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 Just then Sitanthy came out of the house, and claimed a part of the lap that I was occupying, and there we both sat for awhile. But the halaïc had much to do, and presently we were sent off to play.

I questioned Sitanthy about her.

"She will pine away some day and die," Sitanthy said.

My eyes grew larger. "Never!" I cried. "She is immortal."

Sitanthy shook her head. "Oh, yes, she will; for her ailment is incurable. Her heart is buried in a grave."

In vain I begged for more explanations. With maddening precision Sitanthy reiterated the same words. She had heard her grandmother say this, and being a child of her race she accepted it as final. Her mind received without stimulating her imagination. But I was a Greek child, with a mind as alert, an imagination as fertile as hers were placid and apathetic.

The halaïc became the heroine of my daydreams. There was not a tale which my brain remembered or concocted in which she did not figure. My soul thirsted for knowledge of her affairs. They beckoned to me as forcibly as had the tumble-down wall, and I meant some day to penetrate her secrets.

She had said that the old hanoum had brought her up, and that the old hanoum was very poor.