it—I will not tolerate it! He must be made to understand the impossibility of his desire."
My father sat down by her, took her silk-mittened hand, and kissed the fingers.
"Now just tell me who is 'he.'"
Aunt Kalliroë looked at my father with disgusted surprise.
"Nephew, are you living at the North Pole, and not in Turkey? Baky Pasha, of course."
She flung the name as if it were a bomb, and waited for it to explode. My father took the matter calmly.
"What has he done?" he inquired.
"Nephew, what is the matter with you? Don't you know?"
My father shook his head. "Tell me," he begged.
"He is proposing to buy the Spathary homestead! The—Spathary—homestead! Why the man didn't leave it to the Church I can't understand; but I suppose the stroke prevented him from putting his affairs in order. Well, his only heirs live in Roumania, and they want to sell the house, not to rent it, and what is more they are asking a ridiculous price. The house has been vacant for two years; and now Baky Pasha, the Asiatic brute and murderer, proposes to buy it, to buy a Christian home, which contains a niche for our saints in every bed-chamber—a home which has been blessed by our priests,
