I made up for it to myself by slipping a few pennies into the brown little hands of the children, who had finally decided that I was not likely to bite and had approached me. Delighted, they ran with them to their mother, who seized them feverishly, with a terrified side-look at her husband. Filled with pity, I slipped a silver piece into her lean hand--rather too well rewarded by the ardent kisses she showered on my hands, my shoulders, and the edge of my dress. I then asked the Arab to show me the interior of his tent. He seemed pleased at my demand, but I regretted it deeply when I beheld the dirtiness of it. Dirt was the principal furniture, together with several wooden spoons, an “aguesseau” for rolling the semolina into cous-cous, a “kess-kess” for cooking it by vapour, and a heap of terrible-looking rags. On this heap lay an indistinct form, from which came slow, painful gasps--the gasps of a departing life. Shuddering, I bent down and saw a venerable woman--so small, so wizened, so extraordinarily thin that I could not imagine how there was any life in her. She opened her eyes and turned them slowly on the Arab; and I read pitiful supplication, mingled with bitter reproach, in their cavernous depths. The Arab looked down gloomily, and a wave of emotion swept over his hitherto impassive face. “What is the matter with her?” I asked. “She has not eaten for two days,” he answered. “But why? Is she ill? Give her some milk at once. At once, do you hear?” I felt angry at the calmness of these people in the presence of this dying woman. “She is dying,” he said, obstinately. “But you are doing nothing to save her,” I cried. My husband pulled my sleeve. “Come, come, dear,” he whispered, “you are giving yourself useless pain.” “But I will make him give this old woman something,” I persisted. “She is his mother, perhaps, and is trying to ask him for food with all her strength. Give her some milk,” I cried. The man mumbled something; I understood that he was telling me she was old, worn out, and that it was waste to feed her. Overwhelmed with horror, I gasped: “Then you are letting her die--on purpose! She--she is dying because you have let her starve to death?” He bowed his head. Then, as if he felt that some explanation was due to the _roumia_ who was his guest, he added, in a low voice, “Her children will have her share. They want it.” I seized my husband’s arm. “Come--come away from this horror,” I cried; and quickly we ran down the hill to where the fragrant narcissi grew, and there I flung myself on the ground and sobbed. Presently the sweet, balmy air was filled with sharp shrieks and yells--the cries of mourning of the Arab women as they tear their faces with their nails. And I knew that the poor old woman had passed away, and that those who had starved her to death were now bemoaning her loss, and consoling themselves by saying, “_In cha Allah!_” (“It is the will of God”). [Illustration: “‘GIVE HER SOME MILK,’ I CRIED.”]