ind their
backs.

"For thy daughter, Sidi Hadji, thy Zina, is surely as lovely as the
full moon sinking in the west in the hour before the dawn."

The words were fair. But bel-Kalfate was looking at his son's face.

"Where are thy comrades?" he asked, in a low voice. "How hast thou
come?" Then, with a hint of haste: "The dance is admirable. It would
be well that we should remain quiet, Habib, my son."

But the notary continued to face the young man. He set his cup down
and clasped his hands about his knee. The knuckles were a little
white.

"May I beg thee, Habib ben Habib, that thou shouldst speak the thing
which is in thy mind?"

"There is only this, _sidi_, a little thing: When thou hast another
bird to vend in the market of hearts, it would perhaps be well to
examine with care the cage in which thou hast kept that bird.

"Thy daughter," he added, after a moment of silence--"thy daughter,
Sidi Hadji, is with child."

That was all that was said. Hadji Daoud lifted his cup and drained it,
sucking politely at the dregs. The _cadi_ coughed. The _cadi_ raised
his eyes to the awning and appeared to listen. Then he observed,
"To-night, _in-cha-'llah_, it will rain." The notary pulled his
burnoose over his shoulders, groped down with his toes for his
slippers, and got to his feet.

"Rest in well-being!" he said. Then, without haste, he went out.

Habib followed him tardily as far as the outer door. In the darkness
of the empty street he saw the loom of the man's figure moving off
toward his own house, still without any haste.

"And in the night of thy marriage thy husband, or thy father, if thou
hast a father ----"

Habib did not finish with the memory. He turned and walked a few steps
along the street. He could still hear the music and the clank of the
Jewess's silver in his father's court....

"_In-cha-'llah_!" she had said, that night.

And after all, it _had_ been the will of God....

A miracle had happened. All the dry pain had gone out of the air. Just
now the months of waiting for the winter rains were done. All about
him the big, cool drops were spattering on the invisible stones. The
rain bathed his face. His soul was washed with the waters of the
merciful God of Arab men.

For, after all, from the beginning, it had been written. All written!

"_Mektoub_!"

GRIT

By TRISTRAM TUPPER

From _Metropolitan Magazine_

Grit was dead. There was no mistake about that. And on the very day of