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 in the same attitude which had been hers all that day. Quietly I sat down beside her, my arms stealing around her. She did not speak to me at once, and when she did her voice was unsteady, and shaking with unshed tears.

"Everything has a purpose in life—even the stars so high and remote—and I alone am purposeless. Just because I lost my husband's savage love, I left him, without a word, without an explanation, as if the brutal side of life were all that existed between man and woman. If I had stayed, in spite of the second wife, I might have been of use to him, for I had a good influence over him—and Allah might then have given me a child." She buried her face in her hands. "Allah! I am so useless—so useless!" she moaned.

The silence of the night alone answered her, and I, having no words to comfort her grief, took one of her jasmine-scented hands and kissed it.

Next morning my Lady of the Fountain had quite recovered her composure, and even talked of her coming Paris escapade, but she was pale and worn out, like a battered ship which has met with a storm.

A few days later I came to bid her good-bye, for this time I was going with my mother on a visit to the island. She put her arms around me as if she did not wish to let me go. Wistfully she said: