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 The old buildings are as magnificent as ever; the sun is still sparkling on the gold; the picturesque beggars are still there; the blue sky, the Bosphorus, and the cypress trees!

Only the heart and spirit of Turkey have gone to Angora. This is no longer the Turkey of the Turks; and so I am a stranger here, and there are no friendly faces of the Anatolians to give me greeting.

Along the road the same houses are tumbling down, at exactly the same stage of decrepitude. "Nothing has changed, my child," I say, "except my heart."

As we pass the old Tekké, however, I miss the kindly face that used to smile on me from behind the green grilled window; and we laugh over the curious souvenirs I managed to obtain from that holy man.

I was walking with Colonel Z., ten years ago, the first day I noticed him at the window; the big, lovely, dark eyes; the green swathed turban; the Persian robe; and on his face the look of the "peace that passeth understanding." He must be the "Sower that went forth to sow," I said, "please take me in to him."

"But I cannot," said the colonel; and so, before he realised what I was doing, I just walked in myself and told the holy man that "I had come to look at his 'beautiful face.'" After that I paid him many visits, sharing his coffee, making signs to the women, and watching his strange worship, that had not even any accompaniment of the piping flute.

He told me that no Christian had ever before been admitted into the Tekké.

"Do you consider me a heathen?" I asked.

"No, we are all children of God. How can one of His children be a heathen?"

"What has become of the old man?" I asked my Turkish sister.

"They ordered his son—you remember that fine