COFFEE. 



35 



and set it on the fire. No matter whether it is in an open 

 tin pan or a close coffee-pot. Don't let it boil three sec- 

 onds. The instant it foams up your coffee is ready. Pour 

 it through a cloth strainer, and to a fourth of a cupful of 

 the coffee add three fourths of hot milk. V'/a tout. You 

 have a cup of aromatic bliss. Old fishermen know all 

 about this, and in forest life have better coffee in camp 

 than can be had at the Cafe Foi in Paris. 



For the Parisian cafe is not what it used to be. A cup 

 of coffee has not been attainable for years past in Paris, 

 except in the lowest-class restaurants. If you seek it, go 

 to the environs of a market — the little Marche St. Hono- 

 ree, for example — and in one of the miserable shops 

 where the market people get their early breakfasts, you 

 may find, what you used to find in every restaurant, a 

 good bowl of cafe- au- la it. 



A cup of coffee is full of refreshing memories. The 

 sense which more than all others recalls old scenes is the 

 sense of smell. Odors, good or bad, are quick reminders. 

 Neither hearing nor sight nor touch nor taste has half 

 the power to recall the vanished past. 



" Effendi," said Philip, before he lifted the coffee to his 

 lips at breakfast that morning, "what has become of our 

 old friend Abd-el-Kader, who was Nadir in Upper Egypt 

 when I met you at Thebes in fifty-six ?" 



"What, in the name of wonder, has started such an in- 

 quiry?" said Dr. Johnston, looking curiously at Philip. 



" I'm sure I don't know. Is there any thing odd about 

 my question ?" 



" Nothing odd ; only remarkably remote from any thing 

 hereabouts." 



" Not so," I said. " It was the coffee. The only time 

 that Philip and I met in Egypt was at Edfou, one after- 



