Just before dark, the boys of the Sub-Freshman class who were spending the Easter vacation at the college came and told me they wanted to be my bodyguard. They are to sleep to-night on my balcony--the balcony on the inside of the building just outside my bedroom. Their beds, mattresses and blankets have been given to refugee women for the little children. It is April--but still cold at night. I have taken from the walls and floors all our Turkish rugs--every single one of our treasures--and spread them on the boards for the boys to sleep on--or under. They mean absolutely nothing to me. I do not care if they are lost in the confusion. Johnny tells me there is not much oil in my lamp. I cannot be without light. It may be needed badly in the night. It may be vital for me to have light. To get candles and petroleum from the large school-building was impossible for the boys. The precious things might be taken from them in the crowd. For our compound is filling: and many of the refugees we do not know at all. I must go with the boys. I shall take Kevork and Samsun as well as Socrates. To be without Herbert at a time like this! These blessed boys of mine are splendid. They are thoughtful, devoted, courageous, and most delicate in their attention. I could not be in better hands. The best in people comes out at a crisis. If I live through these days, I shall never cease to cry out against the supercilious, superficial travelers, who, enjoying a sheltered life for themselves and their loved ones, say mean things about Armenians--even that they deserve to be massacred--that massacres are their own fault. All I can say is this: May God Almighty forgive them their judgments, for they know not what they say. My Armenian boys and my Greek Socrates are every bit as fine, every bit as thoroughbred, as Anglo-Saxon boys of the best blood and training. I am back safely--with oil and candles, too. Now I am ready for what may come in the night.