Aboard our train was an Albanian bey returning with his little daughter from a pilgrimage to Mecca. Friends were gathered at several stops to greet him. They threw their arms about him and pressed faces with him, but none of them noticed the girl. She was a marvel of beauty, probably ten years of age, and yet, of course, unveiled. Her hair, which hung in a single bunch under a soft blue homespun kerchief, was a rich auburn--though the roots of it were black. Her finger-nails were likewise dyed with henna. She wore richly figured bloomers, like the gypsies, and a loose, sleeveless jacket of blue over a white blouse. We told the Albanian his child was pretty, which caused him to exclaim in alarm, ‘Marshalla!’--May God avert evil! It is bad luck in Turkey to receive a compliment. We asked the Albanian if he had many children. ‘One children and three girls,’ was the reply. At Monastir we surrendered our _teskerés_ to a Turkish official, to be retained until we left town, and took a carriage to the Hôtel Belgrade. This is the only hotel in the town; the others are all khans. In spite of the immortal William, there is much in a name. By its presumption the Hôtel Belgrade got the patronage of both the correspondents and the ‘reformajis’--as the reforming officers and officials were derisively dubbed. There were some queer characters among us. A ‘special commissioner’ of the _Daily News_ took his mission so seriously that he never smiled, and always wore a silk hat. The other Englishman suggested an opera hat for cross-country travel, in the hope that his compatriot would spring it in the company of an Albanian and get shot. An Italian official of the Ottoman Bank had taught himself English, and was enraptured when we arrived. It was with much pride that he addressed us at supper. But we did not recognise the language, and expressed in French our unfortunate ignorance of foreign tongues. ‘That is your own tongue,’ said the Italian; but even of this we understood not a word. The man drew a pencil from his pocket, and on the back of a letter wrote: ‘I am speaking English.’ We were astounded. ‘Perhaps I do not pronounce correctly,’ he wrote next. ‘I have learned the noble language from books.’ The hilarious Englishman gave the unhappy Italian his first lesson at once. He took the pencil, and wrote: ‘Always pronounce English as it is not spelt; spell it as it is not pronounced.’ The Italian was an earnest student, and soon made progress. Before we left the hotel he was interpreting to the proprietor for us. One day the Englishman asked if there was any chicken on the bill of fare. The Italian conversed with the proprietor for a few minutes, and then informed us that there was ‘a kind of a chicken.’ ‘What kind of a chicken?’ chirped the Englishman; and the special commissioner of the _Daily News_ almost smiled. ‘It is a--what do you call it?--a goose, sir.’