know the Greek Revolution as our great modern poets sang of it; and before the year was over I could recite the "Chani of Gravia" and other celebrated poems, as American children recite "Mother Goose."
One day there came into our garden, where my brother and I sat, a handsome young man, saying: "They told me you were in the garden, so I came to find you." He sat down by us and plunged into a conversation about a certain game they were getting up, and of which my brother was the captain. We escorted him to the gate, when he left us, and after he was out of ear-shot I asked my brother who he was, as he had forgotten to introduce us.
"It is Arif Bey," he replied rather curtly.
"You don't mean a real Turk?" I cried.
"Why, yes."
"But you seemed so friendly with him!"
"Why not? I like him first rate."
"How can you be friends with a Turk?"
"He's an awfully good fellow."
"But ought we to like them, and treat them as if they were our equals?"
"Well, what can we do, sister? They are the masters here, and we belong to the Turkish officialdom. We have got to be friendly with them."
"But we ought to hate them just the same, since we must kill them. Wouldn't you kill him, if you could?"
