I visited her one evening and saw on her arm a baby girl no more than eight days old. — What is this, Almas? — This is a "foundling." I have undertaken to the nun to care for her in return for a monthly wage, and the convent has given me these tins of milk, and the feeding-bottle, and everything I need to keep her warm. The child was a marvel of loveliness! Radiance and fineness of form, a neck and lines and limbs like a drawing of a Cupid in the museums, and hair and skin as the poet said: ............ like gold dust strewn upon a mantle! And I loved this white baby whom riotous love had cast at the nuns' door, and I would take her to my house on some evenings and clean her and dip her in lukewarm water. And often my charitable neighbor and I would look with dread toward the future of this bewitching beauty and wish she might die a child and be at rest.

The death of children was only natural in such a cellar and such misery; the poor little one sickened and died, and Almas carried her on her arms to the burial ground, after wrapping her in an old blanket, and handed her over to the gravedigger, who was used to the burying of foundlings in this fashion. No coffin, and none to mourn...

And the husband persisted in his straying. I went down once to visit Almas and saw him seated on a chair, dressed in a suit of gray broadcloth and a silk shirt as fine as shirts are made, with a necktie of red silk and red socks and gleaming shoes — I had every right to recoil from the sight of this human beast, and before long I rose to go; the children followed me and clung to me, and when I was outside the room they whispered as grown-ups whisper: — God keep you, Sitt Salma — speak to him,

so he'll leave Yusufiyya and come back home!

And the days passed, and the picture of this black misery changed. Almas worked hard and faithfully for the sake of her children, and managed to rent a spacious room with two windows. But has patience no limits? Have not women too — as Dr. Georges Hanna says — bodies and souls? And so, I met her one day in the street. Her clothes were still the clothes of want and suffering; but her face — I almost did not know it. She had plucked her eyebrows and set in their place a line of harsh black paint, and daubed her face with white and glaring crimson pigments, so that her deep brown skin showed the color of violets. She greeted me with warm eagerness, and when she saw my dismay — when she saw my staring at her strange face — she said: — May God cut short the life of the man who made me wretched!!

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