holding up a pin, and,
examining the card. "From Seniha Hanum--the cousin of Hamdi Bey."

A moment more she held up the pin but the girl would not give it a
look.

"And this, from the same jeweler's," continued madame, while the
dressmaker was unfastening the frock, aided by Miriam, anxious that
no scratch should mar that milk-white skin.

"How droll--the box is wrapped in cloth, a cloth of plaid."

Aimee spun about. The dress fell, a glistening circle at her feet,
and with regardless haste she tripped over it to madame.

"How--strange!" she said breathlessly.

A plaid ... A Scotch plaid. Memories of an erect, tartan-draped
young figure, of a thin, bronzed face and dark hair where a tilted
cap sat rakishly ... memories of smiling, boyish eyes, darkening
with sudden emotion ... memories of eager lips....

She took the box from madame. Within the cloth lay a jeweler's case
and within the case a locket of heavily ornamented gold.

Her heart beating, she opened it. For a moment she did not
understand. Her own face--her own face smiling back. Yet unfamiliar,
that oddly piled hair, that black velvet ribbon about the throat....

Murmuring, madame shared her wonder.

It was Miriam's cry of recognition that told them.

"Thy mother--the grace of Allah upon her!--It is thy mother! Eh,
those bright eyes, that long, dark hair that I brushed the many hot
nights upon the roof!"

"But you are her image, Aimee," murmured the Frenchwoman, but half
understanding the nurse's rapid gutturals, and then, "Your father's
gift?"

With the box in her hands the girl turned from them, fearful of the
tell-tale color in her cheeks. "But whose else--his thought, of
course," she stammered.

That plaid was warning her of mystery.

The dressmaker was creating a diversion. Leaving, she wished to
consult about the purchases for to-morrow's work, and madame moved
towards the hall with her, talking in her careful English, while
Miriam bent towards the dropped finery.

Aimee slipped through another door, into the twilight of her
bedroom, whose windows upon the street were darkened by those
fine-wrought screens of wood. Swiftly she thrust the box from sight,
into the hollow in the mashrubiyeh made in old days to hold a water
bottle where it could be cooled by breezes from the street.

Leaning against the woodwork, her fingers curving through the tiny
openings, she stared toward the west. The sky was flushing. Broken
by the circles, the