later, the mountains would become the scene of civil war—but of these things I will not speak here.
We did not return to Palestine till the following November. We steamed into the Bay of ’Akka at sunrise, and with pleasure saw again the range of Carmel, and the white convent, every window of which dazzlingly reflected the light of the morning sun. We were soon lowered into a little Arab boat, and the dusky palm-groves, the flourishing fruit-gardens, and the town of Hâifa, seemed to rise up by magic out of the sea to receive us as we rapidly approached the shore. How glad I was to land there again, and still more glad to see the well-remembered faces of my friends, and to hear their hearty words of welcome spoken in many tongues!
But there were many changes in the place—deaths, births, marriages, arrivals, and departures—old houses pulled down, and new ones built up. Saleh Bek Abdul Hady, with whom I used to play at chess, had gone with his family to settle at Arrabeh, and I heard with deep regret that his child, my little namesake Miriam, and her mother, my friend Helweh, were both dead. The child had died first, and the mother shortly afterward. Two of Saleh Bek's sons were at the French College at Antûra, near Beirût.
One of our neighbors, Signor Luïs Catafago, a widower, was the wealthiest and most influential of the Christian Arabs of Hâifa, and more learned in Arabic literature than anyone in the Pashalic. He was well acquainted with Italian and French, and lived in Semi-European style. His sons were brought up at college, and dressed like Europeans, though his little girls were quite Oriental. He had married a second wife during our absence. She was a native of Damascus. The fame of her beauty and gentleness had gone forth throughout the land. Signor Luis determined to try to win her, so he journeyed to Damascus, carrying with him offerings of rich silks from the looms of Lyons—wrought with gold—strings of pearls, and sprays
