He was about to speak, but checked the impulse. It was wiser to hold his tongue! A kindliness of disposition, however, induced him to smile and nod--attentions which impelled the negress, as she retired, to display her teeth and gums to an extent that no one would believe if we were to describe it. On examination it was found that one of the dishes contained a savoury compound of rice and chicken, with plenty of butter and other substances--some of which were sweet. The other dish contained little rolls of bread. Both dishes appeared to Foster to be made of embossed gold--or brass, but he knew and cared not which. Coffee in a cup about the size and shape of an egg was his beverage. While engaged with the savoury and altogether unexpected meal, our hero felt his elbow touched. Looking round he saw the gazelle looking at him with an expression in its beautiful eyes that said plainly, "Give me my share." "You shall have it, my dear," said the artist, handing the creature a roll, with which it retired contentedly to its cushion. "Perhaps," thought the youth, as he pensively sipped his coffee, "this room may be sometimes used by Hester! It obviously forms part of the seraglio." Strange old fellow, Ben-Ahmed, to allow men like me to invade such a place. The thought of the ladies of the harem somehow suggested his mother and sister, and when poor George got upon this pair of rails he was apt to be run away with, and to forget time and place. The reverie into which he wandered was interrupted, however, by the gazelle asking for more. As there was no more, it was fain to content itself with a pat on the head as the painter rose to resume his work. The drawing was by this time all pencilled in most elaborately, and the middy opened the water-colour box to examine the paints. As he did so, he again remarked on the familiar English look of the materials, and was about to begin rubbing down a little of one of the cakes--moist colours had not been invented--when he observed some writing in red paint on the back of the palette. He started and flushed, while his heart beat faster, for the writing was, "_Expect me. Rub this out. H.S_." What could this mean? H.S? Hester Sommers of course. It was simple-- too simple. He wished for more--like the gazelle. Like it, too, he got no more. After gazing at the writing, until every letter was burnt into his memory, he obeyed the order and rubbed it out. Then, in a disturbed and anxious frame of mind, he tried to paint, casting many a glance, not only at his subject, but at the two doors which opened into the room. At last one of the doors opened--not the one he happened to be looking at, however. He started up, overturned his stool, and all but knocked down the easel, as the negress re-entered to remove the refreshment-tray. She called to the gazelle as she went out. It bounded lightly after her, and the young painter was left alone to recover his composure.