I knew a great deal about the past of Greece, and better yet did I know of the fight of those nine years, which had made the little flag I was caressing again a flag among free nations. I folded and unfolded the miniature flag, which my sons must some day carry forward.
It was the last day of February. Outside a storm was raging. I could hear the angry Sea of Marmora beating violently against the coast, as if it would fain annihilate with its liquid force the solidness of the earth. And the rain, imitating the sea, was beating mightily against the window-panes, while the wind was forcing the tall, stalwart pines, to bend humbly to the earth. Half of the elements were doing violence to the other half—as if they were Greeks destroying the Turks, or Turks oppressing the Greeks.
It was a gloomy birthday, yet an exaltation possessed me. I kept on stroking the little flag. I loved it, and with all the fervour of my five years I vowed to do my duty by it.
The door opened softly, and Kiamelé, my little Turkish attendant, came in. Quickly I tucked away the tiny flag.
"Good morning, Rose Petal." She kneeled by my bed, and, putting her arms around me, smothered me with kisses. "So we are five years old to-day—pretty old, I declare! We shall be looking for a husband very soon. And now show me what the grand-uncle gave you."
