In the meanwhile Miriam, formerly of the Land of Israel, now of the Land of Syria but always, at least in her happier moments, a dweller in the Land of Make-Believe, where you and I once lived, had discovered something new. By piling the cushions high on that wide bench which ran around three sides of the room, and standing upon them, she could look through the window-opening out upon the street. The lattice, which kept out the bats so nicely, would also prevent anyone on the outside from seeing the face at the window.
There was so much to be seen close at hand! From the roof, the figures on the streets of Damascus looked almost as small as had the ants crawling about their hills in Israel. Why, there was Isaac coming and he had a timbrel under his arm! She was sure it was for her because she had mentioned, one day, how much better she could sing the Lord’s songs when accompanied by music, and they had talked about timbrels. She knew just how he would give it to her. He would make an elaborate bow and say: “Fair lady, accept, I pray thee, a fond token of remembrance from thy faithful subjects beyond the Great Sea who have sent this, through many and great dangers, by the hand of thy devoted slave.”
She would take it with very grand airs, just as if she were a fair lady with subjects beyond the Great Sea and it had been sent through many dangers, when they both knew that he had bought it for her in that very city in one of those puzzling little shops he had told her about and which he was going to take her to see some time. She wondered if it would be the day he would also take her to see Rachel, who was so happy in the home of Ezekiel’s friend in the street of the merchants of Israel.
Next she would become extremely grave and tell him that just before he came into the courtyard somebody had thrown him a kiss. She knew it for a fact, but he would never guess who it was. At first he would not believe such a thing, then he would reluctantly admit that she might have seen a kiss thrown, but it was surely meant for someone else—Milcah, perhaps. This being denied, he would accept her word for it, but be very much mystified and make so many wild and improbable guesses as to the source from which it came that it was a great deal of fun. At last he would give it up and she would have to tell him that it was herself. At this he would assume a comical expression of relief and say that such being the case he was not so distressed because, not having any little sister of his own, he had adopted her, but if it had been anyone else—here his tone would become tragic—he would be most uncomfortable, for, as she knew, he was so bashful. At this they would both laugh, for he was not bashful at all, and their play would be over.
They would then sit on the marble bench under the damson tree in the courtyard, where they could see the fountain and hear the birds, and he would give her a lesson. Every day he taught her a few words of Syrian and encouraged her to tell him all her experiences since the day before in that language so that she would the sooner become proficient. Thus she began to “save up” things to relate and to “pick up” words as she wandered among the maid servants. He had begun this task as a dreaded duty. He continued it as a pleasure, finding her intelligent and quick and her ideas frequently original.
Miriam neither guessed his one-time aversion to these lessons nor his present satisfaction. He was learning tact as well as patience. She only knew that he was sufficiently young to grasp her viewpoint just as Eli had once done—that Eli about whom she was so voluble. “Because Benjamin had Rachel to talk to,” she explained, “and I am going to marry Eli when I grow up.” He wondered why he felt complimented that she should tell him this “secret,” but he did. In response he gravely approved her choice, and even asked the privilege of being the friend of the bridegroom, who would, according to Eastern usage, make the necessary arrangements! The lesson over he would say good-by until the next day, and when he had gone she always found that the sun did not seem to shine so brightly.
She was still gazing through the lattice when she was suddenly jerked down, and a voice she had learned to fear said, indignantly, “I know the man to whom thou art throwing kisses.”
Miriam fingered her arm ruefully. To get those bruises over that! She answered a little triumphantly: “Nay, Milcah, it was no man at all. It was only Isaac.”
There was a sound from the veranda wonderfully like a stifled laugh, but it passed unnoticed in the excitement. Milcah’s tones were coldly severe: “In justice I shall have to say that I can find no fault with thy general conduct, but I have observed that thou art very bold toward my brother. Shame on thee!”