"Why impossible?" cried he, excitedly.
"Because it does not become the widow of Ibrahim, the poor woman, to
array herself in garments of purple, gold-embroidered satin, like
the ladies of rank. The women would laugh at and mock me more than
ever if I should wear such magnificent garments instead of my faded
dress. Neither can I wear the veil. You can preserve all this to
give to your bride some day. It does not become old Sitta Khadra to
adorn herself thus."
"You are not old, Mother Khadra," said he, in half-tender, angry
tones. "You are still young, and when you adorn yourself with these
garments, there will be no handsomer woman in all Cavalla than Sitta
Khadra. I beg you to put them on; but, to please me, leave the veil
a little open, as the other women do, that people may see how
beautiful my mother is."
"This is folly, and I, am glad no one else hears your audacious
words. No chaste woman opens her veil to permit the gaze of
disrespectful men to fall on her, and my son Mohammed does not wish
to blush for his mother. My son, take back this package to Mr. Lion.
I cannot wear such clothes."
"You will not take them?" said the boy, hastily seizing the package.
"What my heart's warmest love offers, you reject?"
"I reject it," said she, gently. "I have no need of such clothes."
"Very well," cried he, defiantly. "If you do not need these clothes,
I will give them to the mermaids.
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