But the old woman caught the mother to her breast and stroked the golden head and kissed it with a world of pain in her sad old eyes.

“Because, dear,” and the words were very gentle and the voice was very soft, “just because, when we love, we think of ourselves only, and not of those to come.”

The old woman sighed as Jill raised her head sharply:  “Try to understand, little one.  You, my dear, a white woman, married a pure-bred Arab.  Ah! my, dear, my dear, forgive me, your son is------”

Jill sprang to her feet, and as she sprang caught the rope of pearls upon the arm of the chair, breaking it and scattering the jewels to the four corners of the room.

She flung out her hands, making the Eastern sign to scare away evil spirits.  “The omen!” she whispered.  “The omen!  A broken string of pearls means—­means—­death.”

“Come, come, child,” said the old lady sharply, and to allay the unsightly terror in the other’s face, and also because she believed in using an axe in felling a tree, repeated her last remark.  “You are suffering now through the selfishness of love.  Women who marry without giving a thought to the result of the marriage, to the good or the harm it might bring to the children of that marriage, deserve to suffer.  Marry the man, if you really love him and can help him by being his wife; but let there be no children if there is anything in the union that might hurt them.”  She rose and crossed to the girl who was standing staring into a corner of the room, with a world of horror in her eyes.  She moved back as the old woman, came towards her, holding out her hands as though to ward off some evil thing she saw in the shadows.

“I can’t bear it,” she whispered; “I can’t bear it.  I don’t believe that anyone, could think that of Hugh.  Remember how loved he was at Harrow------”

“Ah! my dear, my dear, there was your great mistake . . .”

“You’re wrong,” interrupted Jill harshly.  “You’re hopelessly, cruelly wrong.  He was idolised in England; he is loved out here.  It was sheer spite on the part of the—­woman who told him that he was—­was——­” She pressed her hands over her mouth as she backed to the wall, then flung her arms out wide; her face was dead-white, her eyes blazing; she reminded the old woman of a tigress fighting for her cubs; she was beautiful beyond words in the tragedy of her motherhood.  “I don’t believe you--I don’t believe you--I--you------”

“Listen, Jill.”  The old woman’s voice was as cold as ice as she watched the agony in the fair face.  Dear heavens! she did not want to hurt; she wanted to give in and gather the child up in her arms, but she knew what was best.  “Your boy knows it, dear; he knows he is out of the running.  Come over to me and listen whilst I tell you something.”  She sat down and pulled the suffering child down beside her, who lay across the silken knees like the stricken mother across the knees of the wise Madonna and made no sound or movement whilst she listened to the bitter words of the fortune-teller in the hotel garden at Cairo.