persuade her that he
had not observed her, for it was enough for him to know that he was
not indifferent to her.

Urad, though she hardly knew the cause of her morning walk, yet
continued on the rocks till Darandu had taken in his nets, and, with
his companions, was steering up the stream in quest of the fishes of
the Tigris. She then returned to her cottage, more irresolute in her
thoughts, but less than ever inclined to the labours of her
profession.

At the return of the evening she was anxious lest Darandu should renew
his visit--an anxiety which, though it arose from fear, was yet near
allied to hope; nor was she less solicitous about provisions, as all
her little stock was entirely exhausted, and she had no other prospect
before her than to return to her labours, which her sorrows had
rendered irksome and disagreeable to her.

While she was meditating on these things, she heard a knocking at the
door, which fluttered her little less than the fears of hunger or the
sorrows of her lonely life.

For some time she had not courage to answer, till, the knocking being
repeated, she faintly asked who was at the door.

"It is Lahnar," answered a female: "Lahnar, your neighbour, seeks to
give Urad comfort, and to condole with the distressed mourner of a
mother and a friend."

"Lahnar," answered Urad, "is then a friend to the afflicted, and
kindly seeks to alleviate the sorrows of the wretched Urad."

She then opened the door, and Lahnar entered with a basket on her
head.

"Kind Lahnar," said the fair mourner, "leave your burden at the door,
and enter this cottage of affliction. Alas! alas! there once sat
Nouri, my ever-affectionate mother, and there Houadir, my kind
counsellor and director; but now are their seats vacant, and sorrow
and grief are the only companions of the miserable Urad!"

"Your losses are certainly great," answered Lahnar; "but you must
endeavour to bear them with patience, especially as they are the
common changes and alterations of life. Your good mother Nouri lived
to a great age, and Houadir, though a kind friend, may yet be
succeeded by one as amiable; but what I am most alarmed at, O Urad! is
your manner of life. We no longer see you busied among the leaves of
the mulberries, or gathering the bags of silk, or preparing them for
the wheels. You purchase no provision among us; you seek no comfort in
society; you live like the mole buried under the earth, which neither
sees nor is seen."