our whole city will become a hospital. Heaven knows what kind of diseases they are! Moreover, they are of a very peculiar kind, and often the people die very suddenly. The bells fly in pieces almost from so much tolling, the grave-diggers' shovels are blunt, and from the great demand for coffins the price of wood is risen. What will become of us, I know not."

"Is not, then, the cause of these diseases known to you?"

"Oh, that is clear enough," answered Hripsime. "It is a punishment for our sins. What good deeds have we done that we should expect God's mercy? Thieves, counterfeiters, all these you find among us. They snatch the last shirt from the poor man's back, purloin trust moneys, church money: in a word, there is no shameless deed we will not undertake for profit. We need not wonder if God punishes us for it. Yes, God acts justly, praised be his holy name! Indeed, it would be marvellous if God let us go unpunished."

Hripsime was not a little excited, and that was just what I wished. When she once began she could no longer hold in: her words gushed forth as from a spring, and the more she spoke the smoother her speech.

"Do you know?" I began again, "that I have been standing a long while before this deserted yard, and cannot recall whose house stood here, why they have pulled it down, and what has become of its inhabitants? You are an aged woman, and have peeped into every corner of our city: you must have something to tell about it. If you have nothing important on hand, be kind enough to tell me what you know of the former residents of the vanished house."

Nurse Hripsime turned her gaze to the vacant yard, and, shaking her head, said:

"My dear son, the history of that house is as long as one of our fairy-tales. One must tell for seven days and seven nights in order to reach the end.

"This yard was not always so desolate as you see it now," she went on. "Once there stood here a house, not very large, but pretty and attractive, and made of wood. The wooden houses of former days pleased me much better than the present stone houses, which look like cheese mats outside and are prisons within. An old proverb says, 'In stone or brick houses life goes on sadly,'

"Here, on this spot, next to the fig-tree," she continued, "stood formerly a house with a five-windowed front, green blinds, and a red roof. Farther back there by the acacias stood the stable, and between the house and the stable, the kitchen and the hen-house. Here to the right of the gate a spring." With these words Nurse Hripsime took a step forward, looked about, and said: "What is this? the spring gone, too! I recollect as if to-day that there was a spring of sweet water on the very spot where I am standing. What can have happened to it! I know that everything can be lost—but a spring, how can that be lost?" Hripsime stooped and began to scratch about with her stick. "Look here," she said suddenly, "bad boys have filled up the beautiful spring with earth and stones. Plague take it! Well, if one's head is cut off, he weeps not for his beard. For the spring I care not, but for poor Sarkis and his family I am very sorry."

"Are you certain that the house of Sarkis, the grocer, stood here? I had wholly forgotten it. Now tell me, I pray, what has become of him? Does he still live, or is he dead? Where is his family? I remember now that he had a pretty daughter and also a son."

Nurse Hripsime gave no heed to my questions, but stood silently, poking about with her stick near the choked-up spring.

The picture of Grocer Sarkis, as we called him, took form vividly in my memory, and with it awoke many experiences of my childhood. I remembered that when I was a child a dear old lady often visited us, who was continually telling us about Grocer Sarkis, and used to hold up his children as models. In summer, when the early fruit was ripe, she used to visit his house, gather fruit in his garden, and would always come to us with full pockets, bringing us egg-plums, saffron apples, fig-pears, and many other fruits. From that time we knew Sarkis, and when my mother wanted any little thing for the house I got it for her at his store. I loved him well, this Sarkis; he was a quiet, mild man, around whose mouth a smile hovered. "What do you want, my child?" he always asked when I entered his store.

"My mother sends you greeting," I would answer. "She wants this or that."

"Well, well, my child, you shall have it," he usually answered, and always gave me a stick of sugar candy, with the words, "That is for you; it is good for the cough." It never happened that I went out of the store without receiving something from him. In winter-time he treated me to sugar candy, and in summer-time he always had in his store great baskets full of apricots, plums, pears, and apples, or whatever was in season in his garden. His garden at that time—some thirty or thirty-five years ago—was very famous. One time my mother sent me to Sarkis's store to procure, as I remember, saffron for the pillau. Sarkis gave me what I desired, and then noticing, probably, how longingly I looked toward the fruit-baskets, he said:

"Now, you shall go and have a good time in my garden. Do you know where my house is?"

"Yes, I know. Not far from the Church of Our Lady."

"Right, my son, you have found it. It has green blinds, and a fig-tree stands in front of it. Now take this basket and carry it to Auntie, and say that I sent word that she was to let you go into the garden with my son Toros. There you two may eat what you will."

He handed me a neat-looking basket. I peeped into it and saw a sheep's liver. I was as disgusted with this as though it were a dead dog, for at that time liver-eaters were abhorred not less than thieves and counterfeiters; they with their whole family were held in derision, and people generally refused to associate with them. In a moment I forgot entirely what a good man Sarkis was; I forgot his fruit-garden and his pretty daughter, of whom the good old lady had told me so many beautiful things. The liver had spoiled everything in a trice. Sarkis noticed this, and asked me smiling:

"What is the matter?"

"Have you a dog in your yard?" I asked, without heeding his words.

"No," he said.

"For whom, then, is the liver?"

"For none other than ourselves. We will eat it."

I looked at Sarkis to see if he were jesting with me, but no sign of jesting was to be seen in his face.

"You will really eat the liver yourselves?" I asked.

"What astonishes you, my boy? Is not liver to be eaten, then?"

"Dogs eat liver," I said, deeply wounded, and turned away, for Sarkis appeared to me at that moment like a ghoul.

Just then there came into the store a pretty, pleasing boy. "Mamma sent me to get what you have bought at the Bazaar, and the hearth-fire has been lit a long time." I concluded that this was Sarkis's son, Toros. I perceived immediately from his face that he was a good boy, and I was very much taken with him.

"Here, little son, take that," Sarkis said, and handed him the basket which I had set down.

Toros peeped in, and when he spied the liver he said, "We will have a pie for dinner." Then he put on his cap and turned to go.

"Toros," called his father to him, "take Melkon with you to our house and play with him as a brother."

I was exceedingly pleased with the invitation, and went out with Toros. When we arrived at Sarkis's house and entered the garden it seemed as though I were in an entirely new world. The yard was very pretty, no disorder was to be seen anywhere. Here and there pretty chickens, geese, and turkeys ran about with their chicks. On the roof sat doves of the best kinds. The yard was shaded in places by pretty green trees, the house had a pretty balcony, and under the eaves stood green-painted tubs for catching rain-water. In the windows different flowers were growing, and from the balcony hung cages of goldfinches, nightingales, and canary birds; in a word, everything I saw was pretty, homelike,