The child had wept bitterly over her grandmother’s fiat, though Paula had always taken the lessons quite seriously, for Mary loved her older companion with all the enthusiasm of a half-grown girl—­as a child of ten really is in Egypt; her passionate little heart worshipped the beautiful maiden who was in every respect so far above her, and Paula’s arms had opened wide to embrace the child who brought sunshine into the gloomy, chill atmosphere she breathed in her uncle’s house.  But Neforis regarded the child’s ardent love for her Melchite relation as exaggerated and morbid, imperilling perhaps her religious faith; and she fancied that under Paula’s influence Mary had transferred her affections from her to the younger woman with added warmth.  Nor was this idea wholly fanciful; the child’s strong sense of justice could not bear to see her friend misunderstood and slighted, often simply and entirely misjudged and hardly blamed, so Mary felt it her duty, as far as in her lay, to make up for her grandmother’s delinquencies in regard to the guest who in the child’s eyes was perfection.

But Neforis was not the woman to put up with this demeanor in a child.  Mary was her granddaughter, the only child of her lost son, and no one should come between them.  So she forbid the little girl to go to Paula’s room without an express message, and when a Greek teacher was engaged for her, her instructions were that she should keep her pupil as much as possible out of the Syrian damsel’s way.  All this only fanned the child’s vehement affection; and tenderly as her grandmother would sometimes caress her—­while Mary on her part never failed in dutiful obedience—­neither of them ever felt a true and steady warmth of heart towards the other; and for this Paula was no doubt to blame, though against her will and by her mere existence.

Often, indeed, and by a hundred covert hints Dame Neforis gave Paula to understand that she it was who had alienated her grandchild; there was nothing for it but to keep the child for whom she yearned, at a distance, and only rarely reveal to her the abundance of her love.  At last her life was so full of grievance that she was hardly able to be innocent with the innocent—­a child with the child; Mary was not slow to note this, and ascribed Paula’s altered manner to the suffering caused by her grandmother’s severity.

Mary’s most frequent opportunities of speaking to her friend were just before meals; for at that time no one was watching her, and her grandmother had not forbidden her calling Paula to table.  A visit to her room was the child’s greatest delight—­partly because it was forbidden—­but no less because Paula, up in her own room, was quite different from what she seemed with the others, and because they could there look at each other and kiss without interference, and say what ever they pleased.  There Mary could tell her as much as she dared of the events in their little circle, but the lively and sometimes hoydenish little girl was often withheld from confessing a misdemeanor, or even an inoffensive piece of childishness, by sheer admiration for one who to her appeared nobler, greater and loftier than other beings.