“We may be shut up, but we know everything that goes on and have plenty of fun,” they would say. One day when I arrived, however, I found their harmony disturbed. Zohra, an Algiers Moor, kept apart, silent and sullen, darting looks of hatred at Aicha, who was happily nursing her lately-born son. Hennia, the youngest, following my gaze, whispered: “She is mad with jealousy because Aicha has a son, and our lord is pleased with Aicha and angry with Zohra, who has been four years married and has given him no offspring.” “And you?” I inquired. She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It is only six months since he brought me to his house, and the last wife is never the least until many moons have waned.” Worried by Zohra’s look I returned shortly, but she sullenly refused to speak to me. Then, suddenly, one day as I was leaving, she ran after me and drew me aside. “I hate her! I hate her!” she panted. “She has stolen his love from me. Help me, O Roumia, help me, or I shall die.” “What can I do for you?” I inquired, rather upset by her burning gaze and passionate whisper. “Bring me the little white powder,” she breathed, “the dear little powder, to sweeten her coffee and make her sleep, sleep, sleep!” She seized my wrists and held me fast, her eyes blazing like those of a madwoman. “To do evil that good may come” is not usually one of my principles, but on this occasion I thought it excusable. So I promised her the powder, and, what is more, I took her not one, but two! One, for her rival, was composed of chalk and sugar, and the other, for herself, of Epsom salts. “For these powders to have any effect you must take another at the same time,” I told her, impressively. “If Aicha has really stolen your share of your lord’s love from you she will surely die; but if you have accused her wrongly, then you yourself will be the one to suffer. You will not die, but you will suffer.” She eagerly agreed--and she certainly suffered, too; but her jealousy was effectually cured, and my next visit found the trio reunited and full of their usual light-hearted tittle-tattle. When I told the story to the husband he laughed as Arabs seldom laugh. THE END. [Illustration: Ways That Are Dark. Some Records of Roguery.] BY RALPH STOCK, R. L. C. MORRISON, AND A. E. MACGROTTY. “For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,” says Bret Harte’s famous poem, “the heathen Chinee is peculiar.” The subjoined examples of clever rascality, however, show that the Celestial has by no means a monopoly of the gentle art of living at other people’s expense. I.--MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO. BY RALPH STOCK.