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But when, with much ringing of bells and shouting of orders, the steam-launch rammed the paint off her dahabiyeh, and a young man flung himself over the rail and ran toward her, her annoyance passed, and with a sigh she sank into his outstretched, eager arms.

Half an hour later Ainsley laughed proudly and happily.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “you can never say I kept YOU waiting. I didn’t lose much time, did I? Ten minutes after I got your C. Q. D. signal I was going down the Boston Post Road at seventy miles an hour.”

“My what?” said the girl.

“The sign!” explained Ainsley. “The sign you were to send me to tell me”–he bent over her hands and added gently–“that you cared for me.”

“Oh, I remember,” laughed Polly Kirkland. “I was to send you a sign, wasn’t I? You were to ‘read it in your heart’,” she quoted.

“And I did,” returned Ainsley complacently. “There were several false alarms, and I’d almost lost hope, but when the messengers came I knew them.”

With puzzled eyes the girl frowned and raised her head.

“Messengers?” she repeated. “I sent no message. Of course,” she went on, “when I said you would ‘read it in your heart’ I meant that if you REALLY loved me you would not wait for a sign, but you would just COME!” She sighed proudly and contentedly. “And you came. You understood that, didn’t you?” she asked anxiously.

For an instant Ainsley stared blankly, and then to hide his guilty countenance drew her toward him and kissed her.

“Of course,” he stammered–“of course I understood. That was why I came. I just couldn’t stand it any longer.”

Breathing heavily at the thought of the blunder he had so narrowly avoided, Ainsley turned his head toward the great red disk that was disappearing into the sands of the desert. He was so long silent that the girl lifted her eyes, and found that already he had forgotten her presence and, transfixed, was staring at the sky. On his face was bewilderment and wonder and a touch of awe. The girl followed the direction of his eyes, and in the swiftly gathering darkness saw coming slowly toward them, and descending as they came, six great white birds.

They moved with the last effort of complete exhaustion. In the drooping head and dragging wings of each was written utter weariness, abject fatigue. For a moment they hovered over the dahabiyeh and above the two young lovers, and then, like tired travellers who had reached their journey’s end, they spread their wings and sank to the muddy waters of the Nile and into the enveloping night.

“Some day,” said Ainsley, “I have a confession to make to you.”