water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. ‘Thou wilt overlook our penury,’ she falters out; ‘here be all we have.’ In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray—the mother, abashed, protests—and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me naively, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And ’tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark.
“She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too,