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 the girl, full of enthusiasm and dreams, who had trod these same streets? Something within me had changed. Was it my faith in mankind, or my faith in life itself?

As I walked on, unconsciously I was picturing these same streets, clean, full of life and bustle, were Turkey to belong to America. I could see the trolleys they would have here, the terraces they would build there, the magnificent buildings they would erect, and all the civilized things they would bring to my mother country. My eyes, Americanized by the progress of the new world, kept seeing things that ought to be done, and were left undone, for no other reason than that they had been left undone for hundreds of years. The saddest of all sad things is when one begins to see the faults and failings of one's own beloved, be it a person or a country. I hated myself for finding fault with Turkey because she was clad in a poor, unkempt garb.

Before the Galata Tower, just where the streets form a cross, I turned to the left, and walked to the next street. At its entrance the leader of a band of dogs rose from his slumbers and barked at me angrily. I started, and then stood still. This was a street where once I had lived, and the canine leader barking at me was the same as six years ago, only older, more unkempt, and filthier. It hurt me to have him bark at me. It meant that he did not know me—or did he