mosque--precisely, monsieur," returned the guide, with complete
self-possession.

They stepped out at once upon the pavement, where a carriage was in
waiting.

"Where are we going?" inquired Mr. Greyne in an anxious voice.

"We are going to the heights to see the Ouled," replied the guide. "_En
avant!_"

He bounded in beside Mr. Greyne, the coachman cracked his whip, the
horses trotted. They were off upon their terrible pilgrimage.

V

On the following afternoon, at a quarter to three, when Mr. Greyne
came down to breakfast, he found, lying beside the boiled eggs, a
note directed to him in a feminine handwriting. He tote it open with
trembling fingers, and read as follows:--

1 Rue du Petit Neore.

Dear Monsieur,--I am here. Poor mamma is in the hospital. I
am allowed to see her twice a day. At all other times I
remain alone, praying and weeping. I trust that monsieur has
passed a good night. For me, I was sleepless, thinking of
mamma. I go now to church.

Adele Verbena.

He laid this missive down, and sighed deeply. How strangely innocent it
was, how simple, how sincere! There were white souls in Algiers--yes,
even in Algiers. Strange that he should know one! Strange that he, who
had filled a Merrin's exercise-book with tiny writing, and had even
overflowed on to the cover after "crossing" many pages, should receive
the child-like confidences of one! "I go now to the church." Tears came
into his eyes as he laid the letter down beside a pile of buttered toast
over which the burning afternoon sun of Africa was shining.

"Monsieur will take milk and sugar?"

It was the head waiter's Napoleonic voice. Mr. Greyne controlled
himself. The man was smiling intelligently. All the staff of the hotel
smiled intelligently at Mr. Greyne to-day--the waiters, the porters, the
chasseurs. The child of eight who was thankful that he knew no better
had greeted him with a merry laugh as he came down to breakfast, and an
"_Oh, la, la!_" which had elicited a rebuke from the proprietor. Indeed,
a wave of human sympathy flowed upon Mr. Greyne, whose ashy face and
dull, washed-out eyes betrayed the severity of his night-watch.

"Monsieur will feel better after a little food."

The head waiter handed the buttered toast with bland majesty, at the
same time shooting a reproving glance at the little chasseur, who was
peeping from behind the door at the afternoon breakfaster.

"I feel