ISKANDER EFFENDI. 39 



night, in front of her father's door, I saw her carriage 

 draw up at the curb, and she descended from it with her 

 mother. Just as they stepped out two ruffians set upon 

 them, and the elder lady shrieked and fell, while Edith 

 sprang proudly back to the side of the carriage, and raised 

 her slender arm and fan as if she carried a sword. It 

 was but the work of a second to send the villains one into 

 the gutter and one half dead against an iron fence. Then 

 I left them, unthanked — for I did not wish to be recog- 

 nized and remembered. Can you imagine this strange 

 feeling? It was my life. It led my every-day existence. 

 For this thought and this only I lived — that I should love 

 that beautiful girl, and love her unknown forever. 



" My father died, leaving me wealthy and alone in the 

 world. The life I had led had wholly separated me from 

 men. I was utterly alone. My father's loss was not felt, 

 for I had never loved him. Yet there was a strange in- 

 cident in his death which impressed me. He died sud- 

 denly, and his last words were very few. 'Philip — you 

 are alone — lonesome — my son, you have kindred that you 

 know not of — Jerusalem — seek — father's — son — broth- 

 er — ' These broken words were his last utterance. 



" I had passed four years of my life in the East with a 

 tutor. I know not what longing after human affection 

 sent me on the search that was pointed out in my father's 

 last words. I gathered that I had kindred somewhere, 

 and perhaps he meant to say he or his father had a 

 brother of whom I would hear something in Jerusalem. 



" I had nothing to live for in America but Edith — and 

 just then Edith was gone. Her mother died, and her fa- 

 ther took her away to Europe, and for long travel. 



" I went to seek some one I could love, and that would 

 love me. It was a boyish fancy, perhaps, but I sought it 



