Khôjee had brought out the few treasures of faded brocade the ruined palace still held, to fold about him softly, and with a sob which seemed to rend her heart, had bidden the signet of royalty be left on the little Heir's forefinger against the time when his mother should rouse herself to take her last look at him. The wailers had departed to return later on. Khâdjee had succumbed to sorrow, and sought seclusion. Even Jehân had gone; the last to go, save Lateefa, who lingered half-indifferent, half-compassionate, impatient of poor Khôjee's tears over a loss that had been inevitable for months, yet not liking to leave them to be shed in absolute solitude. 'Thou art kind, Lateef,' she said at last. ''Tis woman's work, not man's: yet without thee, brother----' Her soft old eyes met his, and the tears in them seemed to find their way into his heart and melt it. 'Thou art welcome, sister,' he said gravely. 'I think all is as it should be now--I see naught amiss.' His eyes, as he stood at the foot of the bed whereon the dead child lay, travelled approvingly upwards, and Khôjee's followed suit. But hers went no further than the little waxen hands resting so straightly, so demurely on the brocade; for the lack of something on them made her start forward incredulously, search in wild haste in the folds beneath the still fingers, and then fall with a cry at Lateefa's feet, clasping them, kissing them. 'Give it back--it was there but now! If thou hast it--if he bade thee take it--gave it back!' He stood looking down at her with a curious expression of shame on his face. 'It,' he echoed. 'What is it?' 'Thou knowest,' she pled piteously. 'The ring--she will die if it is not there. She cannot lose both, she cannot lose all. Give it back for these first days--give it for comfort, if for naught else, or she will die. O Lateef! do this for old Khôjee--ugly Khôjee! Lo! I have asked naught of men, nor husband, nor child; for I had naught to give. Yet I ask this--have pity--brother!' He stooped to unclasp her hands with an almost tender look. 'Thy like has more to give mine than thou dost think, sister,' he said; 'God knows even Lateef----' He broke off with a half-impatient gesture. 'But this is past hoping for. If Jehân wishes----' He paused again, and shook his head. 'Tell her thou hast put it by for safety--she will be too full of grief to prove thy words--that will give time, see you----' Khôjee, still on her knees, looked up doubtfully. 'Time,' she echoed, and then her face lit up with hope. 'Time--then thou wilt try! thou wilt speak to Jehân! thou wilt bring it back if thou canst! Yea, I will tell her--I will tell the lie if thou wilt promise. Lateef! this much thou _wilt_ do, promise to try. On the Koran, on thy head, thou wilt swear, if thou _canst_ do this thing.'--Her old lips were on his feet, kissing them passionately, and he gave an uneasy, almost bitter laugh.