In all my wanderings I have never experienced such an overpowering sense of isolation. For me there have been no “personal” communications from Europe since October. That “English letters are not accepted in Anatolia,” that all my friends’ news will be returned to them marked “Service suspended” or “cannot be reached,” may explain the facts but does not make them easier to bear. When homeless dogs howl and whine outside my bedroom window, superstitions will intrude—dread of disaster to distant friends. There is, however, another and far more cheering side to our experiences on the road. The “stranger within the gates” is still a sacred person to these peasants, even although from an “enemy” land. There was absolutely no sign of hostility all along the line, but everywhere the greatest kindness. One and all gave me the gracious Eastern welcome, in picturesque phrases, commending me to the care of Allah; these “fanatics” from whom mere murder was the smallest evil I had been told to expect! Though we had started, through no fault of our own, without any provision for food, I did not anticipate any serious inconvenience on this account. In these hospitable countries I knew we had only to name our need. The cheik, indeed, had been presented with two large baskets of food by his disciples, and also carried a picturesque terra-cotta water-pot, which he could refill whenever we stopped to alight. “Eat, my children,” said he, “and when all is finished, the Lord will provide.” “What a feast from the Song of Solomon,” I exclaimed, as the contents of his basket were disclosed—pomegranates, spices, nuts, helva (i.e., honey and nut-cheese), raisins, and bread! One is grateful for these slow trains that afford such ample opportunity for seeing the country, with its fig-trees, olives, and palms, and the bright sun bringing a climate that recalls the South of France. Yet everywhere, long before we reached the actual devastations, one felt that despair and sadness were hovering over the land. At first, we sought in vain for the reason of our impressions. Then suddenly I knew: There were no cattle. Of course, Mrs. de. C—— had told me, they had all been brought into Smyrna by the Greeks. Outside her house mules were being sold for fourpence or sixpence apiece, and if no purchaser could be found even at that figure, the wretched creatures were left mutilated on the wayside, their eyes burnt out, their legs broken by hatchets! Our first halt was at Manissa, once a flourishing town of about ninety thousand inhabitants, standing some sixty-five kilometres above sea-level. The Governor and all the “notables” were on the platform to welcome the travellers, and had arranged that the “train should wait,” for us to be shown round.