bring food."

She led the way through the door of the black grille, down a short
passage into a large room at the end of the house. The apartment was
strewn with rugs, and its furniture was a curious mixture of the color
of the East and the utility of the West--a French dressing stand beside
a stove of American make, a Bosnian marriage chest, a table which might
have come out of the Ringstrasse, a brass tray for burning charcoal, a
carved teakwood stand upon which stood a nargileh, a box of cigars, some
cigarettes, and two coffee cups still containing the residue of the last
draught. There were latticed windows in _meshrebiya_, which overlooked
the garden and street, and piled beside them were a number of pillows
and cushions. The room was none too clean, but there were evidences here
and there of desultory attempts at rehabilitation.

The girl with the red hair led Marishka to one of the window recesses,
where she bade her sit upon a pile of pillows, bringing a basin and an
ewer of water which she put upon the rug beside her.

"Ah, I was forgetting," said the girl, and going to the corner of the
room produced with much pride Marishka's suitcase. "His Excellency left
it for you this afternoon."

The sight of water and a change of clothing did much to restore
Marishka's confidence and self-respect, and she opened the bag with
alacrity, bringing forth from its recesses soap, clean linen and a
washcloth.

While Marishka ate and drank, the girl with the red hair crouched upon
her knees beside the suitcase, sniffed at its contents eagerly, and with
little cries of delight touched with her fingers the delicate articles
which it contained.

"How pretty! How soft to the touch!" And then rather wistfully, "It is a
pity that one cannot get such things in Bosna-Seraj."

"You like them?" asked Marishka, reveling in the delight of being free
from the dust of her journey.

"Oh, they are so beautiful!"

For all her years, and she must have been at least as old as Marishka,
she had the undeveloped mind of a child.

"You, too, are beautiful," she sighed enviously, "so white, your skin is
so clear. Your hair is so soft." And then as an afterthought, "But I
think it would look just as pretty if it were red."

Marishka laughed.

"What is your name, my dear?" she asked.

"I am called Yeva--they say after the first woman who was born."

"Eve--of course. It becomes you well."

"You think so. Was she very beautiful?"

"Ye