The rain pours down hard, its drops tapping with musical fingers on the win-dowpanes, and the hands of the winds toy with the pearly beads of water, scattering them here and there. Nature is somber, still, and the dusky clouds cover the face of the sky. Ah, it is the same weather and the same day... This is what was passing through Alya's mind as she pressed her pale face against the cold glass of the window. Memory had worn her down, and she watches the bubbles of water boil up as they strike the roofs of the build-ings, the way a great caul-dron boils over blazing fires.

It is the same scene. The still, quiet street, and the lofty buildings defying nature's anger and its fury. The cars crawl cautiously through this flood pouring from the sky, as a lost tortoise crawls, worn down by the burning heat, in a vast desert.

Oh, memory — how over-whelming it is! Has a whole year truly passed since that day when the hopes of youth, the joys of girlhood, and the dreams of love were scattered? Did everything go with the going of that day? The pictures of the past, with its events and its happenings, began to pass through Alya's mind and follow one another as a reel follows on the white screen. Here is Ahmad at the beginning of their acquaintance. They were at college together, side by side. He was a lovable, well-man-nered young man who would fix long gazes upon her; and when her glances met

his he would lower his eyes quickly, and his cheeks would redden. He would answer any request of hers, any sign that came from her; often she would deliberately drop her handkerchief, and he would bend down quickly and present it to her! He would extend the hand of help and aid to her on every occasion. Thus did Ahmad love Alya with a silent, mighty love, and she began to feel this love and to take delight in it. Yet what vexed her in him was that he never gave her the least hint of that love. If such a subject were raised when they were together, he would withdraw quickly or change the subject with tact and courtesy. So the days passed, one after another, her love ever growing; he never confessed to her, never disclosed his hidden secret. Yet in every glance and every gesture there was a whole story of that deep love.

Alya's tears began to pour in torrents as the sky was pouring, and her sobbing rose as she opened the sacred drawer that held her dearest treasures — in it were the memories of her lost love and her lost heart. It is her treasure, which she guards as the miser guards his gold. She opened the drawer with care and caution and began to touch its contents with tenderness and love. Here is Ahmad's handkerchief, with which he bound her hand; and this is the pencil he sharpened for her; and here is a withered rose he gave her. These, and these alone, are all that remained to her of Ahmad. She began kissing

these things with eagerness and madness. Suddenly she was startled by a movement outside and hastened to shut the drawer. But it is the clock striking. She listened, counting its strokes: eleven. She breathed a sigh of relief. The hour of her husband's return from work had not yet come — he was accustomed to return at one o'clock sharp. Why, then, all this dread? She could bring these two remaining hours to life with the memory of her first and last love. Yes — what had vexed her in Ahmad was his stubbornness in concealing this love, which she herself had no strength to conceal, and it began to burst out in the form of contempt for Ahmad and attempts to provoke him by every possible means. She began to adorn herself and dress with elegance in the classes of Professor Hamdi, the young man newly returned from Europe and holder of a doctorate in letters. Thus she captured his atten-tion with her overpowering charm and her overflowing femininity; then the attention turned to admiration, and the admiration began, day after day, to take another shape. Often sentimental subjects were raised in class between them — naturally, for instance, the marriage of the Eastern and the Western woman, and the Eastern woman's capacity for love, and whether love is necessary to marriage. The professor took the opinion of some of the students, boys and girls, and then said: 'And we shall hear, finally, the opinion of Miss Alya.' Alya stood up, but she remained silent, looking with wan-dering eyes at the professor, while she felt that Ahmad's glances were tongues of fire piercing her slender body and burning it. She was melting with passion and blazing with love. If only these wretched creatures would vanish from this room, that she might remain face to face with her beloved! And indeed the professor's image began to dwindle, and Ahmad's image took its place; and she seemed to be addressing him, her face flushed, her breath panting, saying: 'Marriage — and what is marriage? Without love it is a long, exhausting, barren road in a desolate wilderness. Nay, it is a perpetual prison for soul and heart in the hand of a loathsome, hated jailer.