It had been her duty to be with him that morning. "What has kept her until now?" he cried from the depths of his voice. "Do I no longer please her, that she should want to be rid of me? Let her dawdle. I'll show her when she arrives." Then he sat in his place, rigid, surrendering to loneliness, running wild with troubling thoughts. He took no breakfast, for his appetite for food had vanished together with his peace of mind and ease of heart.

Then he put his head between his palms once more and gave himself up to his crowding thoughts, going over the lesson of his tangled case again: Was there any reason for this delay? Why had she not told him she was staying two or three days instead of one? Had some harm befallen her?... God forbid — if anything of the sort had happened to her, they would have sent him word at once. God forbid it, God forbid it. No, there was no reason, unless she had grown sated and weary of his wrinkled face and white hair and gone off in search of a young man like herself — a modern, mincing, dull young fellow, one of those creatures hateful to Abu Hanna. Perhaps she was sitting with him at this moment under a pine tree, whispering to him and he to her, laughing and mockingly recounting to him the jokes of her old husband. What horror!... Could this be possible? Could his sweet wife be capable of such betrayal? Never, God forbid — grant Your protection and Your help, O God!...

He bit his tongue until he almost cut it through, then repeated: "If she does not come today or tomorrow, I will accept no excuse from her. I will beat her, I will kill her, without uttering a single word." He had learned from experience never to believe a woman, whoever she might be. And here was the proof of his experience: had she not promised him a speedy return? And here the second day of her delay was passing. Had she left him? Was

not this talk of hers deceit and trickery? How monstrous!

The sun climbed in the sky and noon was almost at hand, and Daad had not yet appeared. Now he heard footsteps on the stairs, and Abu Hanna pricked up his ears: she had arrived!...

Knock. Knock. Knock. A head appeared from behind the door — and behold, it was the head of the neighbors' boy. What do you want? Abu Hanna shouted at him loudly: "Get out of my sight... I don't want to see you, I don't want to see anyone... Go."

The boy answered him, trembling:

"My mother, my mother sent me so you would come over and eat with us... we've cooked a dish you like."

— I don't want to eat. No one, and no dish... Leave me alone, if you please...

He felt his throat dry and parched. He took up the water pitcher and found it empty. He began wrestling with the great jar crouching in its stand in the corner, with agitated, nervous movements — and it too tilted, a strong tilt that upset its balance, and it fell to the floor, smashed to bits, and the water flooded the room. Abu Hanna cursed the jar, cursed the pitcher, cursed the water, cursed his wife and his wife's father, cursed himself, cursed life and everything in it, lifeless and living alike. As for the poor boy, he froze in his place a moment, wary, then took to his heels...

Abu Hanna was accustomed to sleep a little at about that hour, so he stretched out in his chair and tried to close his eyes; but they opened in spite of him, and the troubling thoughts got the better of him: "I will crush her between my hands, this lying traitress. I will strike her a blow on the crown of her head that will drive her out of her wits. Will she not come today? Ah, if only she were before me now, I would pour out upon her breast all the rage and pain that is in mine."

Then he cursed her, and cursed her family, and whoever had shown him her face. Suddenly, while he was in this state, the same boy — the neighbors' son — appeared, running toward him, panting with fatigue and shouting: "Daad has come, Daad has come... she's come, Uncle Abu Hanna!" Abu Hanna fixed him with questioning eyes, the muscles of his face taking on a shape quite different from before, and pronounced: "Lies." — "Come and look, you can see her from the window." Abu Hanna rose and ran to the window, directing his gaze toward the distant road, and saw the figure of his wife. He leapt up, snatched his stick in haste, and went out to the road hurrying along, swaying now to the right and now to the left.

It was she. She herself, Daad, with her broad, loving smile, her measured gait, and her languid black eyes. And behold, Abu Hanna's scowl vanished from his face without a moment's delay, and on his face appeared the shadow of a tender smile. No sooner had he reached her than he took her bag and printed a kiss on her forehead and another on her cheek, saying:

"Poor dear... you're all perspira-tion from the weariness of that long journey... Hurry home, come in at once out of this scorching sun." And he walked beside her, stumbling, overflowing with joy and gladness, repeating with all the tenderness in his heart: Where have you been, my little qarquri? Why were you delayed so long? I was so worried about you. He did not wait for her to answer, but went on: "Come in! Come in, my dear! I have prepared cold water for you to wash your feet after your weariness." And he led her inside, brought her the water, drew off her sandals, and set about tending to her... The feeling of vigor and youth came back to him once more... That black specter of the accumulated years had vanished!