CHAPTER XXIII.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
As the dragoman approached Sĕra’s hut he paused upon the threshold to observe the scene within, hesitating, as he remembered that it was because of his own reckless conduct that the Nile girl had been stripped of her beautiful gowns and jewels and sent home from Cairo scorned and repudiated.
Her humiliation and despair had haunted him ever since.
But now he found her seated meekly at the well-worn loom, casting the shuttle back and forth with the same mechanical lassitude she had exhibited of old. The discolored black dress, open at the breast and much patched and torn, was her sole garment. Even the blue beads were again about her neck.
But the eyes she turned toward Tadros were different, somehow. Their former velvety depths were veiled with a dull film, while the smoothness of her brow was marred by the wrinkles of a sullen frown.
After a moment, however, she seemed to recognize the dragoman, and rose from her place with a sudden eager look and flushed cheeks.
“You have come for me again?” she asked.
“No,” answered Tadros, casting himself upon a settle. He felt abashed without knowing why he should entertain such a feeling—abashed and sorrowful, in spite of his habitual egotism and selfish disregard of others.
Nephthys leaned back and resumed her weaving. The film covered her eyes again. She paid no further attention to her mother’s guest.
Sĕra, however, was voluble and indignant.