going to see every day, and whether you found it over yonder."
I extended my microscopic hand, and he took it solemnly in his big, horny brown one.
"You are a dear, Ali Baba," I cried. I did not know what his name was, but Father Ali seemed to suit him.
Byzantine history, combined with my search in old Byzantium, and Ali Baba's rapt attention to my expounding of it, made that winter a very happy one. I generally returned when the city was bathed in the sunset light; and these hours with Ali Baba, listening, his oars poised over the waters of the Golden Horn—truly golden at this hour—were hours of enchantment for me. How could we help becoming fast friends, sharing as we did such magical moments together. I liked him so much that I began to economize and make him presents I thought he needed, such as a new shirt, a new pair of stockings, a new cloth for his turban; and it almost broke my heart when one evening, as he was landing me on the Constantinople side, he, too, made me a present. It was a very gaudy red and blue handkerchief, filled with raisins and leblebia—a delectable grain only to be found in Turkey.
I accepted these, apparently delighted, yet wondering what I was to do with them. It would have been impossible to enter the house and go to my room without having to explain the
