ater for the stranger. 'Methinks thou
wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and
refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down,
therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and
the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me
from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she
said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having
done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the
door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The
usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in
the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful
hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few
square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out
more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached
to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the
water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts,
and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these
consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess.

"Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his
day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the
door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet
him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the
threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes,
while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters,
salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a
wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and
olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all
we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon
peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans,
are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake
of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the
two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the
tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a
circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire,
and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in
taking hers, tells me naively, and with a sigh, that it is five years
now since she had had a cup of coffee. I