t, and no account is taken of them. How am I then to know you?
Ali Mohamed is grown old, and his memory is gone by.'

'But you will surely recollect Hajji Baba--little Hajji, who used to
shave your head, and trim your beard and mustachios!'

'There is but one God!' exclaimed the door-keeper in great amazement.
'Are you indeed Hajji?--Ah! my son, your place has long been empty--are
you come at last? Well, then, praise be to Ali, that old Kerbelai Hassan
will have his eyes closed by his only child, ere he dies.'

'How!' said I, 'tell me where is my father? Why is the shop shut? What
do you say about death?'

'Yes, Hajji, the old barber has shaved his last. Lose not a moment in
going to his house, and you may stand a chance to be in time to receive
his blessing ere he leaves this world. Please God, I shall soon follow
him, for all is vanity. I have opened and shut the gates of this
caravanserai for fifty years, and find that all pleasure is departed
from me. My keys retain their polish, whilst I wear out with rust.'

I did not stop to hear the end of the old man's speech, but immediately
made all speed to my father's house.

As I approached the well-remembered spot, I saw two mollahs loitering
near the low and narrow entrance.

'Ha!' thought I, 'ye are birds of ill-omen; wherever the work of death
is going on, there ye are sure to be.'

Entering, without accosting them, I walked at once into the principal
room, which I found completely filled with people, surrounding an old
man, who was stretched out upon a bed spread upon the floor, and whom I
recognized to be my father.

No one knew me, and, as it is a common custom for strangers who have
nothing to do with the dying to walk in unasked, I was not noticed. On
one side sat the doctor, and on the other an old man, who was kneeling
near the bed-head, and in him I recognized my former schoolmaster.
He was administering comfort to his dying friend, and his words were
something to this purpose: 'Do not be downcast: please God you still
have many days to spend on earth. You may still live to see your
son; Hajji Baba may yet be near at hand. But yet it is a proper and a
fortunate act to make your will, and to appoint your heir. If such be
your wish, appoint any one here present your heir.'

'Ah,' sighed out my father, 'Hajji has abandoned us--I shall never see
him more--He has become too much of a personage to think of his poor
parents--He is not worthy that I should m