Judith at sixteen possessed a voluptuous body, a pious spirit, and an inexperienced mind. Her gentle soul united in itself the gay ardors of a child with the cloudy desires of a woman. Everything surprised her, and everything pleased her; she was anxious to know everything, and she knew nothing. Eager and trusting, her brown eyes explored with sympathy but without understanding the life she saw all about her. She was happy and dreamy by turns; but sometimes at night her pillow was wet with tears. She would have said that something beautiful had made her cry, perhaps a thought, perhaps a feeling. But she could not have explained what it was, not even to Sarah, to whom she told everything. Perhaps it was the moonlight in the courtyard, and the scent of jasmine or lotus from the garden. But that was lovely; why should it make her cry? Such things perplexed her. Sometimes she wished she were a boy, so that she might go hunting with her uncle. Then she saw herself seated on a white horse, with her green cape blowing in the wind, galloping and shouting. But at the thought of piercing an animal with her spear, she turned away with quick displeasure. “No,” she thought, “I should not like to go hunting.” And she told her uncle that she was glad she was a girl. “So am I,” he replied, “because if you were a boy, I should be disgusted with you.” He loved his niece, but he liked people to be active and hardy. “The women of to-day,” he often said, “do not amount to much. “They have no enthusiasm.” Now Judith sat before her bronze mirror, twisting her long brown hair into plaits. As she sat, she sang: “_My love is a shepherd in Sharon, By rivers he waters his sheep, Blue are the waters of Sharon, Rivers of Sharon are deep._” She knew no one in Sharon. Nevertheless her nurse said to her angrily, “Now tell me, what sort of song is that for a young girl to sing?” Judith replied that it was just a song. She added with a smile, “You are vexed because you do not know any shepherds, and because you have no lover.” “That is my own business,” said Sarah, drawing herself up with dignity. “However, I must say that it does not become you to speak of things like that. What do you know about love? Nothing, I sincerely hope. You should be thinking of marriage, with respectful modesty.” “Well,” said Judith, “as a matter of fact, I think love is silly. It does not interest me, really. Were you ever in love? Tell me honestly, Sarah; I cannot imagine such a thing.” Sarah gazed gloomily at her mistress. Presently a blush overspread her sallow countenance. “In love?” she exclaimed; “certainly not. With what, if I may ask? The trouble with you is that your head is full of nonsense. When I was your age I had more decorum. I was prettier than I am to-day, and I attracted the attention of a very handsome man, a camel driver, but such a wild one. He was not good enough for me, and I sent him about his business. I knew my own worth.”