you weep, mother?"

"I know not, my son. I only fear the time is yet far distant when
Mohammed Ali shall stand on the palace with uplifted sword, the
nations bowed down before him! I am only afraid I shall not live to
see this time."

"Are you ill, mother; are you ill?" cried the boy, anxiously and
tenderly. He rushed to her, clasped her in his arms, and fixed his
brown eyes on hers with an earnest, anxious look. "Tell me--I
conjure you in the name of the prophet--tell me, are you ill, Sitta
Khadra?"

She forced herself to regard him with a smile. "No, light of my
eyes! beloved of my soul! When I see you, I am not ill; when I see
and hear you, my heart is in health and at rest, and--"

"You have no disease, no pains?" asked her son, interrupting her.
"Your cheeks are pale, and your lips tremble. Tell me, nothing ails
you, you are quite well?"

"Quite well, my beloved, and nothing ails me. All that is wanting in
my poor life is the moment when you shall have become a great man,
honored by men, and blessed by Allah."

"Honored by men, I will become; the blessing of Allah you shall
implore down upon my head, mother! You must only remain in health to
see me in my grandeur. You will not pain me, mother, by falling ill,
and following my father Ibrahim Aga, before you can say to him, --My
dream is realized, and your son Mohammed has become a great and