Abbès, the great recruiting town of Africa for the Foreign Legion. I've been reading about it; seems to be somewhere between Algiers and Biskra. I'll turn up there and offer my services to France. As soon as everything's settled, and I know what's going to become of me, I'll write to you.”

“Yes, you'll write at once, and let me know where you're to be,” Norah said, in the quiet tone which rather worried him. For he knew the girl too well not to be sure of the storm in her heart.

“You're a thoroughbred, dear,” he said gratefully. “I was sure you'd see me through.”

“Thank you, boy,” she answered. “Yes. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to see you through, whatever happens.”

He held out his arms, and she threw herself into them. Neither spoke for a little while, but the silence of each comforted the other. And Norah did not think it necessary to mention that her way of “seeing him through” was not to be exactly his way.

Norah Lassels let her brother leave England supposing that she meant to gather up the dropped threads of her life again, and go on weaving the old pattern. He had enough to trouble him without worrying about her, she reminded herself, when she was tempted to speak out what was in her heart for the future. All she told him at last was that she could not go back to Lord Grayminster's house.

“I wouldn't say anything to bother you before, but now I must, on account of letters,” she confessed, as they were bidding each other good-by at the railway station, two lonely young people in a crowd who passed them by unnoticed. “Uncle Edward forbade me to come and be with you in town, and when I would he said I'd forfeited my right to a home with him. 'Under his roof' were the words he used. So like him! Can't you hear his voice, and see how his eyes looked? Very likely if I begged and crawled, he'd deign to reconsider. Probably he'd say, 'I will forgive, though I can never forget.' That would be like him, too. One always knows he'll be stereotyped, whatever happens.”

“Yes; potted phrases.” Pat smiled grimly. “He invariably has one on a shelf, ready to hand.”

“But I don't want his thin old forgiveness!” went on Norah. “I should know just what it meant: that, as you told me, I was useful to him in a way. So I've made up my mind to live with dear old Pobble. You'll be peaceful in your mind about me there, won't you?”

“Yes,” Pat answered. For “Pobble” was Miss Pobblethwaite, Norah's last and best-loved governess, who had adored sister and brother, and been adored by them. She had left her beloved pupil only because Lord Grayminster had decided that it was a useless expense keeping on a governess after a girl was eighteen.

“There's just one more thing,” said Norah. “You've told me that you mean to take another name. Have you made up your mind what it's to be? I wish you would, without waiting, because whatever it is I want to take it, too.”

“I see,” Pat answered. “No, I hadn't made up my mind. I hadn't thought about it. My idea was to give any name that flitted through my mind when the time came. You're sure you are willing to sacrifice any little kudos you may have through being the Honorable Norah Lassels?”

“Sure,” she returned heartily. “Thank goodness, we're neither of us snobs, whatever else we may be that's stupid. I want to be your sister, and nothing else. So if you're Patrick Smith, I'm Norah Smith.”

Pat laughed. “Choose our name for us. Something a little more interesting than Smith.”

Norah thought a moment.

“Luck,” she said. “It may bring us some, who knows?”

“Heaven knows we need it!” he mumbled. “All right. Luck it is. I wonder how they'll pronounce it in the Foreign Legion?”

Then they said good-by, and Norah kept back her tears, though it seemed that her heart was breaking. Pat was gone from her, forever it might be, swallowed up in the great dark sea of their common misfortune. And Norah went, as she had planned, to live with Miss Pobblethwaite, who was delighted to have her. But the kind old maid would have been still more delighted if Norah had not warned her that the visit would be short.

“Pat doesn't know,” the girl explained. “It would only have worried him horribly; but as soon as I hear where he's likely to be, I'm going to live as near as possible to him. He shan't hear anything about it till I'm there. Then I'll wire him, and you can be sending me on letters which may be arriving while I'm on my journey,”

“How could you live in any such outlandish country?” Miss Pobblethwaite wailed. “A girl, alone, with hardly any money?”

“I wouldn't be alone. I'd get something to do,” Norah said. “Algiers, for instance, can't be so very outlandish. I'm sure I could find work of some sort there. Meantime, while I was looking about, I'd have enough to live on economically; and I'd have the comfort of knowing that if anything happened to Pat I wouldn't be almost at the other end of the world.”

By and by Pat's first letter came to Rose Bank. A blurred postmark, which seemed outlandish to Pobble, was on the envelope, but inside the address was clear. Pat had carried out the plan he had unfolded to his sister, the day when he first broke the news to her of what he meant to do. So far there had been no hitch. He was at Sidi Bel Abbès, the great recruiting station of Algeria for the Foreign Legion. He had been accepted without a question, except such official questions as could be answered as he pleased. He was now a Legionnaire, or rather a “bleu,” as every new recruit was nicknamed by the old soldiers. His number was twenty-eight thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven. It was printed on a card over his bunk in the big dormitory, together with the name of Patrick Luck, which was, by the way, a mere detail, and did not matter. Henceforth he would be known by his number. And Norah was not to be miserable about him. To be sure, accommodation was rather rough, and his new comrades were rougher, but there were two or three gentlemen in his company of the First Battalion of the Legion, and more than two or three characters who promised to be interesting. Everybody was more or less decent to him, and of course he was putting on no airs.

Altogether it was a cheerful letter, but the girl read between the lines. And she had bought every book that she could find about the famous Foreign Legion. There were chapters in those books so terrible that she grew sick and could hardly read to the end. For this very reason she was all the more anxious to go out to Algeria and be within reasonable distance of her brother.

Through Miss Pobblethwaite, who knew some of the “cathedral set,” a letter of introduction was got for Miss Norah Luck to the British consul at Algiers. It stated, on the authority of an archdeacon, who had been told the real story, that Miss Luck was an extremely well-connected and accomplished young person, suitable for the position of private secretary, companion, or governess for advanced pupils. She understood typewriting and shorthand—the girl had learned both at the instigation of Lord Grayminster, who saved a salary by employing her as an unpaid secretary; she spoke French fluently; German, Italian, and Spanish a little. Her musical ability was excellent. She was competent, if desired, to teach singing, the piano, the harp, and—a poor little frivolous accomplishment which the archdeacon hesitated to mention—the banjo. Also she was well grounded in Latin, had a little knowledge of Greek, and was a fair mathematician.

It did seem, with such a recommendation as this, that Miss Luck ought to find something to do; but, as the archdeacon felt bound to point out, it all depended upon the demand. Algiers, so far as its floating population was concerned, might be called a pleasure place.

Miss Luck went to Algiers by ship, traveling second-class, not only to save money, which was a great object, but because Pat had traveled second-class; and, even if she could have afforded it, she would have refused any luxury that he had not had.

If she had been happier, the wonderful white jewel of a town, set in green jade, would have thrilled her with its beauty at first sight. The very smell of it was the smell of the East, though it was but Eastern because Arabia had come to it, and long ago made it as Arabian as some fabulous place in the Thousand and One Nights. But she was too much preoccupied by her brother's affairs and her own to put her soul to appreciating the old, wild, pirate city, only half civilized by the French.

Now that she was comparatively near him, she longed more than ever to see Pat; but she dared not let him know what she had done, until she could add to her confession a satisfactory statement of her circumstances. She wanted to be able to say: “I've got a nice, comfortable engagement, and am perfectly safe as well as a thousand times happier than I could be in England, with you in Algeria.” Until she could say that, she preferred to let Pat believe her to be with Pobble at Rose Bank.

The consul was kind, but not optimistic. He was afraid that Miss Luck might have difficulty in finding any sort of an engagement. Of course he would do his best, mentioning her to people and all that. Also, she had better advertise at once, and, if she got replies, she could come and show them to him. So Norah advertised in a French and an English paper published in the town.

One morning, after a night spent less in dreaming than in wondering what to do for the best, there was a letter for Miss Norah Luck, an answer to her advertisement. A French gentleman, Monsieur Duprez, a playwright, who wished to put one of his own plays into English, needed a secretary, and would be glad if Miss Luck could call between ten and eleven in the morning at the Villa Saïda, Rue Sidi Abderrahman. If she were able to fill his requirements she would receive a generous salary, which could be discussed between them.

Norah was enchanted. She thought it delightful to be secretary to a playwright; and, as it was already late, she was tempted to call at once at the Villa Saïda, instead of asking the consul's advice, as he had suggested. She even started toward the Rue Sidi Abderrahman, to which the concierge directed her, but something made her turn. It was as if a hand touched her sleeve, and a voice whispered: “It will make a difference in your whole life if you call on the consul with that letter.”

She turned back, and went to the consulate, only to find that office hours had not yet begun. But she was not alone in her mistake. A man had arrived the moment before her, and, seeing that she was hesitating whether to go away or wait, he spoke:

“The consul will certainly be here in four or five minutes. I have an appointment with him.”

The voice was American, a pleasant American voice from one of the Southern States. Norah glanced up and met the man's eyes. They were dark, and twinkled good-naturedly. She thought that he must be about thirty-six; and that seemed rather old to her. Also she thought that he looked extremely clever, as if he would know all about everything in the world, and exactly what to do in an emergency; and, though his clothes were good and well made, he had the air of not caring what he wore.

“Thank you,” she said, “I'd like to wait, but—but I'm in a hurry. I have an engagement a long way off, and I'm afraid of missing it.”

“Well, I'd chance it and wait, if you'll allow me to advise you,” said the American. “Young ladies don't, as a rule, call on consuls before ten o'clock in the morning unless it's something important.”

“It is important to me, though not to him,” Norah admitted, because somehow one couldn't help talking to this stranger as if one knew him. He was not particularly good-looking, nevertheless it occurred to the girl that he had one of the nicest faces she had ever seen. “I want to ask his advice,” she went on, laughing a little. “I suppose only about a hundred other people want the same thing every day.”

“Why, that's what men are for, to do what they can for women,” smiled the American. He was almost handsome when he smiled, he had such nice white teeth, and such a good mouth, with no mustache to hide it. “Especially consuls,” he added.

“Well, if he doesn't come, I must do without the advice, anyway,” Norah said, with an impatient sigh. “I may lose an engagement by waiting only a few minutes longer, because there are probably others who want it. And I don't know the street. If I get lost trying to find my way”

“If you're in a hurry, perhaps you'd be kind enough to allow my chauffeur to drive you where you want to go, while I'm here doing my business with the consul, who is an old acquaintance of mine,” suggested the American. “You can just as well have my man as not, because he'd only be kicking his heels waiting here for me. Now, please don't refuse. I see by your face that's what you're thinking of doing, and it will hurt my feelings if you do it.”

“I—I couldn't—I really couldn't trouble” stammered the girl, who was still very ignorant of life, when it must be lived alone. She hardly knew how to take such an attention from a stranger whom she had never seen five minutes ago.

“It's pretty hard to trouble an American,” he laughed. “You see, I want you to have time to wait and talk to the consul. If a girl needs advice, I guess she ought to have it.”

“Very well, I will wait, and I will accept your kindness,” said Norah impulsively. “That is—if he comes soon. But something may have happened to detain him.”

“I hope not,” replied the American. But the minutes passed on, and the consul did not appear.

“I must go!” the girl exclaimed. “Even if you lend me your motor; for I can't afford” She stopped abruptly. She must not blurt out all her private worries to this good-natured stranger.

“Well, that's too bad,” he said, in his nice Southern tones, which were slow, yet somehow not lazy. He was not smiling now. His face looked very grave indeed. “I'm just delighted to lend you the auto. But—I wonder if you'd think me impertinent and interfering if I asked you one question? Honor bright, I don't mean to be.”

“I'm sure you could not be either,” returned Norah. “What would you like to ask me?”

“It's kind of hard to explain, now I begin to try,” said the American. “But—do you believe in instinct?”

It was strange that he should put that question.

“Yes, I do,” she answered.

“Well, so do I. And my instinct is saying to me something like this: Here's a young lady who wants to take an important step, and she feels she ought to ask the advice of a man she can trust, before she takes it. Another thing it's saying is: That the young lady oughtn't to go off all alone and perhaps do something she'd regret, without having the advice to rely on. Now, I'm not a consul, and the young lady hasn't known me more than a quarter of an hour. But I am a man, and I'm a good deal older and more experienced than she. So now you know what my question was: Will you ask my advice, as a sort of understudy of the consul—that is, of course, unless it's a private affair you can only speak about to a friend?”

“It isn't a secret at all,” said Norah, smiling, and feeling her heart warm with gratitude to the unconventional stranger. “And the consul isn't my friend. I've only met him once on a letter of introduction. But he said, if I got any answers to an advertisement I put in the papers, I might come and speak to him. It was an advertisement for work, and now I've received what sounds like a good offer—if I can suit. That's all. And I don't suppose you live in Algiers, do you, or know much about the French people here?”

“I spend some time in Africa every year,” he said, “often making Algiers a center while I do some running about in my motor. Most likely you never heard my name; but those who are interested in moldering old Roman ruins and various other antiquities have generally heard it. It's Paul Winthrop. And though I come to Algeria and Tunisia to see things and dig up things, not people, I know something about them, too. Have you got a letter from the person who wants to employ you, and would you let me see it?”

Without a word, Norah handed him the letter, and in silence he read it. When he finished, he said, ““H'm!” and nothing more, staring at the paper.

“You don't think I ought to go?” ventured Norah shyly.

“I think you mustn't go—not alone, anyhow,” the American answered. “Here comes the consul now. He'll send some one to interview this French gentleman who wants a secretary.”

A moment later Mr. Paul Winthrop was being properly introduced to Miss Luck. The consul was rather nonplused [sic] at the suggestion which was made to him. Doubtless it would be imprudent for Miss Luck to go alone to the Villa Saïda, but unfortunately he was late—had been detained, and had an exceptionally busy morning before him, otherwise he would be delighted to accompany her himself. As it was, if Miss Luck could wait

“She doesn't want to wait for fear the place may be worth having, and it may be snapped out of her mouth by somebody else,” Mr. Winthrop explained hastily. “But see here. Am I the sort of person you could recommend to help Miss Luck out in this little business? Can you vouch for me to her, I mean?”

The consul laughed. “If I had a million pounds, and twenty daughters or sisters, I'd trust them to you,” he replied.

“That's all right, then,” exclaimed Winthrop joyously. “Then I'll go with Miss Luck if she'll have me. And we'll not waste any more of her time.”

Almost before Norah knew what had happened she found herself spinning through the shady streets of the French part of Algiers, in the motor car of a man whom she had never seen half an hour ago. And the man himself was beside her in the car.

The Villa Saïda was discovered, after some inquiries, in the direction of Mustapha Superieure. It was new, and large, and built according to some tasteless Frenchman's idea of the Arab style.

Monsieur Duprez was expecting a lady, and would receive her in his private sitting room, said the Algerian-French manservant. But the gentleman? He was not expected, perhaps? Would he like to wait for mademoiselle in the salon?

No, Mr. Winthrop returned in very good French, he would accompany mademoiselle. He was her agent, and would send his card to Monsieur Duprez.

The servant was embarrassed. His instructions had been to bring Miss Luck, if she called, at once to the sitting room of Monsieur Duprez; but her companion suggested some hitch in the program, and it seemed tactful to let both wait in the public salon while the situation was hastily explained to Monsieur Duprez.

Winthrop did not sit down, but walked about, ostensibly looking at the gaudy, imitation Arab decorations, and upon his face was a curious expression. Privately he thought it not improbable that his visiting card might make a sudden and complete change in the arrangements of the French playwright, and already he was hastily planning for Miss Luck's future benefit. Perhaps he thought Monsieur Duprez would go so far as to send word that Miss Luck had come too late; that he had engaged another secretary, and that it was unnecessary to see her at all. But at the end of five minutes the door opened, and a dark, small, somewhat Jewish-looking man stepped briskly into the room.

The newcomer, who had black eyes as bright as a rat's, deep set on either side of a large nose, fastened his look with extraordinary keenness and interest on Norah. It struck Winthrop, who was watching him closely, that this look of the Frenchman's had more in it than curiosity, or even admiration of a pretty girl. There was, or seemed to be, no suggestion in it of the elderly philanderer who had hoped for an agreeable flirtation with his secretary. It was almost as if he recognized, and was excitedly glad to recognize, a face he had expected to see. But, glancing quickly at Miss Luck, Winthrop assured himself that she had never seen the man before.

Monsieur Duprez was extremely polite. He did not let himself show any annoyance at the presence of Miss Luck's “agent,” if he felt it. Indeed, he addressed himself mostly to Mistaire Winthrop, in English that was correct, if stilted. He needed an English secretary, and had been delighted to see Miss Luck's advertisement. It seemed that she would be exactly the person for whom he was looking. He would consider himself fortunate to secure her services if she had any skill with the typewriter; and, as his English was not quite all he desired, she could be of assistance if he hit upon the wrong word. Would Mees Luck and Mistaire Winthrop go with him to his own sitting room, where mademoiselle could try his typing machine? He hoped it was of the make to which she was accustomed. If not, another might be obtained.

Altogether, there was nothing to find fault with in the manner of Monsieur Duprez. And in his sitting room was a table littered with the manuscripts of a play in French. Winthrop had to admit that the man appeared to be genuine, and began to be afraid that he could find no reason for advising Miss Luck not to accept the situation of secretary.

While she showed Monsieur Duprez a sample of her work, sitting at the typewriter, looking very pretty and graceful as she tapped the keys, Winthrop took up a sheet of the manuscript. He knew that this was not “good form,” but in the circumstances he did not care. He wanted to see that play of Monsieur Duprez's, and he wanted to see what Monsieur Duprez would do if he looked at it.

Though the Frenchman was bending over Miss Luck, he saw instantly what the American was doing. One of his lightning glances told him, though he did not move his head. Then slowly he turned, as if to take up a leaf of the scattered manuscript and give it to the girl. He allowed himself to see that her “agent” was reading his play. Politely, even good-naturedly, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, monsieur, I beg your pardon,” he said in French. “I am desolated, but really I fear that I must beg of you not to read my poor work. It is a foolish fad, no doubt, but I am superstitious about having strangers see a line of my manuscript before it is completed. For mademoiselle it is different, of course, for she is, I hope, to be my assistant. I am climbing the ladder, so I have my fears and fancies. You will pardon them, and put down that paper, I am sure.”

Winthrop put it down instantly, apologizing for his thoughtlessness. And as Monsieur Duprez explained his little superstition, Winthrop's eyes had been busy. In one long, sweeping glance, he had taken in almost every word on the small page. A dramatic situation was in process of development, and about that situation there seemed something oddly familiar.

Was Monsieur Duprez a plagiarist? Or had he begun copying out an old melodrama—so old that a young girl was unlikely to have seen, or heard of it?

If the second supposition were true, what did it mean? Winthrop said to himself that the explanation might be very sinister indeed—and very subtle.

“The man is like a detective,” he said to himself. “Yet why should a detective want to get a sweet, simple girl like this into his clutches?”

“Miss Luck will suit me excellently, I can see,” remarked the playwright. “I offer four hundred francs for a month's work, four hours a day only; two in the morning, two in the afternoon. And it may be for a longer time, at the same salary, for I shall probably write a new comedy while I am in Algiers—where I come for my health.”

It was very good pay, and Norah was minded to accept instantly, but Winthrop broke in before she could speak.

“Miss Luck is my client,” he said. “She has commissioned me to look after her business interests, therefore she allows me to answer for her; and my decision is this; that she must have till this evening to think over your offer. She had hoped for an engagement to last the whole season, and though it is desirable in some ways for”

“I am sure it will be difficult to do better,” the Frenchman interrupted, “if mademoiselle really wishes for work. And it may be that I can give her employment during the season.”

“In that case it might be different,” said Winthrop. “But in any case she will let you know this evening before eight.”

Duprez flushed, and his eyes sparkled, though he controlled his features and voice.

“But I have other applicants,” he objected.

“Miss Luck wouldn't wish you to lose a good chance through her,” Winthrop drawled in his Southern voice. “You are free to engage some one else if you prefer.”

Monsieur Duprez bit his lip; then bowed submissively.

“Each one of us will send the other word,” he said, as he escorted his guests downstairs, and saw them to the door, his eyes dwelling with curiosity on the motor car and smart chauffeur. He watched the automobile round the corner; then, running upstairs as lithely as a boy, he wrote out a long telegram in cipher.

“Oh, Mr. Winthrop, I must accept this offer!” exclaimed Norah, almost pleadingly, as if he really had a right to help her decide.

“Do you like the man?” Winthrop asked.

“No-o. I don't think I do. Though he was polite and kind. He—he looks so like a rat. But what does it matter how he looks?”

Winthrop did not answer. He was thinking, and his eyebrows were drawn together in a frown.

“How would you like to go to Tunis?” he asked suddenly. “And be a sort of governess to two young Arab girls—girls of good family, intelligent and charming, I imagine, though of course I haven't seen them. I know the father slightly, however, and a cousin the elder girl's engaged to. You know—or maybe you don't know—that though Tunis is a great deal more Eastern and unspoiled than Algiers, curiously enough, the women there are making a move toward freedom, which isn't at all the case in Algiers. From what young Mahmoud Bel Hassan has told me about his people, I'm pretty sure you'd like his cousins, and the life might amuse you. I could get the chance for you, I know, because Bel Hassan has told me that his uncle is looking for a French or English lady to talk languages with the girls and teach them European music. Will you let me telegraph to him in Tunis?”

“Why do you feel so strongly that I oughtn't to go to Monsieur Duprez?” Norah asked abruptly, looking straight up into Winthrop's eyes.

“It's difficult to explain,” he said. “I hardly know myself. But—I feel there's something underhand about the man—something snaky and sly. If it weren't almost impossible, I should say he was a detective.”

To the American's surprise, Miss Luck blushed so painfully that tears were forced to her eyes.

Monsieur Duprez a detective! It would have been difficult to suggest an idea more alarming to Norah Lassels.

Her mind flew to the secret which she had kept from Pat—the secret that perhaps he knew, and, knowing, held back one of his own from her.

Winthrop was startled by the effect of his words, and regretted them.

“I'm sorry if I've frightened you,” he said. “I guess I was very stupid to put such a thought into your head. But that French play the fellow wanted you to translate for him, I don't believe it was his own at all. I read a page, and I'll eat my hat if it wasn't a thing I saw in America—done over from the French—when I was a boy. I believe it was old even then. I know it was called 'Forget-me-Not,' and was a great success. It must have been forgotten by the time you were born; but it made an impression on me. You saw how worried he was when I picked up a page? I bet he was afraid I might be old enough to recognize it. Now, if I am right about this thing, the question is, why should he engage a secretary at a good salary to translate ancient history like that, pretending it was a play he'd written?”

“Because—because,” Norah stammered a little, “it would be easy to explain if—he were a detective.”

“What on earth could a detective want with you?” Winthrop could not help blurting out.

Then he was sorry he had spoken. Miss Luck was answering him.

“There is a reason why one might have been sent to look for me, and” She stopped short, remembering herself in time. “Only it seems such a sensational thing, like people do in books. I shouldn't have thought it would have been worth his—worth any one's expense and trouble. Still—you may be right, and I'm very glad you warned me. I wouldn't go to Monsieur Duprez for anything now, if he offered me ten times the money, for fear he is what you say. And though I came out to Algiers for a special reason, and wanted to stay for awhile, you've made me feel that I'd like to go away now as soon as possible—but to a place not too distant. I'm afraid I'm stupid about the geography of this part of the world. Is—is Tunis far away from Sidi Bel Abbès?”

Winthrop was again surprised. What interest could this English girl—he supposed her English—have in Bel Abbès?

He knew the place, not only because it was one of the most important recruiting stations of the French Colonial army, but because it was also important historically, and history was his hobby. He longed to ask her the question, yet could not. But Norah, grateful for his kindness, and not wishing to seem too mysterious, decided to explain a little, since she could see no reason why she should not.

“There is a person whom I care for very much in the Foreign Legion,” she said rather shyly. “He's at Sidi Bel Abbès now, though he writes that he may leave there almost any time. I came to Africa on account of him; at least, to be in the same country. So now you can understand that I don't want to be too far off.”

For some strange reason or other Winthrop's heart went down. There was no reason whatever for this, in common sense; but from feeling decidedly happy, and a good deal excited, he suddenly lost interest in life. The glorious Algerian sunlight looked cold and faded. He was taking Miss Luck back to the consulate, not to her hotel, as the consul had asked to hear the result of the interview with Duprez, and Winthrop had been boyish enough to mumble in the chauffeur's ear on leaving the Villa Saïda: “Go the longest way round.” Now he thought what a fool he had been. Winthrop saw down into his own mind, and knew that he was jealous of “the person” for whom Miss Luck confessed to “caring very much.”

“Bel Abbès is farther from Tunis than from Algiers,” he told her. “But if you cared to—would you—do you think you could see your friend if”

“Oh, no,” Norah exclaimed. “I don't expect to see him. He doesn't even know yet that I'm in Africa. He mustn't know until I've found a safe refuge of some sort, and can write him about it. Then he won't have to worry.”

Winthrop was faintly relieved. “Well, if you feel that you'd like to leave Algiers,” he said, “I do honestly believe you couldn't do better than take this position I've been talking about. Shall I wire?”

Norah thought only for an instant, and said: “Yes. Thank you a thousand times—for that and for everything!”

“Don't thank me till I deserve your thanks,” he replied. “And even then, they'll be due, I'm sure, from Sidi Ferid El Khadra and his two beautiful daughters, for sending them a treasure.”

Norah had to laugh at that. “If you've never seen them, how do you know they're beautiful?”

“My friend, Mahmoud Bel Hassan, who is decidedly French, and modern in his ideas about his countrywomen, even his cousins, has told me that his fiancée and her sister, who are heiresses, are supposed to be the two most beautiful girls in Tunis and in all the country round. That's saying a good deal; for Arab girls, when they are pretty, are lovely; and the Tunisiennes are particularly celebrated for their beauty. I suppose there's Greek blood in many of them. These two—your future pupils—are only sixteen and seventeen. The elder is the one engaged to the cousin, and young men cousins are often allowed to come and go in a family where there are girls, like brothers. That's been the case with Si Mahmoud, and he's desperately in love with his Laila. The other girl is called Ourïeda, which means 'little rose.'”

Norah's spirits were improving, as Winthrop had hoped they would. But his own were still depressed, and he tried to believe that it was only because he was sorry that so charming a creature should throw away her love on a wild Legionnaire.

“There are three ways to get to Tunis,” he said. “By rail from Algiers, or by ship, which is more interesting—and by motor. Of course, it's just on the cards, if I'm right about Duprez, that if you go by rail or sea, you may find him on the same train or the same boat.”

Norah grew pink and then pale. If Duprez were a detective it must mean that Constantine Prevali was not going to die. She was thankful for that; but it was terrifying to think that he might have paid some one to follow her here to Algiers, where she had taken another name, not dreaming that any one except Pobble was in the secret. It frightened her to think that, if Duprez were employed by Prevali, a very elaborate plan had been made to bring her into association with him every day for weeks. She wondered if Duprez had meant to keep her under his eye, working for him, until Constantine Prevali were well enough to come out to Algiers. Instinctively she felt that this probably had been the idea, and again she seized thankfully at the thought of her escape. She owed it all to Mr. Winthrop, she reminded herself; and her heart warmed to him as it never had to a stranger, while he went on, almost timidly, suggesting that she might go to Tunis in his car.

“You'd be well chaperoned, of course,” he hurried to explain. “The consul is an old acquaintance of mine, and his wife, too. Very likely she'd enjoy the trip, with a cousin who's staying with them now. If not, she'll know of some nice married woman who'll be glad of the chance of a little motor tour through interesting country. We'll fix it up this morning, and get off the first thing to-morrow. That way Duprez can't know where you're going, even if he's spying around when you start.”

Winthrop would not let Miss Luck walk back to her hotel when she was ready to leave the consulate. Her address had been given in the advertisement, an indiscretion which she regretted now, therefore she was not safe from Duprez if he chose to be intrusive.

“Don't see him if he calls on you this afternoon,” the American advised. “He may make some plausible excuse, but don't be drawn. Keep him on tenter hooks as to whether you're going to engage with him or not, and at the last moment send a messenger to say you regret you're unable, and so on. Let the message be verbal. I wouldn't write him if I were you. He might use a letter or telegram in some way you wouldn't like.”

Instantly Norah thought of a way in which she would not at all like a letter of hers to be used. Duprez might forward it to Constantine Prevali. And hastily she promised Winthrop to carry out all his suggestions.

Duprez did call in the afternoon, sending his card with “urgent need to see you for a moment,” written upon it in English, which the hotel servant who brought it up could not read. Her heart beating, in fear of she scarcely knew what, Norah answered that, unfortunately, she was not feeling able to leave her room, but would let Monsieur Duprez hear from her without fail that evening, when nothing more happened until a note came from Winthrop inclosing a telegram from Tunis.

Miss Luck's services were eagerly accepted. It was hoped she would arrive soon to take up her duties. And in his hurriedly written letter Winthrop told her that “it was all fixed up.” The consul's wife and cousin would be her traveling companions in his car, and when they had seen Tunis would be sent back in it, for he himself was going to do some work at Carthage. Would Miss Luck be ready to start at half-past eight in the morning?

In the evening, just after she had dispatched her messenger to the Villa Saïda, the post arrived. There was a fat envelope from England, addressed to Miss Luck, in Pobble's handwriting. Inside, folded up in a half sheet of paper, well scribbled over by Miss Pobblethwaite, was another envelope with an Algerian postmark ten days old.

Pat wrote to his dear little Noll at Rose Bank, to tell her that he was leaving immediately with the Eleventh Company of the First Battalion for the border of Morocco, where there had been a “little trouble that must be put down,” unless it were all over by the time the Legion got there. “Thank Heaven. I may come in for some fighting!” said Pat, too excited over the prospect to remember that his girl twin might not rejoice with him.

Norah dropped the letter on her lap, and, covering her face with her hands, cried bitterly.

“If he should be killed!” she sobbed. “And I should never see him again! Everything I've done is all in vain—I've traveled—so far—so far! And I want him so much!”

She felt utterly forsaken and alone in the world. She would not even try to be brave, or glad that Pat might have his wish.

Nevertheless, nothing was altered for her. She must go to Tunis now. And nobody could help her in this new trouble, not even Mr. Winthrop.

A girl sat among cushions on a low, wide seat in the inner court or patio of a beautiful old house in Tunis.

It was a large and very beautiful patio, roofed only by the violet sky, though it was shaded by orange trees, which grew up out of flower beds, set at regular intervals round the fountain in the center of the green and rose-yellow-tiled terrace.

The walls of the patio were white, dazzling white as sunshine on snow; and all round it went a narrow gallery onto which the big door windows of the first story opened, the gallery floor, supported by delicately carved pillars, giving shade to seats let into the wall below, on the level of the terrace.

Beyond, nearer the entrance from the street, was another, larger patio, and on tiled seats there, slaves had sat in past days, waiting the orders of their master; but this inner, secret place—even in times before slavery was out of date—only female servants and eunuchs were allowed to enter, for it was sacred to the ladies of the household.

An old Persian rug, faded to misty rainbow tints, was spread over the porcelain tiles of the seat where the girl was curled up; and the cushions which made it soft for her were of elaborately embroidered velvet and quaintly patterned brocade silk of violently contrasted colors, such as Arabs love.

She was an Arab girl, and because she was in her own home, where strangers could not intrude, she had no veil, and her arms and neck were bare. She wore a low-cut blouse of rose-colored gauze, with a little sleeveless jacket of dove-colored silk, and her wide trousers were of the same pale gray. The sash wound round her waist was violet, and so were the pearl-sewn velvet slippers on her little gray silk-stockinged feet.

The negress, whose sole duty in life it was to serve this girl and the younger half-sister, had been washing Laila's hair, and it hung round her shoulders in a long, black, waveless veil. For a pure-blooded Arab she was fair, her skin being like old ivory faintly gilded, without a trace of color except in the lips, which were duskily pink, the tint known as old rose. Her eyebrows were very black, drawn low, and almost perfectly straight, in a delicate line above the long, wide-open dark eyes that had a topaz light in them.

This jeweled gleam, the black straightness of her brows, the slightly aquiline line of the pretty nose, and the fullness of the mouth gave a vague, curiously fascinating suggestion of cruelty to the beautiful young face, except when it smiled, and then it was altogether charming.

But Nouna, the Soudanese negress said sometimes in a whisper to her fellow servants: “Wait till our lovely golden eaglet is a little more fully fledged. Then, if ever she be thwarted in anything that touches her heart—beware! It will be the case of the fierce mother bird over again—thou wilt see!”

For the mother of Laila had been of the far south, the daughter of a desert sheik, in the wild country of the Algerian dunes beyond Touggourt. When Sidi Ferid El Khadra had tired a little of her, and taken a second wife—which he could do, as neither he nor she was of princely blood, though he was rich and well born—an awful thing had happened. No one outside had ever known what the thing was, for these harem tragedies are well hidden, but all the old servants of the household knew, and talked furtively among themselves sometimes, wondering if Laila had ever come upon any vague inkling of the truth.

That Ourïeda was absolutely ignorant, they were sure, for she was as light-hearted as a rosebud growing in the sun, except when she yearned for more freedom; but Laila had hours of strange depression, when her eyes seemed clouded with mystery and she would not speak. Since she had been engaged to marry her cousin, Sidi Mahmoud Bel Hassan, she had been better; but even now she had the air of brooding over something which could only be felt, never spoken. Still, she appeared to love her sister, and Ourïeda adored Laila.

It was a French novel that the girl was reading, and once in a while she glanced up quickly, ready to hide the book if necessary, for her father's sister, Lella Aïssa, disapproved of French novels, and everything French. Since the tragedy, almost sixteen years ago now, which had engulfed two beautiful young women in a single wave of fate, Ferid El Khadra had never cared to take another wife, but had brought into the house his widowed sister, to be a mother to both daughters. He himself was “advanced” in many of his ideas. El Khadra spoke French as well as he spoke Arabic, and better than he spoke Turkish.

When the two girls were little, they had been escorted by Soudanese servants every day to a French school, which they had enjoyed beyond all things; and while they had attended they had been the envy of their small friends, daughters of old-fashioned parents who despised French ways. Despite this “enlightenment,” however, when Laila was twelve and Ourïeda eleven, they had been promptly snatched away from school, and all the pleasant liberty enjoyed by Arab children of good birth. They were then to consider themselves no longer children, but young girls who would, in a very few years, be marriageable. They were given no more freedom except when at their father's country place, where they were generally taken for six or eight weeks in the summer. When they went out they were veiled, and in town were never allowed to walk. The blinds of their carriage when they drove were closed, save for tiny peep-holes; and they were jealously, almost fiercely, guarded by Lella Aïssa, their aunt, who was the very opposite of what modern “Frenchified” Tunisian women called “enlightened.” Nevertheless their lovely, childish faces, once seen by rich and noble young Arabs of Tunis, had not been forgotten since they were hidden in their father's harem; and, somehow, the rumor ran that Laila and Ourïeda, the two daughters of Sidi Ferid El Khadra, were the most beautiful girls in Tunis, as well as among the richest.

Suddenly, just as Laila had got to the most exciting part of her French novel, there came a sound of rustling leaves, and she covered up the book with her long hair, which she pretended to begin plaiting. But then, down at her feet fell a full-blown rose, breaking into pieces as it struck the pink-and-green pavement of the terrace.

Somebody laughed, and, looking up, Laila saw hanging down over the carved and painted cedar balustrade of the gallery above, a billow of hair almost twice as long, and more than twice as beautiful, as her own. It, too, had just been washed, and being so long and thick that it was hard to dry, a few drops of water were still dripping from the curly ends. A faint smell of roses came to Laila, for Nouna always washed the sisters' hair with rose water, which she distilled herself.

“Ourïeda!” the elder girl cried. “Come down if thou art ready. I want to talk to thee.”

She spoke in Arabic, though Ourïeda was fond of speaking French; and, according to Arab fashion, always said, “thee and thou.” No Arab ever uses the word “you,” even in addressing strangers or superiors.

“I, too, want to talk to thee,” cried the girl above; and in another minute she appeared, having run down the marble steps which descended into the patio from the floor above.

She was all in white and radiantly beautiful; so beautiful that beside her Laila looked almost plain. Ourïeda's mother had been a Greek girl, and some who remembered said that the resemblance was extraordinary. But El Khadra, who remembered only too well, said nothing. Only he loved Ourïeda with a great love, and was comparatively indifferent to Laila.

Ourïeda's wide trousers and thin blouse and tiny jacket were all white. Even her silk stockings and pearl-embroidered slippers were white, for she loved white better than any color, and would not be persuaded against it, although white is Arab mourning, and said to bring bad luck to a young girl.

Her skin was like a creamy rose, and her dark-brown hair, which hung down to her knees, had golden gleams on the tops of its waves. She had pink cheeks, and sweet, laughing lips of a prettier red than Laila's, almost coral. Her eyes were extraordinarily large, with long, curled lashes, which almost touched her eyebrows when she looked up, and, though she smiled a great deal, like a child who has never known trouble, there was a fatal expression about her small, oval face sometimes, when she was thoughtful or absent-minded; an expression which only those people have to whom the great tragedies or great joys of life are to come.

“Aunt Aïssa has been in talking to me while Nouna dried my hair,” said Ourïeda, sitting down by her sister. “She is very angry that the sidi, our father, is going to let us have this English lady for our institutrice. She says that the English are even worse than the French, and that we are to mark her words, great evil will come of it.”

“I know who will be disappointed if evil does not come,” returned Laila. “Aunt Aïssa.”

They both laughed, showing pretty little white teeth, as they looked into each other's eyes in appreciation of the small joke. Being young girls, not married women, they were not obliged, by Arab custom, to make up their faces, darken their eyes with kohl, or change the color of their hair with henna, so they were very fresh and charming to see, as they chatted together in low voices, and Laila showed to Ourïeda the yellow cover of her novel.

“Thou seest,” she said, “I am polishing up my French, that I may not disgrace myself with our English dame de compagnie.”

“Oh, so that is the only reason thou readest a French novel! If this be true, do not risk a scolding from Aunt Aïssa if she finds it, but talk to me instead. I love to speak French, thou knowest.”

Laila drew her eyebrows, slightly together.

“Thou sayest that because it pleases our father. As for me, it is no use trying to please him especially, because I cannot. He does not care that I am not 'advanced' in my thoughts, that I am almost as old-fashioned as Aunt Aïssa. Arab ways and the Arab language are good enough for me. And I do not let my thoughts go far outside the harem. I love the wearing of the veil; for it seems to me that in it lies our greatest charm for men. It is the mystery surrounding us which makes them love and long for us as they do.”

Ourïeda laughed. “If thou hast found out that they love and long for us, it must be from French novels. Surely it is not Cousin Mahmoud who has put the idea into thy head, for he is more advanced than my father; and when thou art married to him, if thou persuadest hard enough, I believe thou canst even induce him to let thee live European fashion, without a veil—as I should like to live.”

“And as I would not like to live, at all events, in Tunis, or anywhere in Islam,” answered Laila sharply, “because all respectable people would cut me and Mahmoud, and we should be a public disgrace. But if thou wouldst truly like such a life, why didst thou not make Mahmoud fall in love with thee, Ourïeda, instead of with me, when he came back from Paris to find us no longer children? Surely thou must think thou couldst have taken him if thou hadst wished, since thou hast so much more gift of winning love than I have. Every one tells thee so.”

Ourïeda blushed, and looked distressed. “Please do not say such things, sister, though, of course, it is only to tease me. Mahmoud adores thee.”

“Perhaps he does now,” Laila admitted. “I am talking of the first days. Oh, I know very well that I owe him to thee! My father, 'advanced' as he is, would not have consented to let him see us as he used to when we were children, if thou hadst not put forth all thy wiles and arts.”

“I have none,” said the younger girl. “I love our father, and he loves me, that is all.”

“Yes, that is all,” Laila echoed bitterly. “Well, now I have some one to love me, too—for the first time in my life, even though it is only Mahmoud.”

“Only Mahmoud!” Ourïeda repeated. “He is the handsomest and cleverest young man in Tunis.”

“Tunis is not the world.”

“It is our world. Even I think that, though thou sayest that I am 'advanced,' and that thou art not. Is it thy French novels which make thee talk so? And why, if thou lovest the Arabs and not the French, dost thou read their romances and dream of their men, when thou art engaged to thy Cousin Mahmoud?”

“Mahmoud is French in most of his ideas in these days.”

“Yet thou speakest of him slightingly. Is it for that?”

“Oh, thou art a child, Ourïeda! Thou knowest nothing of men or love—and nothing of life or even of thyself, or thy sister. Can a girl always give a reason for everything she feels, or says, or does?”

“No. But sometimes thou seemest strange to me—as if thou didst not care for me, though I love thee so much. I am glad that the English lady is coming—very glad. She will, perhaps, be kinder to me than thou art. And thou hast always Mahmoud.”

“Of course thou art glad. She is thy triumph. Didst thou not persuade the sidi to consent when Mahmoud came to say his American friend, Monsieur Winthrop, had telegraphed from Algiers?”

“It was but little to persuade our father, since he was pleased with the idea, and thought it a good plan.”

“Oh, thou madest him believe he thought so!”

“Dearest, do not quarrel,” said Ourïeda. “I am sad when thou art vexed with me, even when I cannot see that it is my fault.”

“Then let me go on reading my novel, and do thou get one of thine own, if thou choosest—or darest. I have come to a part when it is hard to stop. One woman is deadly jealous of another, and asks herself what she shall do. I know what I think she will do. But I want to make sure.”

“What a disagreeable story!” exclaimed Ourïeda.

Laila gave her a sharp look. “Didst thou never hear any in real life as disagreeable?” she asked slowly.

The younger girl shook her head, looking up at the wheeling doves of the Mosque of Sidi-Mahrez. “No one ever told me any disagreeable stories,” she said softly.

“I suppose not,” the elder muttered; and went back to her book. But she was thinking of a story she had heard, which concerned them both; a story of jealousy.

Ourïeda had no French novel to read, even if she had cared for one. Nouna smuggled them into the house for Laila, and the younger girl read them sometimes, more to keep up her French than anything else, for they made her rather sad. She was a very happy girl really, for every one was kind to her, and she loved her father dearly—her father, who was so austere with others that his affection for her was a great compliment. But she could not help the longing which these stories of European girls put into her head. She thought it must be wonderful to be treated by a man not only like an equal in intelligence, but even a superior being, to be bowed down to. The blind love of an Arab could never satisfy her, she was afraid—that love which made a mere doll of a wife, and loaded her with sweets and jewels.

Winthrop's car took Norah and her chaperons eastward from Algiers, through Constantine with its stupendous and historic gorge; past strange Arab towns where French soldiers were the only Europeans to be seen; through mountain country and yellow desert dunes, until at last they came into Tunis.

At first sight Norah was disappointed. On the way she had heard her new friends saying that Tunis was far more picturesque, far more unspoiled and romantically Eastern than Algiers.

But coming into the outskirts, all seemed French. There were great modern-looking boulevards, with smart shops and huge open-fronted restaurants and cafés, full of Europeans. It was late afternoon when they arrived, and Winthrop, who was driving, stopped the car in front of a big, white hotel.

“We'll have tea here,” he said, “and I'll send a note to Si Mahmoud. He knows we're due to get in to-day, and is prepared for a message at any time. Then we'll let his cousins know, and El Khadra's carriage will come and fetch you, Miss Luck. Motors can't go into the real Tunis—old Tunis—Arab Tunis, which you haven't seen yet. I only wish they could, for I don't like to let you out of my charge until the door of your new home opens to welcome you.”

Norah only smiled at him gratefully; for she did not dare to say how frightened she was now that the time had come for her to be swallowed up by that old, secret civilization which lived hidden from, though side by side with, Europe, here in North Africa.

Already, during the long motor-car journey, she had begun to understand a little of what it would mean, and how completely isolated she was to be from any such life as she had ever known. Exactly what it would be like, she could hardly guess, though the consul's wife, who knew Arab ladies of high birth in Algiers, had told her some details. Anxious as she was about Pat, and longing for the moment when she might telegraph, and write that she was settled comparatively near him, she had enjoyed the motor tour through this strange and fascinating country, almost in spite of herself. The thought of parting from these pleasant people, who had been kind, made her heart sink; and worse than all—far worse than all—was it to part from Winthrop.

To fall in love with him or any other man was an idea utterly remote from the girl's mind. Consciously she cared for no man except for her twin brother Pat; but she had never before met any one like this tall Virginian, with his oddly mingling chivalry and whimsical sense of honor. Her whole acquaintance with Winthrop had been so strange and interesting, even romantic, and he had been so good to her, saving her from a situation equivocal if not dangerous, that she could not help thinking about him a good deal.

As for Winthrop, he dared not say: “Poor little girl, sweet little girl, for Heaven's sake give this all up, and marry me instead. I can't stand it to let you go out of my life. I thought I should feel like that even before we started. But after the days we've had together I'm sure of it. Let me make you happy. I love you.”

He dared not say this because of the man in the Foreign Legion whom she loved, and for whose sake she had left England. She had spoken stammeringly of that man, as if she were embarrassed, so Winthrop had never brought up the subject again, and it did not even occur to him that the Legionnaire might be “Miss Luck's” brother.

While they were drinking tea in the palm court of the big French hotel, with its mixed decoration of Arab and nouveau art, Si Mahmoud Bel Hassan arrived, and was introduced by Winthrop to the ladies. It was a relief to Norah to see that he wore European dress, with nothing but his dark skin and the red fez on his close-cropped black head to show that he was an Arab. He spoke in perfect French, and assured Miss Luck that his cousins were looking forward with great excitement to seeing her.

“I think you will be a surprise to them, mademoiselle,” he added, saying “you” instead of “thou,” because his customs were more French than Arab.

“A surprise?” Norah faltered, feeling rather like a bashful schoolgirl. “Why?”

Si Mahmoud smiled pleasantly but mysteriously.

“I do not feel that I can venture to tell you why,” he said. “But I am almost sure they will let you know within the first three minutes after your meeting them. Their father's carriage, and their own servant, a black woman who is very ugly, but need not alarm you, will come in a few minutes to take you to the house, mademoiselle.”

Norah tried to murmur politely that she was delighted at the prospect, but her eyes happened to meet Winthrop's for an instant, and such a stab shot through her heart that she forgot to speak.

And it was all that the Virginian could do to keep his self-control.

Still worse was it for him when the carriage actually arrived; a strange carriage to Norah's eyes, though Winthrop had seen many like it; and to those accustomed to the life of the East it was a very ordinary sight indeed; a conveyance sacred to the women of a rich Arab's household.

It was somewhat shabby, for it had been in the family since Ferid El Khadra was a boy, it never having occurred to him that it was necessary to buy anew one. All the harem carriages of Tunis were shabby, therefore it would have seemed ostentatious to be different from one's neighbors.

The two ladies from Algiers came out to the hotel steps, greatly interested in their little traveling companion's departure, and Mahmoud stood politely by their side; but Winthrop went with the girl to the pavement, superintending the handling of her small luggage, which she was to take with her. Later, porters from old Tunis would come to carry away her larger boxes.

“Promise you'll write to me to-night,” the American implored, “and tell me how you like everything and everybody.” His voice dropped to a lower tone so that Mahmoud need not hear and have his feelings hurt. “If you're not happy, I'll find you something else to do. I'll stay at this hotel for two nights, till after our friends have started back in the car. Then I'll be at the Hotel Hamilcar, at Carthage, where I told you I'm going to do some work. You don't know how anxious I'll be to hear from you—and to get good news.”

“Thank you again—for everything, and—I'll write,” said Norah, longing to cry, her heart beating fast and thickly. “Good-by.”

He pressed her hand so hard that it hurt, but somehow she liked the hurt. Then, motioning the negro servant aside, he was about to help her into the carriage, when she started back a little in surprise at seeing a veiled figure sitting motionless as a statue in the darkened interior. But it was only the Soudanese woman of whom Mahmoud had spoken; and at sight of the European girl's start, the big, round eyes looking over the veil sparkled with childlike amusement.

This made the statue seem more human, less mysterious; and Norah got into the carriage with at least an appearance of courage. In another instant the door was shut, the blind drawn up, and she sat with the negress in a dim twilight, perfumed subtly by the hidden amulets on Nouna's breast.

Mahmoud had sent word to Laila that the English lady had arrived in Tunis, and might be expected at a certain hour.

The two girls, into whose cloistered lives so few excitements came, were wrought up to the highest pitch of expectation, though Laila was prepared to dislike the companion, who, she said, would probably turn out to be a dragon.

They were talking in the patio, when there was a stir outside, and they guessed, with hearts beating, that the “dragon” was at the door.

Nouna brought the new arrival in, proud of her responsibility, and the sensation she was bound to create; for she knew what the sisters expected, and the surprise in store for them. What they saw was a girl who looked no older than they, and almost as shy as Ourïeda. She was slender and not very tall. Her beautiful dark-blue eyes were wide with excitement or dread of the unknown, and suddenly it seemed too deliciously funny to Ourïeda that the awe-inspiring governess. should be afraid of them.

She broke into laughter—the childish, flutelike laughter of the well-bred Arab girl—and ran to Norah.

“Oh, but thou art young, like us, and very, very pretty!” she exclaimed in musical French. “How glad we are to see thee.”

And she took Norah's hands, impulsively kissing her on both cheeks.

Laila came forward, too, though slowly and with dignity. She was not easily won to love or admiration, and on this she prided herself, not realizing that her critical attitude toward other women was a proof of latent jealousy rather than keenness of judgment. She had no feeling of love for Norah now, but as she saw no reason to be jealous of her, she was glad that Miss Luck was young and pleasant to look at, instead of elderly and fussy.

Laila's manner, though more stately than Ourïeda's, was just as charming in its way; and Norah could not guess at the subtle Oriental reasoning that made it so sweet. She was bewitched with both girls, who seemed to her like enchanting tropical flowers, “come alive” in this wonderful, hidden garden behind the blank white wall. She thought the warm Arab greeting, with the two kisses, quite beautiful, and laughed to herself as she thought how different would be the welcome of a new governess or companion by English girls.

“We were afraid thou wouldst be old and not pretty,” said Ourïeda. “But thou art lovely. Thou art the greatest surprise to us; and nothing has ever happened to me so pleasant as thy coming. Of course with Laila it is a little different, because—perhaps thou knowest?—she is engaged. Our Cousin Mahmoud must be the best thing that has happened to her, I suppose! But I am never going to be married, and maybe thou wilt always live here with my father and me.”

“Even if no one ever asks for thee in marriage,” laughed Laila, “there will be many seeking for Miss Luck, so thou wilt lose her soon, maybe even sooner than thou losest me; but it is true, as Ourïeda says, our new companion is a great surprise to us.”

Norah laughed. As the girls used “thee” and “thou” to her, in their soft, fluting French, she spoke in the same way to them, lest the more formal “you” should sound: harsh and unfriendly in their ears. “Thy fiancé, Sidi Mahmoud Bel Hassan, told me I would be a surprise, and I could not think what he meant,” she said. “He would not explain, but told me I should find out from his cousins before I had been with them many minutes. I didn't know that the mystery would be so pleasant, and such a compliment to me.”

The girls looked at each other. “Does it not seem strange,” said Ourïeda, “that she can talk to Mahmoud and other men who are not her father or cousins, yet that it is no harm? How does it feel,” she asked eagerly, “to speak with young men, and have them look straight into thy unveiled face? Didst thou not wish, when it first happened, to scream and run away and hide thyself, or at least to cover thy face with thy two hands?”

“Why, it began to happen when I was so young that it was all quite natural,” smiled Norah. “I've been more with men than with women, I think, ever since I was a baby, because I have a dear twin brother, and I was always with him and his friends, as we had no sister. And my mother died when I was a little girl.”

“So did ours,” said Ourïeda eagerly. “And we have only each other, because our father never married again. Our Aunt Aïssa lives with us. Thou wilt see her soon, when she finishes the sleep she always takes in the afternoon. When we were little girls, we, too, were unveiled, and we had much fun, because we could run about and go to school. But it is now five years that Laila has been hadjaba—that means, veiled and shut up—and four years since I, too, have been put in the cage.”

“But thou canst go out surely!” exclaimed Norah. “No one can live without exercise!”

“Oh, exercise!” laughed Laila. “What does a woman want of exercise? We walk a little in the country when we go to my father's place there in August and September; but it is very boring. We are taken to the cemetery, too, on Fridays, in our carriage; and when we are once there we are allowed to walk, because Friday is the women's day, and no man can come near. It is not very interesting, for the friends we meet have little to say which can amuse us, at least nothing they will tell to young girls. That is all the exercise we get, except here in the garden court. Unless thou callest it exercise to drive about in a closed-up carriage, and peep through the shutters at the shops and the French officers. That is the most amusing thing we do—except to go to the baths, which are reserved for us and some of our friends on a certain morning each week. Also, I like very much to read French novels and eat French bonbons, which Mahmoud brings me every day. That, too, is better than exercise.”

Norah made no comment, but she wondered how she, used to taking long walks each day, could bear the cloistered life. But perhaps she would be allowed to go out. She wondered, though she dared not ask yet. It was too soon to beg for privileges denied to the girls.

“We are keeping Miss Luck here, telling about ourselves, when she would like to see her room,” said Ourïeda. “Let us take her there, and to our rooms, too, before Aunt Aïssa wakes up. It will be more fun.”

Laila approved this plan; and, with their arms round Norah's waist, they took her to the marble stairs which led up to the gallery, and the bedrooms in the story above.

Ourïeda threw open a carved cedar-wood door, which had a mirror on the other side, latticed over with a pattern of gilded wood.

“This is thy bedroom,” she said. “It is next to mine, and Laila's is beyond. Opposite is Aunt Aïssa's. The servants are in another part of the house, and my father's rooms are far away. He has another garden court, and reception rooms for his friends. But sometimes, as a great treat, he dines with us. I do not know if he will do it now thou art here; but perhaps, since thou art English, thou wouldst not find it embarrassing to eat in the company of a strange man.”

“No, indeed. If thy father will not object to my presence, I shall certainly not object to his,” Norah assured her. “What a lovely room! I shall feel as if I were living in a fairy story.”

The ceiling of the long, narrow room was of cedar wood, beamed and gorgeously painted like that of the gallery outside, which ran round the garden court. The walls were hung with panels of brocade and old embroideries, above which ran a line of illuminated texts from the Koran; and between the hangings, space was left for doors, windows, and cupboards let into the walls. No windows opened to the outside of the house, but there were two looking into the court; and they had shutters of cedar wood, elaborately inlaid with leaf and flower patterns of mother-o'-pearl. The cupboards had shutterlike doors of the same design; and, these standing slightly ajar, Norah could see that they were fitted with a great many narrow shelves, backed with mirrors. Evidently Arab ladies did not hang up their dresses—and the girl had visions of herself rolling her frocks and jackets in little tight bundles and laying them in neat rows on the shelves. Luckily, she thought, most of her hats were small, and she had brought comparatively few things.

At one end of the room stood a splendid Tunisian bed, green and gold, having gilded posts and a canopy with a great gold crown over a carved golden cow. Thin silk curtains hung from the crown, and there was a coverlet to match of green, purple, and gold; but Norah could see no trace of pillows. At the other end of the room was a low, long table, entirely covered with an inlay of mother-o'-pearl, and above was a mirror in a mother-o'-pearl frame. A little cushioned bench crusted with the same gleaming, snowlike surface of pearl was drawn up in front of the table, but Norah's anxious eyes found no washing arrangements at all.

“Nouna will bring all the things necessary for thy baths, night and morning,” said Laila. “I have read in French novels of the way Europeans arrange their bathing; but we like our things brought in newly each time, though we bathe a good deal, for it is in our religion. And every week we go out to the Moorish Bath, as we have told thee already. Thou shalt go, too, if thou wilt, with Nouna to take care of us, as always; but, perhaps, now we have thee, Aunt Aïssa will sometimes stop at home. She is too weak for the hottest room now she is old; and we shall be glad not to have her fuss over us and see that we hear no amusing gossip from the attendants. We hope that with us thou wilt miss none of the comforts to which thou wert used in thy far-off European home. We wish thee to be happy here.”

Of course Norah insisted that she would miss nothing; that all was perfect; and enchanted with her admiration of everything Tunisian, the girls took her to visit their rooms, which were much the same as hers, and showed little more sign of habitation.

The sisters then took their new play-fellow downstairs to see the room in which they, with Aunt Aïssa, received such women friends as came to call upon them. It had splendid panels of quaint tiles, between brocade hangings; bands of exquisite designs in lacelike stucco work ran round the walls, and there were many big, elaborate, gold-framed mirrors, and little pearl-crusted tables, or “maidas.' On the tiled floor lay several magnificent Persian rugs, which Norah knew to be almost beyond price. The glitter of mirror glass behind gilded lattice, and, as a backing for quaintly fashioned buffets, gave extraordinary brightness to the room, and there was no jarring modern note anywhere. This seemed the one fitting background for the two beautiful girls in their gauze bodices, their embroidered jackets, soft, loose silk trousers, and tiny, gold-crusted slippers. Norah felt as if she must be dreaming the lovely creatures, and might wake up at any moment to find that they, and their Arabian Nights palace, had vanished from her eyes forever.

As the three came out again into the fragrant patio, where it was always cool in the shadow of the gallery, “Aunt Aïssa” appeared, and Norah was instructed that, in Arabic, “Lella'” meant “Madame.” It was strange to the English girl to see an old lady, very thin, very dignified, and darker of complexion than her nieces, dressed in the picturesque costume which became them so well.

There were a number of questions which the girls' aunt wished the newcomer to answer, not only about her accomplishments, but about herself, for the old lady was as keenly curious as her nieces. Where had Miss Luck lived? When had her parents died? Who had taken care of her since then? Was she considered of a marriageable age in her own country? Did she use any wash to keep her complexion so fair, and, if so, what was the recipe?

Norah answered everything frankly enough, and tried not to laugh when Lella Aïssa inquired if a love disappointment were the cause of her leaving England. A laugh would have given grave offense, she knew; so she replied that her reason for coming to Africa was because her brother was there. She was on the point of adding that he was in the Foreign Legion, but she remembered just in time that this would probably be considered extraordinary, if not disgraceful. A hundred more questions would be asked by Lella Aïssa about Pat, and, if she showed any reluctance to answer, a disagreeable mystery would be suspected at once. Norah was quite willing to be frank about herself, but she had no right to give away Pat's secrets.

Lella Aïssa seemed satisfied when she had heard from Miss Luck that her brother was “traveling” at present in the direction of Morocco; but Norah noticed the most intense eagerness on Laila's face.

“When the aunt is out of the way that girl will ask me more about Pat,” she thought. “No wonder poor little caged birds like this are dying of curiosity about everything and everybody outside their prison. But I'll be careful—very careful.”

As Norah was wondering when she might go to her room for a little rest, or to do her unpacking, a door, which had been shut, opened, and a handsome, dark man came into the fountain court. Unlike Mahmoud, who wore European dress and a small red chechia on his smooth, dark hair, this man, who might have been fifty or a little more, hid his head with a snow-white turban and wore a reddish-brown gandourah, embroidered with green, over a pale-green vest. Over the gandourah, a long cloak of white silk floated like a cloud, reaching nearly to his feet, which were clad in silk stockings and green leather babouches or slippers. He was tall and thin, with a fine aquiline profile, and sad, proud eyes, deeply set.

Both girls sprang up and ran to him, crying “Sidi—sidi!” which Norah knew meant the same as seignour [sic] or master. Lella Aïssa rose, too, with an air of respect very different from the carelessly affectionate manner of a sister to a brother in Western countries. When the girls had kissed their father's hand, and been kissed by him on their foreheads, Laila introduced Norah.

“This is Miss Luck,” she said. “And this is our father, Sidi Ferid El Khadra.”

The Arab smiled and welcomed the English girl cordially, in perfect though rather guttural French; but Norah, admiring him, still felt dimly that he might be a hard man if crossed in any wish close to his heart. He scarcely tried to conceal the fact that Ourïeda was his favorite. When he sat down he kept her standing beside him, holding her hand as he talked. Then, for the first time, there came a flash of divination to Norah, and she saw that in this fairy palace of fountains and jasmine and roses, all was not perfect peace. She was sorry for Laila, who pressed her lips together and turned away; but, when Ourïeda asked some laughing question, her sister flashed a quick glance at the younger girl which almost frightened Norah.

“She is like a young tigress who has hardly found out that it is a tigress yet,” she thought. But there was a tragic fire in the girl's eyes which Norah could not understand, because she did not know the terrible story of the two mothers.

“This is a great day for this house,” El Khadra said when he had finished drinking the first cup of coffee that was brought him.

“A great day because we have a new friend with us,” added Ourïeda, smiling from her father to Norah.

“Yes, because of that; but because of something else, too,” he answered. “It is a good omen for Miss Luck that she should come at the same time. Canst thou guess at all what may have happened to make this a day beyond others for some, or one, of us?”

He looked at Ourïeda, and she shook her head. Then he turned his eyes upon Laila, and they grew colder.

“And thou?” he inquired. “Thou who art so clever; thou, whose great pleasure it is to read French novels which tell thee of women's lives in Europe?”

Laila blushed deeply. She had not supposed that El Khadra knew of the novel reading, and she was frightened; but he divined her thoughts, and spoke before she could try to excuse herself. “Oh, I know,” he said, smiling faintly. “There are little birds who whisper, as well as sing, in the garden. But do not think it is Ourïeda who has told me. Thou wouldst be doing her an injustice. Because thou art engaged to thy cousin, thou mayest now read what thou choosest. In a few months thou wilt be his wife, and it will be for him to direct thy ways. But thou hast not made thy guess.”

“I—can think of no reason,” stammered Laila.

“Then thou hast, after all, profited but little from thy novel reading.”

“Does the great thing that has happened concern us?” Ourïeda asked hastily.

“It concerns either thee or thy sister. At this moment I do not propose to tell more, unless thou canst guess for thyself. Evidently a certain lady has not been here since I went away, or the family would at least have its suspicions.”

Laila and her sister gazed into one another's eyes, each asking the other what the wonderful thing could be. El Khadra had been visiting the bey at his country seat since last night, and they had expected to hear some details of the visit, but nothing which could in any way concern themselves.

“Oh, sidi, do not keep us in suspense,” Ourïeda pleaded.

“Only till I have talked with thine Aunt Aïssa of this thing. Then thou shalt know, and Laila, too—and Miss Luck; all shall know and rejoice,” said her father, looking at her beautiful little rose-and-ivory face with tender admiration and love. “All three may go now, and leave me with my sister.”

“May I send a note and a telegram?” asked Norah anxiously, as she went into the house with the two girls.

“But, yes!” they answered together. “We have no forms for the post,” Laila went on, “for we never telegraph to any one. Thou must write on a plain piece of paper, and Nouna will give it and thy letter to Miloud, who will run to the post office. There is one condition, though.” And the girl laughed.

“What is that?”

“It is that thou showest us thy brother's picture, for we are sure thou hast it with thee. And we are sure also that thy telegram will be for him.”

“I will show his photograph with pleasure,” Norah answered. “Why should I not?” she asked herself. “Surely that can do harm to no one!”