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 especially to meet children, and to try to talk with them. I had known that other children existed, but I thought that each one was brought up alone on an island with a grand-uncle, who taught it the history of its race.

My father and I quickly became friends, and I soon began to talk with him in the grown-up way I had talked with my uncle, much to his amusement, I could see.

One day when I was sitting in his lap, with my arms encircling his neck, I said to him:

"Father, do you feel the Turkish yoke?"

He gave a start. "What are you talking about, child?"

It was then I told him what I knew of our past, and of our obligations toward the future; how some day we must rise and throw off that yoke, and hear the holy liturgy again chanted in St Sophia.

He listened, interested, yet a flush of anger overspread his face. He patted me, and murmured to himself: "And we thought she would grow stronger living in the country."

He bent down and kissed me. "I would not bother much, just now, about these things," he said. "I'd play and grow strong."

"But, father," I protested, "uncle told me never to forget those things—not even for a day; to remember them constantly, and to bring up my sons to carry forward the flag."