bevy of birds, mamma would interrupt without even apologizing; and were I to say to her, "Just wait a minute," as mamma thousands of times said to me, I should be called a rude little girl.
Thus it happened that, when my life's work was unfolded before my eyes by an inspiration, I was snatched away to that outlandish place, the Bosphorus.
And there, about a quarter of a mile from the house we took, with nothing between us but fields and gardens, lived a Turkish general and his family. I do not recall his name, for every one spoke of him as the Damlaly Pasha, which means "the pasha who has had a stroke."
His was a modest house, surrounded by a garden, the wall of which had tumbled down in one place, offering a possible means of ingress to a small child of my activity. Some day I meant to avoid the vigilance of the elders and to penetrate into the heart of that unknown garden; for the opening was for ever beckoning to me. But, though I had not yet been able to do so, I had already managed to peep into it; and had seen a young woman who seemed to me the embodiment of a fairy queen picking flowers there.
Every Friday morning the general went over to Constantinople, to ride in the Sultan's procession, as I afterwards learned. He wore his best uniform, and his breast was covered with medals. A eunuch and a little girl always accompanied
