sleeve by folding your arm, and you hear it tell you that the end of the sleeve must not go beyond the wrist bone.

And a suit sewn to measure has a temperament and desires. You cannot fling it carelessly into the bottom of the wardrobe or onto a chair, as you do a ready-made suit. When Wasim brought it home from the tailor's workshop he did not yet know these differences of nature, nor that his new suit had a personality he could neither be ignorant of nor ignore.

He brought it home two full days before the feast and put it in the wardrobe, just as he used to put all his new suits in the past, and went off to the garden. Then he came home at suppertime and ate his meal, and did not fail — before slipping into his bed — to open the wardrobe and cast a glance at the suit; and within a few moments he was in his bed, surrendering his eyelids to a pleasant slumber.

And from there he began to discover that this suit had a temperament and a personality. It came to him with a proud slowness: clean, freshly pressed, its buttons gleaming, its chest puffed out. It came with reproach upon its face, but it kept silent; its pride forbade it to speak. Then it sat down facing him in a rocking chair and began rocking it gently, and it stayed so until morning, when it withdrew from the chair and returned to the wardrobe seconds before Wasim awoke.

In vain did Wasim try, in the morning, to understand the secret of its reproach, for it would not disclose it. He looked at it with appreciation and admiration, but it neither smiled in satisfaction nor put on a scowl of discontent. The occupations of that day and the preparations for the feast distracted him from the suit: from the holiday sweets to the flowers to the holiday banquet — all together they made that long day a thing that could be borne.

Night frowned once more, and Wasim laid his head, full of expecta-tion and hope, upon the pillow; and the phantoms of darkness gave him only a little respite before they car-ried him across the threshold of con-sciousness into the world of dreams.

The suit did not come to him quickly, as on the night before, nor

was its coming distinct; and since he had not yet discovered that it had a temperament and a person-ality, it escaped him to inquire into the reasons for its lateness. And while he was roaming his dim world, the wardrobe opened, and in a moment the suit was in the chair beside his bed, and near it, on the arm of the chair, his new shirt, a bag of sweets, and a small pocket wallet holding the feast's gift of money.

The suit stayed quiet in the chair, silent, keeping its pride without arrogance and its elegance with-out affectation; and it kept looking toward the door, as though torn between the pull of loyalty — stay where you are, close to the one who chose you — and the pull of rebellion and despair — leave this house without hesitation or delay.

Then the veil of ignorance lifted from Wasim's understanding, and he turned quickly and resolutely toward the suit, raised himself upon his elbows, and begged it with warmth and sincerity: do not go far from me, but stay

at my side. And as though the plea had lit its whole being with lines of light, it smiled; a magic hand reached out and wiped the misery from its brow, and it answered: "Do you truly wish me to stay near you? Do you love me, Wasim?" He stretched out his hand gently and clasped its hand and touched it with tenderness and love, then laid his cheek against it and settled back into his bed.

And when morning overtook him, his cheek lay serenely upon the pillow, the sleeve of the new suit between his cheek and the pillow, and his fingertips touching the buttons of the sleeve, caress-ing, delighted.

A few hours later, as he strolled through the city with his hand in his father's hand, he had discovered that a suit made to measure has a temperament and a personality; and for that reason he never left off talking to it, a smile on his lips, and warmth, and a tear, in his eyes.

And the sky smiled from on high.