What a great difference ten or twelve years had made in these gardens! The last time I had seen them--before my departure for America--their alleys were carpeted with clean small pebbles, their trees were trimmed, their well-kept flower beds and orchards were a pleasure to the eyes, while the hot-house at the corner was filled with rare tropical plants and fruit-trees. The whisper of running water flew continuously from many fountains and in a small artificial lake a miniature rowboat of polished mahogany lolled lazily in the shade of branches hanging from the shores. It was a thriving garden, speaking of ease and prosperity. But now! It looked as if it had been asleep since the last few years. Gone are the pebbles in the alleys. Broken are the window-panes of the deserted hot-house with its shelves covered with dust and its cracked vases with dried stumps which were once the trunks of tropical plants. Dead leaves rustle under your feet and hush your steps. The trees have grown in a maze of unruly branches. The rose beds of yesteryear have turned wild and now prickly bushes bearing anemic flowers stoop to the ground, fighting for supremacy in the flower garden. Shrubs of lilac, jasmine and honeysuckles--which blossom here in the early fall as well as in spring--faintly scent the air with their reminiscent perfume of past glory. The fountains are silent and the little lake is dry--while the sad nakedness of its gray cement marks the resting-place for the broken remains of what used to be the shining little mahogany rowboat. The beautiful garden is now the ghost of what it used to be. Its soul is alive--perhaps more so than before--but pensive, sad, desolate. The greedy monster of war must have reached as far as this peaceful estate in Erenkeuy, sucking its vitality in its all-devastating tentacles. How did it ever come about? My uncle and my aunt must have had some reverses unknown to me, they would not carelessly let their property deteriorate in this way if they could have helped it. The thought worried me and I turned to my aunt for an explanation. With her diminutive slippers crushing the dead leaves covering the ground, her jet black hair covered with a delicately embroidered white veil, my aunt was slowly walking on my right through the desolate alleys. Her husband was next to her while my wife, with my cousins and my other aunts walked ahead in the distance, fading gradually in the subtle shadows of the desolate garden. My aunt explained. Her voice was subdued but she was dispassionate, firm and resigned.