“After all I don’t want so very much to find him,” said this amazing young person. “He made me stay in my cabin all the time I was in the steamer. At first I was glad, for it went up and down, side to side, and I thought I would die, for I was so sick; but afterwards I got better--” “But where did you come from?” I asked. “From Alexandretta.” “What were you doing there?” “I used to sit in a tree and look over the wall--” “What wall?” “The wall of my house-my father’s house. He was not my father, but he married my mother. I am English.” She announced the fact with a little air of finality. “Indeed?” said I. “Yes. Father, mother--both English. He was Vice-Consul. He died before I was born. Then his friend Hamdi Effendi took my mother and married her. You see?” I confessed I did not. “Where does Harry come in?” I inquired. She looked puzzled. “Come in?” she echoed. I perceived her knowledge of the English vernacular was limited. I turned my question differently. “Oh,” she said with more animation. “He used to pass by the wall, and I talked to him when there was no one looking. He was so pretty--prettier than you,” she paused. “Is it possible?” I said, ironically. “Oh, yes,” she replied with profound gravity. “He had a moustache, but he was not so long.” “Well? You talked to Harry. What then?” In her artless way she told me. A refreshing story, as old as the crusades, with the accessories of orthodox tradition; a European disguise, purchased at a slop dealer’s by the precious Harry, a rope, a midnight flitting, a passage taken on board an English ship; the anchor weighed; and the lovers were free on the bounding main. A most refreshing story! I put on a sudden air of sternness, and shot a question at her like a bullet. “Are you making all this up, young woman?” She started-looked quite scared. “You mean I tell lies? But no. It is all true. Why shouldn’t it be true? How else could I have come here?” The question was unanswerable. Her story was as preposterous as her garments. But her garments were real enough. I looked long into her great innocent eyes. Yes, she was telling me the truth. She babbled on for a little. I gathered that her step-father, Hamdi Effendi, was a Turkish official. She had spent all her life in the harem from which she had eloped with this pretty young Englishman. “And what must I do?” she reiterated.