ABSTRACT
I have a painful memory of my home-coming to Sultan Tepé on my return from England. The little boys stood with their backs to the garden, holding hands. Whether it was fancy or reality I could not tell, but the peach-like coloring of Hassan’s face seemed to have assumed a delicate tinge, and his usually round cheeks looked sunken. That very night I realized fully what a bloody revolution means to a child’s delicate nervous system. In the middle of the night I woke with a start to hear Hassan talking deliriously in his sleep. It was a frantic appeal to the soldiers not to kill me, and he repeated it all the time with the accent of unutterable misery and fear which only a child can have in its voice. In the morning he had a very high fever, and it proved to be typhoid. This time I was so completely occupied with nursing the child that I slipped out of the world of affairs and barely realized the great and exciting change which the new régime was undertaking.
