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I patted Hannah on the arm. After all, none of the exaltation of a good deed upheld Hannah as it sustained us.

“We are going to help him help himself, Hannah,” I said kindly. “He hasn’t found himself. Be gentle with him. Remember he comes from the land of the Bible.”

“Humph!” said Hannah, who reads the newspapers. “So does the plague!”

The problem we had set ourselves we worked out that morning. As Tish said, the boy ought to have light work, for the Syrians are not a laboring people.

“Their occupation is–er–mainly pastoral,” she said, with the authority of the encyclopaedia. “Grazing their herds and gathering figs and olives. If we knew some one who needed a shepherd–“

Aggie opposed the shepherd idea, however. As she said, and with reason, the climate is too rigorous. “It’s all well enough in Syria,” she said, “where they have no cold weather; but he’d take his death of pneumonia here.”

We put the shepherd idea reluctantly aside. My own notion of finding a camel for him to look after was negatived by Tish at once, and properly enough I realized.

“The only camels are in circuses,” she said, “and our duty to the boy is moral as well as physical. Circuses are dens of immorality. Of course the Syrians are merchants, and we might get him work in a store. But then again–what chance has he of rising? Once a clerk, always a clerk.” She looked round at the chairs and tables, littered with the contents of Tufik’s pasteboard suitcase, which lay empty at her feet. “And there is nothing to canvassing from door to door. Look at these exquisite things!–and he cannot sell them. Nobody buys. He says he never gets inside a house door. If you had seen his face when I bought a kimono from him!”

At eleven o’clock, having found nothing in the “Help Wanted” column to fit Tufik’s case, Tish called up Charlie Sands and offered Tufik as a reporter, provided he was given no nightwork. But Charlie Sands said it was impossible–that the editors and owners of the paper were always putting on their sons and relatives, and that when there was a vacancy the big advertisers got it. Tish insisted–she suggested that Tufik could run an Arabian column, like the German one, and bring in a lot of new subscribers. But Charlie Sands stood firm.

At noon Tufik came. We heard a skirmish at the door and Hannah talking between her teeth.

“She’s out,” she said.

“Well, I think she is not out,” in Tufik’s soft tones.

“You’ll not get in.”

“Ah, but my toes are in. See, my foot wishes to enter!” Then something soft, coaxing, infinitely wistful, in Arabian followed by a slap. The next moment Hannah, in tears, rushed back to the kitchen. There was no sound from the hallway. No smiling Tufik presented himself in the doorway.

Tish rose in the majesty of wrath. “I could strangle that woman!” she said, and we followed her into the hall.

Tufik was standing inside the door with his arms folded, staring ahead. He took no notice of us.

“Tufik!” Aggie cried, running to him. “Did she–did she dare–Tish, look at his cheek!”

“She is a bad woman!” Tufik said somberly. “I make my little prayer to see Miss Tish, my mother, and she–I kill her!”

We had a hard time apologizing to him for Hanna. Tish got a basin of cold water so he might bathe his face; and Aggie brought a tablespoonful of blackberry cordial, which is soothing. When the poor boy was calmer we met in Tish’s bedroom and Tish was quite firm on one point–Hannah must leave!

Now, this I must say in my own defense–I was sorry for Tufik; and it is quite true I bought him a suit and winter flannels and a pair of yellow shoes–he asked for yellow. He said he was homesick for a bit of sunshine, and our so somber garb made him heart-sad. But I would never have dismissed a cook like Hannah for him.