We reached Greece in the violet season, arriving at the Piraeus on the afternoon of a day in early spring. The drive to Athens remains an imperishable memory. We stopped at a half-way house to rest the horses and refresh ourselves with “_loukoumia_” and “_resinata_.” Here I picked my first Grecian violets. I remember that Mt. Hymettus was draped in a deep hyacinthine veil that looked solid enough to touch. My mother’s friend, Mr. Kalopothakis, came down from Athens to greet us on board our steamer. During our three weeks’ stay in Athens he and my mother’s other friends were tireless in their kindness and hospitality. “You will find that you are no stranger here,” Mr. Kalopothakis told me. “Your father’s daughter should feel at home in any Greek home. We have long memories. The name of Howe, the American Hero of the Greek Revolution, is known to every schoolboy.” I remember two balls at the palace, when Queen Olga was very gracious, and King George danced with me. He waltzed extremely well, and was much interested in the dancing of the “Boston” by the Americans of our party, among whom were the Higginsons, who had come with us from Constantinople, and some of the officers from his ship that lay at the Piraeus. Of the many entertainments given in our honor, the banquet with the Cretan chieftains was the most interesting. I lost it on account of illness, but my mother has described the meeting with the veterans and their expressions of gratitude to my father for his lifelong devotion to the cause of Cretan liberty. The banquet had a certain Homeric flavor. It was served in the open air on the seacoast. The _pièce de résistance_ was a lamb roasted out of doors with fragrant herbs wrapped about it. “To Howe.” Each chieftain rose and offered the toast, pronouncing the name as if it were Greek. One old fellow whom I afterwards met had served with my father when he was a boy. He was past eighty and strong as an ox. I remember his very words: “It is my wish and I believe that it will be granted, to live long enough to fight another campaign and to kill a few more Turks with these hands!” This with a gesture as of choking an enemy. We found Doctor and Mrs. Schliemann in Athens, and enjoyed much foregathering with them. One afternoon, when we had gone to take tea with Mrs. Schliemann, she brought in the baby to be admired. He was a fine handsome child, with something of a temper. My mother took him up and tried to coax him, “What’s wrong with poor little Agamemnon,” she asked, as the boy, refusing to be comforted, only roared and raged in her arms. Mrs. Schliemann turned upon him sternly: “No, not _poor_ little Agamemnon, _nasty_ little Agamemnon!” she exclaimed, and bore him away to the nursery in disgrace.