I was so busy that I had no time to feel my strange isolation. The mornings were devoted to household arrangements and lessons in Arabic. Visitors and visiting often occupied me after midday, and in fine weather I enjoyed a ride or a stroll with my brother before sunset, and pleasant evenings with him and his friends. When we were at last alone together we used to compare notes of our several occupations, observations, and adventures of the day. His long residence in the East enabled him to explain some of the intricacies and seeming contradictions in the characters of the Arabs, and to guide me in my intercourse with them. In outline during the Winter one day nearly resembled another, but the details were always pleasantly varied.
Ibrahîm Sekhali, my brother's secretary—and also my writing-master—an energetic, clever young man of the Greek Church, went to 'Akka like many others to avoid cholera. 'Akka was over-crowded, and small-pox broke out. Poor Ibrahîm caught it, and died suddenly on the 16th of January, 1856. His death threw a gloom over Hâifa, for he was a general favorite among Christians and Moslems.
On the 17th, early in the morning, Khalîl Sek hali, the father of Ibrahîm, called on us. He was a very stout, tall, robust-looking man, and wore a long robe or open pelisse, and a large white turban. His features were regular, and his beard long and white. He looked grand in his grief, and his lamentations for his dead son were solemn and dignified. He, with my brother and the chief people of our town, went toward ’Akka to join the funeral cortége, for it was arranged that the body should be brought to Hâifa for burial. All the horses and donkeys were in requisition, and nearly all the shops were closed.
I walked out to witness the wailing of the widow and her companions. They were outside the East Gate, near to the burial-ground. About fifty or sixty vailed women surrounded the chief mourners. I was led almost uncon-
