should be sent for, our house was in a tumult of cleaning. My room especially was made immaculate, and I was put into my finest night-*gown. No coquette was ever more carefully arrayed for the visit of a handsome young doctor than I was for the saint. A large table, covered with a new white cloth, was placed near my bed. On it was an incense-burner, flowers, and a bowl of water—to be blessed, and used to bathe my face so long as it should last.
Two men, for their strength and size called pallikaria, had gone for the icon. St George of the Bells, though on the same island with us, had his monastery up on the highest summit of the mountains, several miles from our house. In order to receive the saint with proper ceremony my mother sent for the parish priests. They arrived shortly before the icon, dressed in their most festive robes of silver thread, and with their long curls floating over their shoulders.
The pallikaria arrived, bearing the saint, and preceded by a monk from his monastery. When they brought him into my room, though I was very weak, I was raised from my bed and placed at the foot of the icon. It was quite large, and painted on wood. The face alone was visible: all the rest had been covered with gold and silver, tokens of gratitude from those whom the saint had cured. Rings, ear-rings, bracelets, and other jewellery were also hanging from the icon, while
