tenderly; "all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but
how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father,
the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not
allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me
as his equal?"

"Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me
again," said Osman, with a sad smile. "He is careful not to hurt or
offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very
dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend
I possess. My father knows that you are my benefactor, and that I
live from your life, Mohammed. Look at me wonderingly, if you will;
I am a sick child, and shall remain one, although years have made me
a youth. And let me tell you, Mohammed, I shall never become a
strong, healthy man. I have very weak lungs, inherited from my
mother, and if it were not for you, if I had not been sustained by
your healthy and vigorous mind and disposition, I should have died
long since. Therefore, do not say that you have cause to be grateful
to me. My father and I both have cause to be grateful to you, for my
father loves me and rejoices in my life; and I, too, am very glad to
live. The sun is so beautiful, it is so delightful to look at the
deep-blue sky, the flowers are so fragrant, and finally it is such a
pleasure to see you and to rejoice in your vigorous mind. I
therefore owe every thing to you, Mohammed, and father and I know
this, and are very thankful."

"Those are sweet words, Osman," said Mohammed, bestowing an
affectionate look on his friend. "You are so noble and generous,
that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have
received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am