Haifa, the most modern city in Palestine, lay at the southern point of the Bay of Acre, about fifty miles north of Jaffa. Situated amid palm-trees, it retained its Eastern character whilst bearing witness to the innovations of the West. During the two years which had elapsed since the English Edict of Expulsion, the great army of Jewish artisans had laboured well. Rows upon rows of white bungalows had sprung up almost, as it seemed, in a night; and although they could not boast of the substantiality of their construction, they could be improved by degrees. The greater part of the population consisted of British refugees, who, linked together by the same home ties, concentrated themselves as much as possible in one quarter, leaving their brethren of other nationalities to settle in different parts of the country. Therefore, although it was an accepted rule that Hebrew was to be learnt and spoken, they instinctively clung to their native tongue.

They were very aristocratic, these exiled English Jews. Like many English people who travel abroad, they considered themselves vastly superior to all the foreigners with whom they came into contact. They looked down on their poor Polish and Roumanian brethren, who in their turn considered the English as irreligious moderns, scarcely worthy of the name of Jews. The brotherly feeling of equality which their leaders endeavoured to instil within them was as yet entirely lacking. Although of identical race and religion, and gathered together under one banner, the distinctions of class and nationality held them aloof.

It was the eve of Purim, the Feast of Lots. By decree of the council, a public holiday had been proclaimed; for it was intended that this day should annually be observed, and that the rejoicings should be akin to the nature of a carnival. It was not until dusk, however, that the festivities began. The day had been unusually hot, even for Syria, and the majority of the inhabitants had chosen to spend the holiday indoors. At sunset came the breeze, and the heat of the day was replaced by a refreshing and welcome coolness. No matter how hot the day in Haifa, the nights were always cool.

In a sequestered corner of a city roof-garden were Lionel Montella and his wife. Above them the moon shone with dazzling splendour, making the numberless hills stand out as sentinels on guard, and causing the waters of the bay to sparkle like myriads of jewels. Patricia reclined against the cushions of her chair, and inhaled the fragrance of the breeze with keen enjoyment. She found the Syrian climate so trying that she was thankful for every breath of air.

The two years in Palestine had changed her little, and she was still a delicately fair and beautiful girl. Devotedly attached to her husband and baby boy, she found no occasion to pine for her friends in the West. She had always possessed the power of adapting herself to her surroundings, and she soon became accustomed to the strangeness of her new life. Recently the Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig had arrived to “do” Palestine, and was at present in Haifa, so that she was not entirely destitute of friends.

“The Princess is late,” she remarked, as Lionel took a seat at her side. “She said she would come here to see the fun.”

“Perhaps her carriage has some difficulty in getting through the crowd,” Montella replied. “I am just wondering if this carnival idea of Engelmacher’s is a wise one. It means practically setting the people loose.”

“I rather like the idea,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “The people have had such a serious time of it that it will do them good to relax for once. I do not see why they should not behave as well as the people at Nice or Cannes. The soldiers will keep them within bounds.”

“I can scarcely reconcile myself to the thought of vociferous Jewish rejoicing,” he rejoined. “We have sung in the minor key for so many years. Do you know, dearest, these last two years seem to have passed like a dream. I have difficulty in convincing myself sometimes that I am awake.”

“A dream of hard work, then,” was her reply. “To be governor of a city so cosmopolitan as Haifa, and where the inhabitants have scarcely settled down, is no sinecure, Lal, dear. I know of no man, not excepting Dr. Engelmacher himself, who could have done so much in so short a time. It is no wonder that there is already a streak of grey in your hair.”

He bent down and kissed her with eyes full of tenderness. His life in Palestine would have been almost unbearable without Patricia’s sweet sympathy and encouragement; for there was much in the city and the people over whom he was placed that vexed him sometimes beyond endurance. Her love was the sustaining power which made the rough places smooth, and she possessed so winning a manner that she could exert a greater influence over the people by a single sentence than he could by a long and forcible address. Political administration could do much to improve the conditions of the city, but it could not instil a high moral tone.

The rustle of silken garments announced the approach of ladies, and Montella rose from his chair. The Princess, clad in a gown of filmy white, was accompanied by Lady Montella and Raie. Just at that moment the sound of cheering came up to them from below.

“My little car has met with the approval of the people,” the Princess said, smiling. “It is the one I had in Rome.”

Montella went over to the parapet and looked down. A small white swan-shaped car, drawn by four Arabian ponies, was being driven slowly away. It was decorated with choice flowers, and illuminated with tiny lamps, resulting in a fairy-like effect. In the procession which would presently set out for the mock hanging of Haman’s effigy, it would serve as Queen Esther’s triumphal car.

“Lady Montella took me over your new house this afternoon,” the Princess informed Patricia, as she settled herself at her side. “It will be the show-place of Haifa. I like your Roman atrium immensely. Who designed it?”

“Lionel. He is so determined that I should have an artistic home that he has spared no pains to make it beautiful for me. That is why the builders have taken so much time over it. For myself, I am quite happy in this little place, in spite of its plainness. It was a sort of hospice before we came, you know.”

She smiled as she thought of her husband’s enthusiasm over the house he was having built. That house was his hobby, and he took the same pride in it as an artist over his picture. And she knew the motive of his interest was concentrated in herself; in his eyes there was no home which could be beautiful enough for his wife.

“You must invite me to come and stay with you when it is finished,” said the Princess lightly. “Meanwhile I must be content with my exalted position on the top of Mount Carmel. It is something, is it not, to stay in the very place where Elijah conquered the prophets of Baal? I love Mount Carmel!”

“You seem quite enamoured of Palestine altogether,” said Montella, joining the group. “I did not think you would stay so long, Princess—you who have seen so much of other countries.”

“I do like Palestine,” she admitted readily. “I like the Oriental colouring, and it amuses me to note the curious blending of types and nationalities to be found here. Besides, Palestine possesses an interest all its own. I am not religiously inclined myself; but it is, after all, the Holy Land.”

“The Holy Land!” repeated Patricia musingly. “Do you know of what the phrase puts me in remembrance? Why, of the dreaded Scripture lessons I had in the days of my childhood. My governess used to make me learn the exact position of every place mentioned in the Bible, until I could almost find them, blindfolded, on the map. I am afraid I used to hate the Holy Land in those days. I never dreamt that I should go there myself.”

“And do you like it better now that you are here?”

“Yes; but I should like any place for so long as my husband were with me.”

She glanced affectionately at Lionel. The Princess sighed. Perhaps a pang of compunction smote her for having left her own husband to lead a solitary life in the castle at Felsen-Schvoenig. Hers was a curious blending of character which the German Prince could not understand. She was alternately defiant and yielding; unfortunately, whenever she came into contact with her husband, the defiance predominated.

“To-day’s mail brought me a letter from Mamie,” she said, after a moment’s silence. “She seems to be getting on very well with her new husband, considering Moore’s temper. She says that he is more interesting than Chesterwood, because she never knows what sort of a mood he will be in next. There is something in that, you know.”

Patricia smiled.

“How does she like being the Prime Minister’s wife?” she asked.

“Oh, Athelstan is horrid in that way,” the Princess replied vaguely. “He doesn’t believe in women meddling with politics; and won’t tell her any State secrets.”

“Sensible man!” remarked Montella, with a playful glance at his wife; and then the cheering having begun anew, he returned to the parapet.

“The procession is coming,” announced Raie, who was looking down on the crowd. “Look: ‘What shall be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?’ There is the Scroll of Esther. I suppose they are going to the synagogue to read it.”

The procession was headed by the students of the new Haifa Jews’ College in full dress, and was unenlivened by the strains of any brass band. Instead, the weird chanting of Psalms in Hebrew smote the air, the voices sounding clear, but somewhat harsh. Men of all sorts and conditions followed on: the swarthy Pole walked side by side with the ruddy Saxon, the fair and slender Jerusalemite with the wiry Roumanian. Coming from a source so heterogeneous, they were yet able to sink their national differences on one common meeting-ground; and Hebrew, that sacred tongue of their fathers, served as a language for them all.

Lady Montella, with her arm within her son’s, watched them with swelling heart. To her, there was a deeper significance than the mere joy of Purim in the procession of rejoicing Jews. The chord of racial nationalism which lay so far down in her nature responded as to an harmonious touch, and quivered with an emotion which could scarcely be expressed in words. Years ago she had dreamt of a free gathering under the sign of the Shield of David. It seemed as if her dream had at last come true.

“Can I go down amongst the crowd, Aunt Inez?” asked Raie, breaking in upon her reverie. “I want to have a look at all the funny things the men are selling.”

“It would not be safe, dear,” Lady Montella replied. “You would need a stronger escort than Anne.”

“You can come with me presently, Raie,” volunteered the Princess, noticing the girl’s air of disappointment “If Lady Montella has no objection, you shall spend the night with me at the Mount Carmel Hotel.”

Raie was delighted, and having obtained permission, went to get ready forthwith. An hour later they were being driven through the densely thronged streets. The festivities had taken a more hilarious turn, but there was nothing riotous in the behaviour of any of the people. When the Jew rejoices as a religious duty, he does it with his whole heart; but as he is not addicted to drink, he is able to keep his merriment within bounds. The throwing of the modern confetti and the trampling underfoot of Haman’s effigies constituted the chief source of amusement. Indoors the better-class families were celebrating the occasion by a grand Purim feast.

Arrived at the summit of the mount, they found the hotel in a state of confusion. A tourist—arrived only that day—had been attacked by an Arab in one of the caves, and—it was said—lay in a critical condition. It was the first time for many years that an outrage had been committed so near the town.

The Princess was much concerned, for she had made the acquaintance of the tourist in question immediately after his arrival.

“His name is Frank Merryweather, and he comes from Australia,” she said to Raie, who was always anxious for information. “He is one of the finest men I have ever seen.”

“He is not a Jew?” affirmed the girl, with interrogation.

“I am not sure. He is the sort of man one can’t easily place; but as he spoke of going on to England shortly, I suppose he is not.”

Later in the evening, the physician, who happened to be staying in the hotel, informed them that his patient’s wound was not so serious as had been feared. The next morning the patient himself was brought up to the roof-garden to enjoy the air before the heat of the day.

The Princess and her friend were up early, and found him propped up on a couch beneath a shady palm. The air was fragrant with the breath of tropical flowers, and was made melodious by the sweet carolling of the birds. The sick man lay with his eyes closed, but he opened them as he heard the rustling of a woman’s dress. His glance first fell on the stately figure of the Princess, and his features relaxed in greeting. Then he looked at Raie, who, in a simple linen gown which suited her well, might have stood for a picture of perfect girlhood.

“Miss Emanuel, Mr. Merryweather,” said the Princess; and Raie shook hands with a new tinge of colour in her cheeks. Then an almost involuntary look passed between them—the intuitive sign when Jew meets Jew.

“We were distressed to hear of your accident last night,” the Princess said, as they took their seats beside him. “Do tell us about it. Do you feel better this morning?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” he replied, in a genial voice. “It was a mere scratch, which the people chose to magnify into a serious wound. I shall be as right as ninepence pretty soon. It was my own fault for prying where I wasn’t wanted. I got into one of the caves on the other side of the mount, not knowing that it was the parlour of an Arab gentleman until he set on me and whipped out a knife. I wouldn’t have intruded if I had known it was his den. I guess I’ll keep to the township for the future, anyway.”

“Have you been long in Syria?” asked the Princess, when they had both commented on the adventure. “I suppose you have visited Jerusalem and the neighbourhood?”

He answered in the negative.

“I came from Port Said to Jaffa, and from Jaffa to here,” he explained. “I am really en route from Australia to England.”

Raie wondered what business had brought him to Haifa, but she was too well-bred to ask.

“I suppose England is your home?” she said gently, thinking that there was no harm in questioning so far.

“I have no home, Miss Emanuel,” was his prompt reply. “The world is my home.”

There was a touch of sadness in his words, as well as in his voice. The girl glanced up suddenly, and meeting the gaze from his deep eyes looked as suddenly away. She felt instinctively that this was a man who had been brought into contact with the rough side of life, but who yet retained his natural refinement of birth. He interested her strangely, and so strongly that she longed to find out more about him. If he were a Jew, how was it that he intended to go to England? Surely he must be aware of the expulsion of the Jews?

She was so impressed by his personality that she could not help thinking of him, even after her departure from the hotel. She visited her people—who lived in one of the white houses in the suburbs—later in the day, and could scarcely refrain from mentioning him to them. She was glad, however, that she was able to check herself in time, for Mrs. Emanuel’s badinage was the last thing that she desired. In talking to her mother, however, a half-forgotten chord of remembrance was stirred in her brain—a psychological connection between Mr. Merryweather and a former conversation. She tried to fathom it out, but the solution escaped her. One thing she was certain about: she had seen something of the tourist before.

The Princess had taken a fancy to Raie. She admired the girl’s winsome face, with its coronal of curly hair, and the animation which shone in her dark eyes. She liked, too, her naïve manner and natural freshness, for, in spite of her thoughtfulness, Raie was a child of Nature. In England the two had scarcely spoken, although they had met several times; but in Haifa the conditions of life were different, and the friendship, once begun, soon ripened. Thus it happened that Raie spent a great part of her time at the Mount Carmel Hotel, either lunching or dining with her friend.

The air of mystery which pervaded the Australian tourist still prevailed. He would give a certain amount of information about himself, but no more; and concerning his own life he was extremely reticent. He seldom ventured far into the town, and had not troubled to call at the Government House. What attracted him to Haifa, therefore, no one exactly knew; he had evidently come for a private purpose of his own.

Now the Princess possessed acute powers of perception. She soon saw that Mr. Merryweather took pleasure in Raie’s society, and that Raie reciprocated in like manner. So she set the seal of her approval on the acquaintance by giving them opportunities for its further cultivation; and in spite of her worldly wisdom she did not pause to consider whether such a friendship were desirable. The tourist was much older than Raie, and of his connections nothing was known. Yet she encouraged the girl to form a liking for him which gradually deepened into love.

He had travelled so much that conversation never languished for want of subject matter. Raie was profoundly interested in his graphic accounts of life in the bush, but she would have preferred to hear him talk about himself. She did not even know if her instinctive belief that he belonged to her own race was correct; for although they had often approached the subject, he had not yet confessed himself a Jew. She thought so much of him that she was determined to find out. It would make all the difference in the world if he were not a Jew.

He was fond of taking excursions in the surrounding country on horseback, and often remained away over night. He invited the Princess and Raie to picnic with him near the ruins of the Castellum Peregrinorum of the Crusaders one day, and seemed so bent upon their going, that they did not like to refuse. They set out at dawn, accompanied by two other gentlemen who were staying at the hotel, and three Arab servants. Their way lay along a cultivated plain between the mountains and the sea, with villages nestling on the slopes above them, and rocks and ruins below. The gaudily-dressed peasants gazed at them with distrust, evidently regarding them as intruders. Arrived at Athlit, they put up their horses at a neighbouring khan, and prepared to partake of a light repast. Their appetites had been sharpened by the ride.

Raie felt like a schoolgirl out for a holiday. She had come out with the express intention of enjoying herself, and she meant to fulfil it to the letter. Outside the khan lay a solemn-looking camel; immediately she made up her mind that she must have a ride.

The Arab in charge was a gentle-looking individual, with somewhat melancholy eyes. He wore both a tarbûsh and keffiyeh on his head, and his abbâ—or shawl—fell from his shoulders in graceful folds. He shrugged his shoulders when Mr. Merryweather’s servant proffered Raie’s request, and in consideration of backsheesh allowed her to mount. This was easier said than done, for when the camel began to rise from the ground she was nearly thrown over his head. She clung on, however, with all the tenacity of which she was capable, and felt as if she had attained a victory when the animal set off at a jog-trot.

Mr. Merryweather walked alongside in order to keep her company, and endeavoured to sustain a conversation with the Arab on the way. When the girl declared that the motion gave her a peculiar sensation, he suggested a halt, and the animal was brought to a sudden standstill. Raie was not sorry to dismount, and gave a sigh of relief when her feet touched the ground. She had no desire to repeat the experience which had been hers on the sea.

Her companion paid the Arab, and sent the camel back to the khan. Then he drew Raie towards one of the fine carob-trees which abound in that district, and bade her rest beneath its shade. She settled herself comfortably on a boulder, and he flung himself down at her side. The opportunity for which he had sought had come.

“Miss Emanuel,” he said suddenly, “are you fond of Heine?”

The question was so unexpected that Raie glanced at him in surprise.

“Do you mean the German poet?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The girl waxed thoughtful.

“I admire his genius,” she replied, at length, “but some of his poems irritate me. He is so apt to descend from the sublime to the ridiculous, and to him absolutely nothing is sacred. He has the poet’s mind without the poet’s soul. What makes you think of Heine, though, just now?”

“I was thinking of a little poem I read of his a long time ago—‘Life’s Salutations.’ It was about meeting each other on the highway of life, but having little time to greet before the postillion gives the starting signal, and we have to be off again.

That seems to apply to our case, does it not? We have had time to greet each other, but that is all. The signal has been given for my coach to start.”

“Do you mean that you are going away?” Raie asked, with a sinking at her heart.

He nodded his head.

“Yes,” was his reply. “I have stayed here much longer than I intended, already. I must be in London at the beginning of next month.”

“You are going to England!” she exclaimed, with disappointment in her voice. If he were going to England, he could not be a Jew; and if he were not a Jew, he could be nothing to her. She glanced at him with an unspoken question in her eyes, whilst across her bright face flitted an expression of pain.

He captured one of her little sunburnt hands, and held it between his own.

“You are sorry—Raie?” he said, in a quiet voice. “Tell me the truth.”

“Yes, I am sorry.” She glanced away, and refused to meet his gaze. “I can’t help being sorry. You have been so kind to me.”

She had never felt so near crying in her life, and yet she could have laughed at her own foolishness. A mist rose before her eyes, and the mountains in the distance seemed blurred. She released her hand, and fumbled for her tiny lace handkerchief. Mr. Merryweather’s features relaxed into an expression of gentleness.

“Raie,” he said, with a tender accent on the name, “I am going to England, but I am not bound to stay there. In three months’ time I can be back in Haifa—that is, if you will give me permission to come.”

“I?” she exclaimed evasively. “What has it to do with me?”

“Everything. If I return to Haifa it will only be for you. Perhaps I have no right to speak to you like this, dear, but I could not go away without declaring myself. Raie, look me in the face and tell me the truth. Do you love me?”

He raised her chin gently with his two hands, and brought her face on a level with his own. The girl’s cheeks grew crimson as she looked back into the depths of his eyes. She answered not a word, but he was satisfied.

“You do love me,” he said, with conviction. “I can read the answer in your eyes.”

There was a moment of silence as he relaxed his hold. The girl was undergoing an inward struggle, and her heart beat fast. She was wondering what the Montellas would think of her secret lover, and what her mother would say. Would they be angry with her, and consider her conduct underhand? Would they approve of one who was presumably a Christian and a wanderer? Would it not be wiser to send him away before it was too late? In less than a minute these suggestions crowded in upon her mind.

Mr. Merryweather seemed to guess her thoughts.

“I wonder if you love me enough to trust me, dear,” he said slowly. “You have a right to want to know something about the man you intend to marry, but I cannot tell you all about myself just yet. I can assure you, though, that I come of a good family—my father is a baronet; and although I am over thirty, I am a bachelor, and have never had a love-affair. More than this I cannot tell you now, but you shall know everything some day. Until then, will you be content to take me on trust? Will you promise to become my wife?”

He spoke in the sharp, disjointed sentences which were—with him—a sign of deep feeling. Raie looked up at him almost piteously, and for the moment knew not how to reply. He was so much older and stronger than herself that she instinctively felt that resistance would be useless; besides, she did not want to resist. But something within urged her not to be rash, and she felt compelled to listen to her conscience.

“I do trust you,” she answered, almost inaudibly, “but I cannot promise to become your wife. I owe so much to Lady Montella that I could not—I dare not—engage myself without her consent. You see I believe in you because—because I know that you are good; but in her case it would be so different. I am sure she would not give her consent to our engagement unless she were satisfied that you—that you—oh, I can’t explain, but you know what I mean. And she is so particular that I am afraid she would never allow me to marry away from my religion. I suppose you are—not a Jew?”

She studied his features as though their contour would reveal what she sought. He was neither fair nor dark, and his life in the open had lent a ruggedness to his countenance which baffled her completely. Fortunately she was not kept long in suspense.

“That objection can be easily dispelled,” he answered, with a slight touch of colour. “I have the right to call myself a Jew.”

She gave a sigh of relief.

“And yet you are going to England?” she questioned, not yet satisfied. “And—and—Merryweather is not a Jewish name?”

He bent down and regarded her steadfastly once more.

“Did you not say you would trust me, Raie?” he rejoined, with a touch of reproach. “What if, for a certain grave reason, I have been obliged to change my name? Listen, child,”—his voice became almost stern—“I am a Jew; but for many years past I have made mankind my brethren, the world my country, and God in Nature my religion. When I was a youth I was expelled from home and people for a crime which I never committed, since when I have lived alone. Recently I have had reason to believe that by returning to England I may be able to prove my innocence, and as I have made my fortune out on the goldfields, I shall have the power that money can give. I can tell you no more, perhaps I have told you too much already; but I have made you a most serious confidence. Surely you can trust me in return?”

Her face was full of trouble.

“I do trust you!” she repeated, with a catch in her breath; “but what you have told me makes it harder still. Unless she knows the whole truth, I know Lady Montella will not consent.”

“She must know nothing for the present. Not a word of what I have told you must pass your lips. Raie, my darling, I must insist on this for the sake of us both. Promise me you will not say anything of this.”

She promised—but with reluctance, because she hated to have a secret from her foster-aunt.

“Won’t you tell me your real name?” she asked half wistfully. “I do not want to think of you as ‘Frank Merryweather’ if that is only a pseudonym.”

But he shook his head.

“You must have patience a little longer, dear,” he rejoined. “I dare not tell you yet.”

She glanced at him with reproach in her eyes, but forbore to put it into words. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead, and then assisted her to rise. They were both silent on the way back to the khan, and Raie, at least, was deep in thought. Suddenly a flash of light as dazzling as a revelation burst in upon her mind. She knew now why her lover’s personality had always seemed so familiar to her. The son of a Jewish baronet—expelled from home—fortune made in Australia. It was impossible that there could exist two such men.

She stopped short in her walk, and faced him with excitement.

“It is not necessary for you to tell me your name,” she said hurriedly. “I know it already. I first heard of you from my mother some months ago, and I have seen your photograph. You are the son whom Sir Julian so cruelly disinherited. You are Lionel’s half-brother—Ferdinand Montella!”

He met her gaze of astonishment with a curious expression on his face.

“Ferdinand Montella is dead,” he returned slowly, “or at least he is sleeping. For the present Frank Merryweather remains to take his place. You are a clever child, Raie. I did not think you would find me out so easily.”

“I seemed, somehow, to know you from the first,” she said gladly, as they continued their walk. “There was something about your personality which gave me the impression of having met you before. I suppose I never have met you before; but your ways of looking and speaking are very like your poor father’s, and of course I knew him well.”

The adjective arrested his attention.

“You do not mean to say that my father is—” He broke off shortly. “Why did you say ‘poor’?”

“Because he is dead.” Then realising her abruptness, she was filled with compunction. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she added respectfully. “I ought not to have told you like that. I made sure that you knew; it was in all the papers. He died over three years ago.”

The tourist’s face grew grave, and unconsciously hardened.

“I have lived practically away from civilisation for some time, where no news could reach me,” he rejoined, “but I do not suppose I should have been sent for, even had it been possible. Sir Julian treated me very unjustly, Raie, and I find it hard to forget. Still, he was my father, and loved me when I was a child. I am sorry he has died believing me guilty.”

Raie was silent for a few moments, and left him to his own reflections; but before they rejoined their party, she spoke again.

“Why did you come to Haifa without making yourself known to your people, Ferdinand?” she asked, eager for information.

“Frank, dear, not Ferdinand—for the present,” he corrected, starting slightly at the name. “My coming to Haifa was a mere chance, and it was not until I arrived here that I learnt that my brother Lionel was Governor. I suppose Burstall Abbey has been sold? Who lives there now?”

“It belongs to Earl Torrens, Lionel’s father-in-law; but it is standing empty for the present. Do you remember the nurse—Anne—from Thorpe Burstall? She came with us to Palestine, and is with us now.”

“Anne Whiteside? Yes, I remember her well. I must be careful, or she will recognise me. She was always very shrewd.”

Raie glanced up at him thoughtfully.

“I wish you would go and see Lady Montella and Lionel before you go away,” she said, with a touch of entreaty. “I am sure they would receive you well.”

He shook his head.

“I intend to have nothing to do with the Montellas until my innocence has been proved,” he rejoined firmly. “I do not desire pity or forgiveness; I want only justice.”

“But you will claim your title, surely? Even if it is not of much value away from England, it is your right. Some day we may all return.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“For myself I care nothing; I have roughed it too long to wish for anything of the sort. If I claim it, dearest, it will be for you.”

The colour came into her cheeks, and she made no reply. Of all the strange coincidences she had met with during her short life, this seemed the strangest. Her eyes shone with a new light when, a few minutes later, she rejoined the Princess; and on the homeward journey she was unusually silent. As they passed through the outskirts of Haifa, she found herself with her lover at the head of the little cavalcade a few paces in advance, and begged him to allow her to confide in her friend. She was so anxious to tell someone that she was afraid she would not be able to refrain from introducing the subject; so Ferdinand, knowing that the Princess could be trusted, consented. The occasion was celebrated by a dainty supper in the hotel, and Raie’s eyes shone as they had never done before. And even when her lover took his departure a few days later, the love-light in her eyes remained, so that the Montellas wondered what had come to her, and why she was so unusually joyous. Perhaps the girl wondered at herself, for it seemed almost incredible that the mere fact of knowing Ferdinand should make so great a difference. But the fact remained, and she had no power to prevent it—indeed, she had no wish that it should be otherwise. Gazing into her mirror one morning, she was astonished to find how well she looked—how her eyes sparkled, and how vivacious was the expression on her face.

“I shall be quite pretty by the time Ferdie comes back,” she said softly to herself, exhibiting for the first time a sense of vanity. “I want to be pretty for him. For myself, I do not care at all; but for him—”

And then she leant her elbows on the dressing-table and lost herself in a delicious reverie; but presently a cloud passed over her brow. Supposing Ferdinand were unable to prove his innocence, what would she do? Had she the courage to marry him with a stain upon his name and character; and even if she had the courage, would it be right for her so to do? Besides, she could not marry him whilst he retained his pseudonym, and neither in Palestine nor England could they be united under the name of Montella. Looking into the future, she foresaw difficulties so immense as to be almost insuperable, but she could not bear the thought of ever having to give up the man she loved. No sacrifice would be too great so far as she personally was concerned; but she hated the thought of grieving the one to whom she owed more than she could ever repay. It was not in her nature to act clandestinely or to rebel against authority, especially when she knew that that authority was worthy of esteem. So that if it came to breaking with either Lady Montella or her lover, the struggle would be keen and bitter; for whichever way it went she would lose a friend. She could only hope that what she dreaded might never come to pass, and that her lover would return with his honour unimpeached. Once he were able to reclaim his forfeited rights, all impedimenta to their marriage would be removed. Her foster-aunt would not withhold her consent without due cause.

“Haifa seems to agree with you better than it does with us,” her mother remarked, when in the cool of early morning she betook herself to the little white bungalow which the Emanuels inhabited. “You are looking splendid, Raie—different to our pasty-looking, freckled Harriet.”

Raie was sorry for her sister, who, since the dissolution of her engagement with the young man who had cruelly jilted her some months before they left England, had come in for an unpalatable number of home-truths.

“Harriet cannot help her freckles, mother,” she rejoined, taking up the cudgels in her defence. “I think she finds the climate trying, and I know she does not like the food.”

Mrs. Emanuel tossed her head in impatience.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with anger. “She doesn’t give the food a chance; it is all I can do to get her to eat at all. Ever since her engagement was broken off, she has done nothing but mope and pine for Harry Levi. She has lost all her good looks, and she takes no trouble over her appearance; and I’m sure the fellow isn’t worth a thought. I’m ashamed of her, and that’s the truth; I never thought she would develop into a crotchety old maid.”

The girl was silent, scarcely knowing what to say. Thinking of her own lover, she felt more sympathy for her unfortunate sister than she dare own. But when Harriet made her appearance a little while later, she could not help experiencing a shock. Was it really love—or the lack of it—that could make such a change?

“She does look ill,” she admitted, when the girl had left the room, “I wonder if it would do her good to stay at Government House for a few days? I am sure Lady Montella would allow me to invite her. What has become of Harry Levi, I wonder. He is not in Palestine?”

“No, of course not. He is one of the ‘assimilated’ Jews. I suppose he will marry a shicksa,^[8] and bring up his children as Christians. He doesn’t deserve to get on, spoiling a girl’s life as he did. I’d like to ‘assimilate’ him, the scoundrel! There wouldn’t be much of him left by the time I had finished. I hope you’ll be more careful when you get a young man, Raie.”

Raie blushed to the roots of her hair. “My young man would not throw me over,” she said playfully, and quickly changed the subject. With a somewhat forced carelessness she inquired if her mother were getting more used to the place.

“Getting used to the place?” repeated Mrs. Emanuel, in her usual high-pitched voice. “I shall never get used to Haifa if I live to be a hundred. When I want to be in bed, I’ve got to get up because it’s cool, and when I want to be up and about, I’ve got to go to bed because it’s hot. And as soon as I move out of doors I’m pestered with a lot of Moslem beggars, until I come home without a farthing in my pocket. What with the difference in the food, and the water that isn’t fit to drink, and the funny people with their silly jargon, and the stupid currency, which gives me a headache every time I have to buy anything, and the peculiar mode of living, it’s enough to turn one’s hair grey. Besides, the place is overcrowded. Palestine is too small for all the people who want to settle down here.”

Raie could not resist a smile.

“There is bound to be a little overcrowding until the people are more dispersed,” she returned convincingly. “When the other towns are ready to receive them they will leave the larger cities. There are building operations going on all over the country, and in a few years Palestine will be extended to double its present area. So you see there will be room for everybody, mother.”

“Give me Canonbury,” continued Mrs. Emanuel, following her own train of thought. “I would rather live in the Petherton Road than anywhere else in the world;” and no amount of persuasion or argument would make her think otherwise. She was too old to bear transplanting successfully, Raie thought.

She found her foster-aunt and Lionel in the morning-room when she returned to the Government House an hour later. They were engaged in a desultory conversation, for Lady Montella was writing, but a few words reached her as she passed down the corridor. Her heart seemed to leap, and she paused irresolute at the door; for they made mention of her lover’s name.

“Anne declares she has seen Ferdinand in the town,” Lionel was saying, as he put down the newspaper he was reading; “but why should Ferdinand come to Haifa? And if he did come, would he not seek us out?”

Then seeing Raie’s figure framed in the doorway, he spoke of something else, but not before the girl had had time to hear.

“Ferdie will have to be careful when he comes back, or he will be discovered,” she thought, as she advanced farther into the room.

It was a very difficult matter to elude the lynx-like eye of the old nurse, Anne.