and her head drooped. She seldom spoke, and her only words were words of lamentation and despair. Little Katrîne, the daughter of our friend Saleh, touchingly described her great grief, saying, "I think our aunt will die. She has no thought but for Ibrahîm. She does not wish to see any one but Ibrahîm. Always she is kissing his coat, his cap, and his gun. Always her face is wet with tears, and she will not be comforted. She can not eat, and at night she is awake; only a little in the daytime she falls asleep, tired of crying and of folding and unfolding all his clothes. No one can make her glad now."
Little Katrîne's fears were realized. The mother of Ibrahîm died on the 13th of February, fretting to the last for her dead son. I attended her funeral the next day. At an early hour I saw the procession form. Men carrying banners, embroidered with sacred emblems and monograms, led the way. Then came the Greek priests. One of them bore a large gilt wooden cross. The body was in a dark coffin, on which three white crosses were conspicuous. It was supported by six men. The male mourners were headed by the widower and his three sons. The women followed afar off. A large number of people lined the road all the way to the church, and fell in with the funeral cortége as it passed.
The bell was tolling as I entered the church. I went up into the women's gallery, which is very high, and opposite to the altar. I was led to the front of it, where a block of wood was given to me for a seat. The women, all vailed and in white sheets, sat around on the matted floor. I looked down into the church, through a sloping wooden lattice, at an angle of about twenty degrees with the ceiling, and so arranged that a view of what was going on below could only be obtained by leaning forward over this lattice, and with the face nearly close to it. Thus positioned, I could see easily.
The chancel was already crowded. A few European gentlemen, in dark clothes, looked conspicuous among the
