The adventures of the day were not over when at last I was on the back of Gabbour's horse again bound for camp. The wind grew stronger and began to whirl the desert sand into the air. Stung by the biting particles, the horse leaped forward and tore over the sedgecovered hillocks, through the clouds of sand that closed the outlook round about us like a mist. In camp the Pirate and Wun Lung, with heads wrapped in veils, were fastening the stakes of the tents. The canvas bellied in the wind, and the ropes strained. I crept into shelter with sore eyes and stinging cheeks and lay down on my cot. A roar of wind, the crack of bursting rope, the flutter of canvas, the crash of breaking bottles woke me out of my doze. The tent was on my head. With difficulty I extricated myself and looked out. The kitchen tent had gone down in the gust that had razed my own, and the desolation of Sambo's demesne was pitiable to see. All afternoon the wind whistled down the track between the narrow canal and the desert hills. The Bedouins straightened out the confusion as best they could, while I sat huddled behind a scraggly shrub on the bank of the canal pretending to look comfortable.

Genial Gabbour Saad-el-Banna came to my rescue. The "dizziness" had apparently worn off, for he was beaming and courteous as ever. He had borrowed my cook in my absence, he informed me, via Hassim, and was having a European dinner cooked for my benefit at his house. I bowed. He bowed. Hassim bowed, and then we climbed on the donkeys he had brought for our use and rode over to his house a half mile away. I never knew before how much a comprehensive bow could do.

Gabbour's settlement was, in a mild degree, one of those workingmen's colonies euphemistically called "ideal." He himself lived in a square whitewashed house built approximately on European lines with a large garden behind, in which he was trying bravely to raise European fruits and flowers. Potential apple and cherry trees lined the paths, garish roses flaunted unlovely petals; even the redolent onion was not forgotten. The hovels of the laborers were in the courtyard of the main house. Gabbour was constructing them himself, and

though dingy enough to European eyes, they were infinitely superior to the filthy mud-huts of the Egyptian villages. Gabbour, though he could speak no language but his own, seemed in some way to have felt the touch of Occidental ideals. Certainly his wine-cupboard held one of the finest collections of Scotch and Irish whiskeys I have ever

seen.

The morning after my visit to Gabbour's house, that ended in a long farewell in the moonlight, my caravan started straight across the desert on the home journey to Cairo. The day dawned fair, but a few hours after sunrise a chill wind came down from the Mediterranean and blew with bitter intensity all day long. We huddled ourselves in our blankets in vain. The wind was icy, and pierced even the fold on fold of Bedouin robe in which the Captain wrapped me. The camels grumbled and grunted at every step. The cold luncheon under the protection of an overhanging crag was without taste and comfortless. Late in the afternoon the Pyramid of Dashur came in sight, then Sakkara, then the Great Pyramids of Gizeh. Night fell on our camp in a pebbly hollow, with fifteen miles more to go before we should be back in the clanging wilderness of civilization again.

The wind died down, and about us there was no sound. For miles and miles the desert hills stretched, on the north and east to the Nile country, on the west and south incalculably far to the very shores of the Atlantic. The stars shone, thickly clustered and very clear, the moon played on the pebbles as on a rippling sea. "In the desert, quoth Menander, is truth."

All that seems very far away now. The Captain and Sunny Jim, the Pirate and Wun Lung, Sambo and Sozodont, have all gone their separate ways. Gabbour Saad-el-Banna may have a new stock of Scotch whiskies by this time. I do not know. My only news of the caravan comes from Hassim and is of a domestic nature:

"Hassim he got daughter about seven day, young one."
May she live long and prosper!

Arminius.

THE COWARD

I

It was in April that Herbert Lathrop discovered his habit of calling on the Pynes. He had left his rooms one raw, cloudy afternoon, and, after stopping at the rectory for a brief interview, he found himself on the sidewalk again with the pleased consciousness of having fulfilled his parochial duties for the day. He was in most ways an exemplary curate; even the Baptist preachers, who had met and hated him in the course of city settlement-work, were forced to acknowledge this. No one would have suspected, however, that the close of his day's work brought him an almost violent satisfaction. Of late, the patience, the care, the cheerfulness, which he was accustomed to lavish upon the inconspicuous round of his duties, had been almost entirely on the surface; he was growing more and more impatient-he had finally admitted it to himself-of the pettiness which was choking his life with the barren weeds of trivial detail. Some thoughts such as these formed the background of his mind as he stood aimlessly by the rectory gate turning up his coat collar and buttoning his gloves. Then, by force of the five-o'clock instinct, he turned up Brattle Street to be soothed.

Some one carrying a green bag hailed him from the opposite sidewalk. In a moment Lathrop was shaking hands with a young professor who had just returned from a year's sabbatical, and whom he had known in college.

"To think of Herbie Lathrop being a Cambridge curate! It nearly takes my breath away. But, of course, I've heard"— he drifted into pleasant generalities.

Lathrop disliked meeting old acquaintances who acted the part of old friends; but he expressed his pleasure and fervent hopes that

the other would come and see him. Then he apologized for hurrying on, citing his tea as an excuse.

"Oh, of course," said the other, with a smile that was not tactful, "now I understand."

"What?" asked Lathrop innocently.

"Isn't it out yet?"

"Out?"

The other took refuge in departure. "Excuse me, Herbie. Cambridge is such a gossipy little place! I hadn't been here two days before I was told all about it. Well, good-by, I'll see you later."

Lathrop went on with a distinct addition to his thoughts. So that was what his friends were saying! The remark about Cambridge was only too true; but what on earth could any one find in a few One or two chance propinquities at dinner, and-what else had there been? Then he realized that the seatings must have been arranged by gracious hostesses, and that the calls had come three times a week for the last month. By great good luck, the summer was coming soon, and with it-suddenly he thought of the girl. Could she possibly have imagined? He looked up just then and saw the big, colonial house, with its red brick and green shutters, the brass knocker on the white-paneled door appearing as an "open sesame" to quiet luxury within. It was an old Tory mansion, and had always seemed abundant in conservative wealth. As Lathrop went up the walk, between the stiff box-hedges, it occurred to him that the house dimly suggested some slender, imperious lady, with powdered hair and gleaming eyes, her brocades rustling as she rose from the Chippendale chair, her dainty fan guarding her throat as she laughed melodiously. Lathrop smiled to himself over the thought, rang the bell, and inquired for Miss Violet Pyne.

On entering the drawing-room, he noticed three cups on the teatable and the lamp was burning under the urn. Evidently he was expected. He felt a glow of satisfaction; then, close upon it, came the feeling of his duty. He must tell her now; he had evidently

waited too long as it was. When the news was fairly heard, there would be no

"And how are you to-day, Mr. Lathrop?"

He turned and smiled intimately, as he took her hand. "Oh, awfully well, in spite of the weather and Mr. Hardy's taste in music!" "Doesn't he approve of your innovations? I thought the last vesper service was really beautiful!"

"So did I; but he didn't. He told me that everything Gregorian was henceforth to be omitted-too Roman, of course. And, do you know, I almost felt annoyed with the dear old man. That was just on my way here. Do I look it?”

She glanced up at him as he stood with his back to the fire. "Irritation is becoming. Never mind! After he goes off on his vacation, you can be as Roman as you please. When mother and I come back from Europe in the fall, we'll expect to find incense and intoning, not to mention lots of little red choir-boys." She dropped one lump in his tea and handed it to him with a smile.

He looked down at her as she relaxed into the spaciousness of the high-backed armchair. Her gray eyes looked up at him frankly from under the long, dark lashes. Her smile was one of complete sympathy and understanding. The tea was very good; the fire behind his back warmed him comfortably; the girl before him had never seemed so attractive. He noticed, with a lazy sense of satisfied taste, the quiet richness of her gown, the two handsome rings on the slender hand hanging so negligently over the arm of the chair, the big, flat pearls in her ears. Her presence, her repose, her manner of taking intimacy for granted and disposing summarily of the small conventions of mere friendliness, soothed him now as always. Her silence, her tolerant gaze, came dangerously near to driving away or rather obscuring the deeper ideals which formed what he considered his best self. Her smile broadened a little, she blinked at him with a tiny, sleepy sigh, and nestled back into her chair.

Suddenly the spell was broken. "How d' you do, Mr. Lathrop? I hope this late spring isn't proving too much for Mr. Hardy? Violet,