"We came upon this lovely piece in the old files of 'The Woman's Voice,' and wondered that it should have remained unpublished to this day.

"Its author, a baccalaureate student, sent it in some time ago, and there is no doubt that this student, who has written such a story, could today give us very beautiful things. We hope this pen will persevere in the craft of beautiful letters."

Far from the children's chatter and play, in a corner of the school

garden, "Salwa" had withdrawn into herself, musing, dazzled and bewildered, feeling no desire to play; a shade of melancholy had settled over her sweet face, and a deep silence had taken the place of that sweet smile. Then she began to gaze at the horizon with her calm green eyes, their pupils swimming in tears, going back over her life through these few years in which she had known existence: her dear mother had left this life three years ago and left her alone, knowing nothing of her world but her beloved father, who had so often stilled her tears and been father and mother to her both. And she still remembered his tenderness toward her when her gentle grandmother departed — the grandmother who had loved her so, in whose lap she had buried her little face to complain of some thing or other; this grandmother had promised her to return when the fields blossomed, but she never returned, and they told her she had died.

"Salwa," alone in life, feels herself a stranger to this world and to everything in it — even this house she lives in, and this wicked woman, her father's wife, whom they tell her is her second mother and whom she must love. She is at a loss over it all, finding no likeness between her and the dear departed one; her child's imagination cannot bring together these ever-scowling features and her mother's forgiving, radiant face; this voice that never stops scolding and that quiet gentleness with which her mother used to speak to her; this coarse body that strikes the ground with arrogance and that slender figure that used to move about in silence like a

phantom. As for this "little one" whom her father's wife awaited with joy and whose coming she celebrated, and whom they call her brother — she hates him with the fiercest hatred and wishes he would die, so that she might be spared the sight of his mother kissing him with rapture and rock-ing him all night long. She used to feel a deadly deprivation when she saw her flooding him with the overflow of a mother's affections.

... "this little one" is the source of her misery; if he died, her

father's love would come back to her...

If he died...!

He must die...

But how is he to die?

Where is her mother, to kiss her as she used to? Where are those serene looks that used to bring peace into her heart? Yes! She hates him, and hates everything to do with him, though in his form and the fineness of his features he resembles her beautiful dolls. She had felt that the discord between her father and his wife had begun to fade since the coming of this "little one," and that her father's love for her had lessened accordingly: he no

longer set her on his knee, telling her absorbing tales with eagerness and delight — he told her she had become a young lady — no longer visited her at night in her bed to kiss her tenderly, no longer even found again in her dear face the image of her mother. He used to spend the long evenings away from his wife and in her company, talking to her of her mother; and often he would fix on her deep looks whose meaning she could not fathom, then say to her, the tears streaming from his eyes: "How beautiful you are, my little Salwa, and how much you resem-ble your mother! How I wish you might be like her in gentleness... in character... in your dealings." Then he would go to his cabinet and bring out for her some curios and precious gifts. And now those gifts had begun to grow fewer... until they had almost ceased.

"Salwa" returned home that evening absorbed and absent-minded, and no sooner had she crossed the hall than she was startled by the nurse, her face dark with anger, telling her to soften her footsteps on the floor, for her brother was ill. But she paid no heed and set about looking for her beloved father; she did not find him, not even in the library where he was accustomed to sit after meals, sipping hot coffee and reading quietly. And when she happened to open the door of the "little one's" room, she found him bent over the bed, the marks of grief drawn on his face, and with him the doctor, the two talking gravely about the patient's condi-tion; and she heard the latter say: "One must be careful with this medicine, for too much of it kills — a few drops are enough for the