saints that she made if only they would insure to her the joy of motherhood.
Just before dusk one afternoon Mamat came back to the hut, and as was his wont-for he was very considerate to Minah, and ever anxious to aid her in her work he fell to boiling the rice at the little mud fireplace at the back of the central living-room where Minah was preparing the evening meal. While he was so engaged he contrived by a clumsy movement to over-set the pot, and the boiling water streamed over the fingers of his right hand. Minal gave a shrill cry in sympathy for the pain which she knew he must be enduring; but Mamat looked up at her with wondering eyes.
"What ails you, little one?" he asked, without a trace of suffering in his voice.
"The water is boiling," cried Minah. "Ya Allah! How evil is my destiny that so great a hurt should befall you because you, unlike other men, stoop to aid me in my work! O Weh, Weh, my liver is sad because of your pain. Let me bind your fingers. See, here is oil and much rag."
"What is the matter?" Mamat asked again, star- ing at her uncomprehendingly. "Indeed I have suffered no hurt. The water was cold. Look at my fing
His voice faltered and his words ceased as he sat gazing stupidly, in mingled astonishment and fear. at his scalded hand. The little hut was reeking with the odour emitted by that peeling skin and flesh.
"What is the meaning of this, Minah," he asked
