I dwell
in it alone, for my father is not fond of women! He says they are
talkative and quarrelsome, vain and lazy, too, and he has had enough
of them. Twelve wives has he brought to his tent, one after the
other, but after a short time he sent every one of them home to her
father. I am the daughter of his first wife, and my father loves me
more than he has ever loved any of them; and he wants no woman in
his tent but his Butheita. Nor do I wish to have any other woman
here. I can attend to father's household affairs quite well, alone.
I milk the goats, make the butter, and bake the bread. I also spin
the wool of our black sheep, and still have plenty of time left to
knit the shawls my father needs."
"So industrious, Butheita? Happy and enviable will the man be who
shall some day lead your father's daughter to his home!"
"You need not envy him," said she, quickly, "there will be no such
man. It is with me as with my father; he loves only me, and I only
him. No man shall ever lead me to his tent as his wife!"
"Butheita will say that until she loves some man," replied Mohammed,
looking deeply into her eyes. "Would Butheita one day follow me to
my tent--me?"
She did not reply. She drew back in alarm, and again she blushed
deeply, quite unlike a child of the desert, but after the fashion of
a city girl, and drew aside the curtain that divided the tent.
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