study and wished him good morning, he only nodded to me, and kept on reading his paper. I retreated to the window, where I occupied myself with breathing on the panes and tracing figures on them with the point of my forefinger. It was only a pretence of occupation, and I was alert for every movement of my father's, hoping he would relent and make friends again.
Presently the door of our garden opened, and admitted a Turkish slave, followed by another, carrying a much beribboned and beflowered basket on his head. I greatly wished to impart this news to my father; but glancing at him I decided that if I wished to remain in the room I had better stay quiet.
But what could be in the basket? I might have gone to inquire, except that I feared if I left the study its doors might close behind me. Besides, if the basket were for my father it would be presently brought in; perhaps I should be permitted to open it, and— From experience I knew that such baskets often contained the sweetest of sweets. So I waited quietly.
The door opened. Instead of a basket, my mother entered, a perplexed frown on her forehead, a letter in her hand.
"What is it?" my father asked, rising.
"Here is a letter which came with a basket from Saad Pasha. I cannot read it. It is in Turkish."
