books to my father, and
the bulk of his library to the city where he was born."

"Was your mother with him when he died?" Ida asked.

"She was, my dear. But, sadly enough, only at the very last. We were
at the seaside when he was seized by his last illness, and no one told
us, for indeed it is probable that few people knew. At last a letter
from the servant announced that he was dying, and had been most
anxious to see my mother, and she hastened home. The servant seemed
relieved by her arrival, for the old gentleman was not altogether an
easy patient to nurse. He laughed at the doctor, she said, and
wouldn't touch a drop of his medicine, but otherwise was as patient as
a sick gentleman could be, and sat reading his Bible all the day long.
It was on the bed when my mother found him, but his eyes were dimming
fast. He held out his hands to my mother, and as she bent over him
said something of which she could only catch three words--'the true
riches.' He never spoke again."

"Poor man?" said Ida: "I think he was very nice. What became of his
cat?"

"Dead--dead--dead!" said the little old lady; "Ida, my child, I will
answer no more questions."

"One more, please," said Ida! "where is that dear, dear Fatima?"

"No, my child, no! Nothing more about her. Dear, dear Fatima, indeed!
And yet I will just tell you that she married, and that her husband
(older even than I am, and very deaf) is living still. He and I are
very fond of each other, though, having been a handsome man he is
sensitive about his personal appearance, and will not use a trumpet,
which I consider weak. But we get on very well. He smells my flowers,
and smiles and nods to me, and says something in a voice so low that I
can't hear it; and I stick a posy in his buttonhole, and smile and nod
to him, and say something in a voice so loud that _he_ can't hear it;
and so we go on. One day in each year we always spend together, and go
to church. The first of November."

"That is--?" said Ida.

"The Feast of All Saints, my child."

"Won't you tell me any more?" Ida asked.

"No, my dear. Not now, at any rate. Remember I am old, and have
outlived almost all of those I loved in my youth. It is right and
natural that death should be sad in your eyes, my child, and I will
not make a tragedy of the story of Reka Dom.

* * * * *

"Then your real name," said Ida, as she gave the old lady a farewell
kiss, "is--"

"Mary Smith, my d