soft steps toward the piano, where there appeared to her the figure of

Layla, with her beautiful loosened hair and her thin, delicate body, pouring out in melody her griefs and her pains.

She drew near her gently, choking back her tears, and took her into her arms, whispering: Layla, my dar-ling, come to your mother's heart, my poor unhappy child; would that I could ransom your happiness with my soul and my blood, my hapless one... And the tears of a mother who in every act of her life had prepared the means of ease and happiness for her daughter mingled with the tears of this luckless daughter, whom no doubt had ever brushed, at the dawn of her youth, that anything could stand in the way of that happiness... Layla laid her tired head, heavy with pain, upon her mother's breast, softly and tenderly, and fell to kissing her, imploring her to save her from this misery, begging her to have pity on her youth.

And what a grievous hour it was for the heart of this mother, powerless to lighten the pains of her heart's own companion, who looked to her, of all people, for deliverance. She consoled her, and held out to her hopes she herself no longer trusted; she spoke to her of Farid and of his love, hoping to soften the sharpness of her loneliness and estrangement; and she reproached her gently for her treatment of him, at a time when he deserved nothing but appreciation and gratitude for his noble conduct toward her... Gratitude... how heavy the fall of these words on a heart accustomed to feeling itself a source of hap-piness and delight to others!!! She heaved a long sigh and murmured through her tears: “Yes — gratitude toward Farid, and toward everyone, and toward you too, mother, for the efforts you spend and the pains you bear for my sake... Yes, gratitude... that is the feeling left for me to feel in this life... An enviable role indeed, this that has been written for me to play upon the stage of this world.”

And how often these scenes were repeated... It is man, in all his humanity, standing before a fated mystery he cannot grasp, question-ing in the stillness of the night

that hidden will which toys with all creatures... It is man face to face with the tragedy of his existence.

It is Layla, standing on the still balcony in the flood of a moonlit night, drifting behind her musings, the dewy breeze playing with the folds of her thin white robe and with her hair streaming loose over

her wasted shoulders, while she is not aware of what thoughts wander through her fancy... She will soon be done with her pains, for see — her body has begun to grow heavy; she heaved a faint sigh and turned toward her room, walking to her bed — to where she will drowse into the everlasting sleep..