breed of hens that were all--all--oh!
any colour------"

"White Leghorns," said Jane Coop, who was beginning to get interested
in this subject so near her heart.

"Yes. Well, supposing you found that one, when it had all its
feathers, had some speckled ones under its wings----"

"But it couldn't, dearie, if it was pure-bred!"

"Yes, but just supposing it had, what would be the meaning of it?"

Jane Coop hesitated, and re-tied her apron-strings. Descriptive
analysis was not her strong forte.

"Well, dearie, I should say that the male bird was a--a--oh! a Plymouth
Rock, or something like that. The speckled bird would be a good one,
but if it was mixed it would have to be turned out of the run if you
had a fancy for showing and prizes. I remember a black---- But there
now! what made you start your old Nannie talking about hens? Just you
turn over and go to sleep, dearie. You have to be up and away early
to-morrow, you know!"

She closed the door gently and left the girl alone.

"I don't understand," she said softly, and slipped out of bed to stand
at the open window, with all the glory of an Egyptian night before her.

"I _don't_ understand the meaning of the story," she repeated, as she
watched the figure of a _fellah_ wrapped in a big cloak which shone
snow-white under the moon, trudging patiently across the grounds to the
servants' quarters. Then, as the huge dog flung himself against her,
she struck her hands together. The sudden impact sent her mind flying
back to the first time she had seen Hugh Carden Ali, in English
riding-kit and Mohammedan _tarbusch_ in the bazaar; then in her memory
she saw him dining as an Englishman; saw him riding with falcon upon
fist--a very Eastern, saw him as an Arab of Arabia in the desert; again
as an Englishman, save for the Mohammedan _tarbusch_, holding in the
bay mare as she thundered past him on the stallion Sooltan.

In a flash she understood the tragic story of the Hawk of Egypt.

"The pity of it!" she whispered. "Oh! the cruel pity of it!" and crept
back to bed.

* * * * * *

Wide-eyed and quiet, she stood very early next morning with the
jostling, laughing crowd, waiting to be ferried across the Nile on the
excursion to the Tombs of the Kings, which to most of the crowd ranked
on a level with Madame Tussaud's Waxworks, with the difference that in
the valley of desolation you could leave the remnants of your lunch
anywhere, whi