“Do they?” asked Zeynab, with interest. “I thought they were very bad people.” She had ceased to sob, but was too proud to ask for the sight she had been promised, and Georgia took something out of her bag, and waited. More from habit than from any expectation of making use of it, she had slipped in with her instruments a German toy which she had found very useful in winning the friendship of children in her old hospital days, and which had proved a source of great delight to Nur Jahan and the other women in the Palace at Kubbet-ul-Haj. It was carved in wood, and represented a cock standing on a barrel. The barrel contained a yard-measure, and when the tape was drawn out the bird flapped his wings, faster or slower according to the rapidity of the movement. “What is it?” inquired Zeynab at last, looking curiously at the cock, her interest stimulated by the doctor’s silence. For answer, Georgia pulled out the tape, and the child gave a shriek of wild delight. “Wonderful, wonderful!” she cried. “Is it alive?” Rahah explained that the bird was merely one of the marvels of the white people, and Zeynab, after a somewhat timid approach, ventured to pull the tape for herself. Then she was fairly won, and screamed with pleasure as the cock flapped his wings for her. Not to make the wonder too cheap, Georgia reclaimed it after a short time; but the ice was broken. Zeynab lay back on her cushions and looked at her musingly. “Art thou really a woman?” she asked at last. “Yes. What else could I be?” asked Georgia, smiling. “I thought thou wert perhaps a man,” said the child, shyly; and Georgia felt devoutly thankful that Dick was not there to hear her. “Shall I tell thee why, O doctor lady?” she went on, then turned suddenly to Khadija. “O my nurse, I am thirsty. Bring me some sherbet.” “One of the slaves shall prepare it for thee, my soul.” “No, there is no one who makes it as thou dost. Fetch it for me, O my nurse, or I shall scream.” With a very bad grace Khadija complied with the imperious command, and hobbled out of the room. The moment she was gone, Zeynab took a folded piece of paper from beneath her pillow and laid it in Georgia’s hand. “There!” she said, with a radiant smile. Georgia unfolded the paper, and found it to contain a wretched native print, vile alike in drawing, colour, and intention, and purporting to represent an English ball-room. Some resemblance between the open coat and cotton blouse which Georgia wore with her riding-skirt, and a man’s dress-coat and shirt-front, had struck the child, and led her to the conclusion that Georgia was a man. “I see what you mean,” said Georgia, whose one glance at the print had filled her with loathing; “but, Zeynab, this is not a very pretty picture for you to have. If you will give it to me, I will find you a book with several pictures in it instead.”