The hand of my father descended slowly. It had been raised to mark the rhythm of _Olive-silvery-Sirmio_! It now rested on the curly brown locks of Liz Deventer. He ceased to speak, and then suddenly with a sigh he said, "I envy Dennis. I have a good son--yes, a good son," he repeated with emphasis, "but I should have liked a daughter also. There is a side of me she would have understood." Instantly the girls had their arms about his neck, and I hastily descended my shameful ladder, leaving behind me a chorus of "We will be your daughters--Rhoda Polly too--mother too--she thinks----" But I got out of earshot as fast as might be, quite chopfallen and ashamed. I had not been a good son, whatever Gordon Cawdor might say--I knew it. I had held him lightly and withheld what others found their greatest joy in giving him--my confidence. It was no use saying that he never invited it. No more had he invited that of Mrs. Deventer, or of the girls--or, what touched me more nearly, that of Rhoda Polly herself. At last the great day came, and by the same train which had brought the Bey on his errand of inspection the three new tenants of the Cottage arrived. The Bey looked military and imposing as he stood over the baggage counter. Linn, tall and gaunt in unbroken black, accepted my father's arm smilingly almost at the first sound of his voice. He showed her through the narrow shed-like waiting-rooms to the carriage in readiness outside. Mrs. Deventer had received Alida into her arms as she descended from the carriage, and was now cooing over her, watched hungrily by Rhoda Polly, who wearied for her turn to come. It struck me that Alida was not looking quite so well as usual. It had cost her more than I thought to disobey her father--more afterwards perhaps than at the time. For among those of her blood, the servitude of woman goes with heredity, and the culture of Europe, though it may render obedience impossible, does not kill the idea of parental authority. "Though he slay me, yet shall I trust in him!" But when Alida greeted me, I knew in a moment that though the battle had been sore, the victory was won. There would be no looking back. "What, Angoos, _mon ami_, have I all those friends already? I owe them all to you!" I took Rhoda Polly's hand, and put it into the gloved fingers of the little Princess. "Not to me, dear Alida," I said, "but to this girl; she has, as you shall find, a heart of gold." Alida kept the strong roughened fingers in hers, and looked deep into the eyes of Rhoda Polly as if to read her inmost soul. "I shall remember that, Angoos," she said; "that is a beautiful thing when it is said in the language of my own country. It sings itself--it makes poetry. Listen! "'Rhoda Polly of the Golden Heart--Heart of Gold, how true is my maiden!' Wait, I will sing it for you in Arabic----"