He sent me to my room without my customary kiss, and a vague terror brooded over me during the whole restless night.
The next morning when I went to my father’s 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.”
My father took the letter and read it, and as he did so an expression of relief came into his face.
“His wife invites you to go to her at once.”
“What!” my mother cried, “I go to her? I! And pray why?”