worthy of his country and his kinsfolk. But resolutions were useless, tenacity of purpose was useless. For two long hours he wandered by the harbour, but met no one. At last the sun fell behind the western waves, and the windows of the khedive’s palace glowed like a hundred flaming eyes; the flags fell from the masts of the vessels; on the city side was a sudden silence, save for the melancholy voices of the muezzins; then the day died; the bright stars, suddenly piercing the heavens, mocked him with their brilliance and told him that his useless search for bread was over. Gregorio went back slowly to his home. Already the Rue des Soeurs was crowded. The long street rang with music and laughter, and instead of blinds covering the windows merry women leaned upon the sills and laughed at the crowds below. Gregorio, when he reached his house, would have liked to go straight to bed. But it was not to be, for as he entered the tiny room he heard his wife trying to persuade the hungry infant into sleep, and his footsteps disturbed her tears. He had to calm them as best he could, and as he soothed her he noticed the child had a crust in his hand which he gnawed half contentedly. At the same moment the dim blue figure of an Arab passed by the opposite wall, and had almost gained the door ere Gregorio found words. “Who are you?” “It is Ahmed,” his wife answered, gently, placing her trembling hand upon his shoulder; “he too has children.” Gregorio scowled and muttered, “An Arab,” and in that murmur none of the loathing was hidden that the pseudo-West bears for the East. “The child is starving,” said Ahmed. “I have saved the child; maybe some day I shall save the father.” And Ahmed slipped away before Gregorio could answer him. For a while neither he nor his wife spoke; they stood silent in the moonlight. At last Gregorio asked huskily, “Have you had food?” “Not to-day,” was the answer; and the sweet voice was almost discordant in its pathos as it continued, “nor drink, and but for Ahmed the boy had died.” Gregorio could not answer; there was a lump in his throat that blocked words, opening the gate for sobs. But he choked down his emotion with an effort and busied himself about the room. Xantippe sat watching him anxiously, smoothly with nervous fingers the covering of her son’s bed. As the night advanced the heat increased, and all that disturbed the silence of the room was the echo of the streets. Gregorio walked to the window and looked out. Below him he saw the jostling crowd of men and women. These people, he thought, were happy, and two miserables only dwelt in the city--his wife and himself. And whenever he asked himself what was the cause of his misery, the answer was ever the same--poverty. He glanced at his son, tossing uneasily in his bed; he looked at his wife, pale and haggard in the moonlight; he remembered his own sufferings all day long in the hot cruel streets, and he spoke unsteadily: “Xantippe?” “Yes.”