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 "Mademoiselle, we have worked together to-day, as companions—as friends. I should like you to give me something to keep for the rest of my life."

"Monsieur only asks," she replied, without looking at him, "he does not offer to give anything to be remembered by."

It was a weird night, one of those nights when people cannot be conventional. In my place I made myself very small, trying to forget I was present, as the two seemed to forget me.

"I, mademoiselle?" repeated the man, in a voice full of emotion. "I have given you to-day all that is best in me. And whatever my life may become that best will always belong to you."

"And in exchange, Monsieur asks?" Chakendé said, still not turning toward him.

"I only ask your name, mademoiselle. I should like to repeat it daily—to have it be the nectar of my soul."

"Since Monsieur asks so little, it would be cruel to deny him."

She turned slowly around till her eyes met his. Distinctly she said:

"My name is Chakendé, and I am known as the only daughter of Djamal Pasha."

The young man gave a start. "You are—? You are?"

She nodded. "The woman you have scorned for the past two years." She turned away, and