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 not quite well, I begged to be permitted to sit by the window.

The trio for whom I was waiting came, but sooner than their customary hour. From afar Sitanthy waved her little hand to me. Then instead of passing by, as usual, all three came up to our house, and the old general ceremoniously delivered a letter addressed to my father, who at once came out, and accompanied them to the gate.

When my father returned, he said that on her way back the little girl was to stay and play with me.

On this first visit, Sitanthy told me her history. She was the only child of the only son of the old general and his hanoum. Her father was killed in one of those wars, unrecorded by history, which the sultan wages against his unruly subjects in remote, unmapped corners of Asia. But, if these wars are not recorded by history, their record is written with indelible ink in the hearts of the Turkish women; for every one means the loss of brothers, fathers, husbands, and sons, whose deaths are reported, if at all, long after they have been laid away in unknown graves.

Sitanthy's mother died from a broken heart, and thus my little friend was all that remained to the old couple.

"I wear those trousers," she explained, "to afford pleasure to my grandparents. "You see