“This?” exclaimed Aminé, taking it in her fingers. “Surely it is the little clay tablet that thou didst write the holy words upon. Thou didst not write me a laiya upon the bark as thou didst for the others,” she added, a little reproachfully. This was a sad oversight. The fact was that I had not reckoned on her taking my performance seriously, seeing that she was more or less of a confederate, and I had forgotten how little she really knew about me. However, I hastened to retrieve the situation. “I have kept three,” I said, taking the bundle from my pocket, and spreading out the documents before her. “Take the one that thou likest best.” She fingered the squares of bark with childish pleasure, comparing their merits, and then handed them back to me, saying: “Do thou choose for me, Yúsufu; thou knowest better than I which is the best.” I selected one and held it out to her. “Keep it for me in thy pocket,” said she, “until I can get a leather case to carry it in;” so I replaced it and resumed my assault upon the provisions. “I wish I was able to write words as thou art, Yúsufu,” said Aminé presently, when, having finished our meal, we sat dreamily watching the little stream as it pursued its noiseless course. “Why dost thou wish that, Aminé?” I asked. She crept closer to me and laid her cheek against my shoulder, regarding me with an expression that filled me with vague uneasiness. “Thou didst tell the people,” said she, “that the written words speak ever without ceasing. If I could write, I would make thee a laiya, and I would write on it, ‘Aminé loveth thee,’ and thou shouldst wear it always round thy neck.” “It needeth no laiya to tell me of thy faithfulness,” said I. “Thy deeds speak more clearly than words written on paper or clay. Ever since I met thee thou hast been to me even as a dear sister.” Aminé sat up with a jerk. “God hath given me as many brothers as I want,” she said shortly. “As for thee, thou art not my brother, nor am I thy sister, of which I am truly glad, for if I were, then could I not be thy wife.” “That is true,” said I helplessly; for this frank avowal, with its implied proposal, left me fairly dazed with astonishment, and I had barely presence of mind enough to again turn the conversation into a new channel. “Thou art a good girl, Aminé,” I said, rather irrelevantly, “and thou art very patient with our poverty and hardship. Perhaps we shall meet with some better fortune at Bontúku. At any rate, we have enough _kurdi_ to keep us for a day or two.” “Thou must keep thy _kurdi_ as long as thou canst,” said she, coming back reluctantly to the prosaic realities of our life. “For my part, I shall gather these yellow caterpillars that swarm upon the trees. If I cannot sell them in one of the villages, we can eat them ourselves.” I made an involuntary grimace at the suggestion, which did not escape her notice, for she exclaimed somewhat severely: