Three years and a half have elapsed since Nizam’s marriage. These years were marked by only one important event in the family of Boghos Effendi: the birth of little Jersebeth, the daughter of Nizam and Jousif hodja. Hanna badgi is still living, but her delicate health causes great anxiety to the other members of the family, who are in constant fear of losing her. Archag is now a lad of sixteen, slight and strong, looking quite eighteen. Last year he spent his holidays at the Highland Farm; this time his visit was not spoiled by adventures such as we have related; he was a great help to his father, and even took his place at the horse sales.

He has completed the course in the school at Van, and his father has decided to send him to the American College at Aintab. Our friend has heard a great deal about it from his older companions; he is fond of his studies, and delighted to be able to go on with them, for he has little inclination for mercantile life, although he has not yet chosen his vocation.

Boghos Effendi had written to the president of the college, and at last, after two long months of waiting and suspense, the post-master one day gave Archag a letter bearing the Aintab postmark.1 Our friend made haste to carry it to his father. The president, Dr. Mills, wrote that he would admit Archag to the Sophomore class on payment of twelve Turkish pounds (fifty-five dollars) for the year. The term was to begin on the twentieth of September, and as it was already the twenty-fifth of August, there was no time to be lost, for it was necessary to allow three or four weeks for the journey. A caravan was leaving Van for Aleppo on the first of September, passing through Marash and Aintab, and it was decided that Archag should travel in the company of these merchants. It would have been quite impossible for a boy of his age to take such a journey entirely alone. These last days, filled with a host of preparations, passed all too quickly for our friend, who was feeling sad at the thought of leaving home and family.

The day before his departure he went with his father to the serail to ask for a teskereh (passport). The kaimakan, engrossed in reading his Stamboul newspaper, received them sullenly; but as Boghos Effendi was one of the most influential members of the Armenian community, he did not dare refuse the desired passport. He wrote down Archag’s name and age, his weight and height, the color of his hair and eyes and even of the clothes he was to wear on the journey; then he made a note of all the places through which the lad would have to pass. Boghos Effendi willingly paid the two mejidiehs (about two dollars) for the precious paper, for at this period the Armenians were often refused passports and so were unable to travel at all; father and son kissed the pasha’s hand, as a sign of submission, and made low bows as they withdrew.

Archag spent the rest of the day with his sister and brother-in-law. Jousif hodja had studied at Aintab, and so was able to give the boy some good advice:

“Think yourself fortunate, my lad,” said he, “to have the privilege of working with such men as Professor Pagratian and Professor Hagopian. Go to see Mrs. Spencer, the doctor’s wife, now and then; she loves our people, and her example will stimulate you. And whatever any one may say to you, always remember with joy and pride that you are an Armenian.”

“And our president!” asked Archag.

“Dr. Mills is a man of high attainments, and the college has made remarkable progress under his direction.”

Nizam begged her brother to write often, to be a good boy and go to church regularly. Archag embraced his sister and brother-in-law with much feeling, and promised to do everything they wished.

His last meal at home was a sad one, for every one was silent and pre-occupied. Archag went to bed early but he did not sleep well; he kept waking up with a start, dreaming that he was late. At daybreak old Gulenia came to call him and he dressed quickly. He had hardly finished his breakfast when the tinkling of camels’ bells was heard.

“Archag Effendi, are you ready?” called an old Arab.

The lad’s horse was waiting in the courtyard. Krikor had fastened our friend’s boxes to the saddle, one on each side, and spread a mattress and blankets over the horse’s back. Archag flung himself into the arms of his father and mother, then knelt to receive their blessing. He gave his brother a hug, called out a last good-by to the servants gathered in the courtyard, mounted his horse and settled himself very comfortably on the seat that Krikor had arranged. Again and again he looked back to wave his handkerchief, tears streaming down his cheeks.

His journey was long and difficult; the camels walked at a pace so exasperatingly slow, that Archag, worn out with fatigue, would fall asleep with his arms around his horse’s neck. To avoid the heat, the caravan would start at daybreak and travel till noon, rest till three or four o’clock and then go on several miles farther. Each night was spent at an inn, where Archag could scarcely sleep at all for the vermin. When he was just falling into a doze, one of his companions would wake him up, saying that it was time to be off.

They passed through Bitlis and Marash, in turn. At last, one morning, as the caravan reached the crest of a hill, one of the Arabs pointed out to Archag a great city embowered in foliage, lying in the plain below. It was Aintab. Twenty-two days had passed since their departure from Van. The Mussulman showed his young protÉgÉ the principal buildings; the old half-ruined “kala” (fortress), the dome of the Gregorian Cathedral, the towers of the Franciscan church, the Mosque with needle-pointed minarets, the American Hospital, and finally the College, its faÇade in English style contrasting strangely with the native architecture of the other buildings. The camels, urged on by their drivers, quickened their pace, sniffing and uttering mournful cries. They made good time, and toward noon the caravan drew up at an inn where it was to stay for several days.

Aintab contained at that time about sixty thousand inhabitants, twenty-five thousand of whom were Armenians. Mussulmans and Christians lived in separate quarters of the town, and had little intercourse with each other. The city lies in a fertile plain watered by a tributary of the Euphrates. The vine grows luxuriantly on the surrounding hills, producing grapes that are famous throughout the country. Aintab, being about seventy kilometers from a railway, has been very little affected by European civilization. The American Mission has established here, a hospital, a normal school for girls, and a college. The latter was founded in 1876 by Dr. Trowbridge, a Christian and an elect soul, removed, alas, too soon, from the field of his activity. At the time of which we are speaking, the college had two hundred students, forty of whom were resident pupils. It was well situated, on a hill overlooking the city and the plain.

As soon as Archag had had his passport visÉ-ed, he set out for Central Turkey College. From a long distance he could see the great red brick building around which were grouped the houses of the president and professors. The campus was enclosed by a high wall. At the entrance, Archag had a moment’s talk with the porter, then the heavy iron-barred gates turned on their hinges, and the lad went up the hill.

Some boys at play in front of the school building looked with curiosity at the newcomer, and our friend went up to one of them and asked in Armenian if he could see Badvili (Pastor) Melikian, who was in charge of the resident students. The boy looked at him in some surprise, and replied in Turkish,2 bidding Archag follow him.

The pastor was busy writing when the boys entered his office, but his kind face lighted up with a smile, and Archag at once felt drawn toward the good man. The badvili was perhaps about fifty years old, a small man, short and stout; a shock of gray hair escaped from the fez worn like a skull-cap on the back of his head, and every other minute he would try to push this head-covering straight, but the rebellious fez resumed its slanting position. After several years’ pastoral work in Asia Minor, Mr. Melikian had been appointed Headmaster at Central Turkey College; here he found himself much more in his element than in his position of preacher, for he had a weakness for young people, and was much attached to this school where he had been one of the first pupils. He shook hands with Archag, and asked if he had had a good journey, enrolled him at once among the Sophomores, and assigned him a place in one of the dormitories.

“We shall be together,” said the other boy, whose name was Garabed.

“I’m very glad of that,” said Archag, “for you are the only boy I know here.”

Then the two boys went back to the play-ground where others joined them, and Archag soon found himself taking part in a lively conversation. They talked about the professors, the president and his wife, of what they had learned, and what they had yet to learn. Then all the Sophomores began playing ball, and kept up the game until they heard the bell ring for supper.

Three tables were spread in the dining-hall; one for the preparatory class, the second for the Freshmen and Sophomores, and the third for the Juniors and Seniors. Archag sat down beside Garabed as Badvili Melikian was saying grace. The fare would no doubt have seemed very frugal to American boys; it consisted of tea, bread, and hard-boiled eggs, but the boys seemed to be satisfied; they dispatched their supper in ten minutes, and then went back to their play, as lessons had not yet begun.

Archag walked about arm in arm with Garabed, who told him his own story. He was a thin, frail-looking lad of seventeen; he had grown too fast, and was round-shouldered. His face was sweet and attractive, but unfortunately his expression was spoiled by a large pair of spectacles which made him look like a little old man. He was a native of Goerum, near Sivas, and had been two years at Aintab.

“I was glad to come back,” he said, “for the professors are very nice, and the boys are fine chaps. My father wanted me to go to Marsivan, which is nearer home, but I preferred to return here.”

Archag took a liking to Garabed, and talked to him about Van and his family, as if he had been an old friend.

“Several of my relatives have been students here,” he said, “that’s why I came. My brother-in-law, who left four years ago, told me a good deal about the professors. Do you——”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of another boy who jumped on Garabed’s back, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Hi there, Baron3 Garabed! what stuff are you pouring into the ears of that innocent lamb!”

“I don’t care to be compared to a lamb, thank you,” said Archag; “they are too stupid.”

“AfÉrim! (That’s right) Baron Archag,” said Garabed, “take Aram down a peg or two.”

The new comer, taking Archag by the arm, said to him:

“Come now, Garabed has been telling you all about the masters; let me draw the portrait of some of your classmates. First, the wise Garabed himself, who is the choicest specimen of my acquaintance (this is between ourselves). Over there you may see two embryo pastors,” and he pointed to two stout, stocky boys chatting in a corner, “Soghomon (Solomon) and Boghos (Paul), the president’s favorites; you may judge for yourself of his good taste. That tall boy, star-gazing, with his hands in his pockets, is a Junior by the name of Ghevont. The boy in European dress, going up to him, is Nejib Rossinian, the son of a doctor in Aleppo; he’s in our class, and so is his cousin Dikran; they are an artful pair of dogs, who are bound to make their way, though they don’t always consider the means. To-morrow you will have to make the acquaintance of Samouil and Sumpad, whose brain isn’t quite right, and the five Urfali (natives of Urfa) who always stick together like burrs. Finally, to complete the list of boarders, my humble self, Aram Nahabedian of Diarbekir, filling the position of clown and joker. There are a dozen day-scholars in our class, besides, but we only see them at recitations.”

Archag was laughing heartily; he was delighted with his two companions, and already felt himself among friends. At nine o’clock the bell called them in, and they said “Goodnight” to Badvili Melikian, who had a pleasant word for each, as they went upstairs to their dormitories. Archag was in the room with Aram, Garabed, Soghomon, Nejib and Sumpad. Aram and Nejib immediately began a pillow-fight, making a fearful commotion. Soghomon, the fat boy, half-buried beneath a mountain of pillows and coverlets, lay groaning and beseeching:

“Oh, I say! I’m smothered! ‘Vai! Vai! I shall die!’ who will take pity on me!”

Aram and Archag executed a wild dance about their victim, and the end of it was that Badvili Melikian was obliged to come and restore order. He lighted a night-lamp for the boys, for Armenians hate the dark. Once in bed, the boys went to sleep immediately, and before long came the sound of their regular breathing, together with Soghomon’s snores.

Archag was dreaming that the bells of the Cathedral of Van were calling him to Mass, when a shake roused him from his sleep. Aram was pulling him by the arm.

“Haide, are you never going to wake up, you young mole? Do you think you’re going to be allowed to sleep like that? You’re as bad as Soghomon; he can’t get out of bed.”

Archag jumped up and dressed quickly; then the whole troop went down to breakfast. At half-past seven, professors and students all gathered in the chapel where Dr. Mills conducted morning prayers. He spoke to the boys of the child Samuel, urging them to imitate his love for the Lord.

“You come here,” said he, “not only to receive your bachelor’s degree, which you could get just as well at Constantinople or Damascus or Smyrna, but in order to become good and upright Christian men. We desire that these years of study may be blessed for you, and that later, when you are struggling with the difficulties of life, you may always remember gladly the days you have spent with us here.”

He spoke well, and Archag’s heart was touched by his words. How many good resolutions he made then, together with his comrades! The course of our story will show whether or not he kept them.

When the speaker had finished, the boys stood up and sang one of their favorite hymns:

The Sophomores were to begin their work in Natural Science on this morning. The course was given by Professor Pagratian, who was also proctor of their class.

“It’s sheer luck that we have him for proctor,” said Aram to Archag. “He’s a saint come out from his church, an angel descended from heaven. Do you know, he has an aureole about his head like Sourp Hagob (Saint James) in my prayer-book; that’s why he never takes off his fez. Last year we had fat Piralian, who is as harsh as a Turkish pasha. He used to make us fail just for the pleasure of it; he teaches English, for he spent several years in Yankeestan.4 It was so cold down there his heart got frozen.”

The arrival of the professor interrupted the flow of Aram’s nonsense; he then began to draw a caricature of Mr. Piralian, “Yankee Doodle,” as he called him.

Mr. Pagratian was a chilly little man, who kept his cloak wrapped about him in summer and winter. His face was partly hidden by a thick black beard, and a shabby old fez covered his meditative brow, but his luminous black eyes transformed him, banishing any thought of ridicule that might be suggested by his old-fashioned clothing. When these eyes, with their look of goodness, had once been fastened on one, they could never be forgotten. They laid bare one’s soul, and seemed to expose one’s bad thoughts only to drive them away and forgive them. And his voice—how it would thrill one, now stern and hard, now sweet and tender as that of a father talking with his child! He had a profound love for Natural History; his explanations were clear and interesting and the forty-five minutes in class passed all too quickly for Archag.

Our friend next made the acquaintance of Professor Mahdesian, a reserved, scholarly man, who taught Armenian, and of Mr. Hagopian, the Professor of Turkish. The latter was the veteran of the college; he had been associated with Dr. Trowbridge in founding it thirty years before, devoting himself body and soul to his task. The beginnings had been difficult, partly from lack of funds, but he and the president had met the situation bravely, teaching nine hours a day. Success came; pupils flocked in from the most remote regions of the vast Turkish Empire. The courageous Dr. Trowbridge died before his time, but Professor Hagopian, more favored, was permitted to reap the ample harvest he had sown.

English was the first lesson in the afternoon, and Archag was impatient to see the famous professor of whom Aram had had so much to say. Mr. Piralian was still very young. In order to make himself respected by his pupils he thought it necessary to treat them with an extreme severity, and would never let the slightest peccadillo pass unnoticed. The president often had to remonstrate with him on the subject of the frequent punishments which he inflicted on his pupils. He had spent several years in the United States, and had been a teacher there also. He had become accustomed to the ways of American children, who are notoriously “terrors,” and now employed the same methods in dealing with the boys of Aintab that he had found useful with these others. Apart from that he was a capital teacher, and took an interest in his pupils, but he never let them see it.

From the first he was prejudiced against Archag; he had seen him walking about familiarly with Aram, for whom he had an actual antipathy; and that was enough to make him take a dislike to the new-comer. Then, Archag had learned English from a Scotchwoman, Miss Dobbie, who spoke broad Scotch, rolling her r’s, aspirating her h’s, and saying “auld” for “old.” When he began to read, Professor Piralian made fun of his pronunciation, and asked him sarcastically what great professor had taught him English. But Archag, who fairly adored his old teacher, was wounded to the quick at hearing her made an object of ridicule.

After their lessons, the Sophomores, glad of a chance to stretch their legs, went out to play football. They ran about, shouting and pushing each other, with their zoubouns tucked up in their girdles. Archag, after tripping up Soghomon and Garabed, seized the ball and threw it with all his might, but he aimed badly, and the ball went straight through one of the windows of Dr. Spencer’s house. The glass fell in splinters, and Archag cried out in consternation.

“The only thing for you to do,” said Garabed, “is to go and make your excuses to Mrs. Spencer; go right off now and do it.”

Archag was chagrined at his awkwardness, and reluctant to present himself before Mrs. Spencer, as a culprit. But the doctor’s wife had seen the accident, and from behind a curtain she watched Archag coming toward the house, and observed his embarrassment. When he entered, and stammered out his apologies, she put him at his ease with a few friendly words:

“You have had a little misfortune, but that is nothing, and you will soon play better. Lessons are over, aren’t they, so you can stay and have a cup of tea with me?”

She gave Archag great pleasure by beginning to talk about Van, which she had visited three years before. She inquired for Miss Dobbie, whose guest she had been for a week. Archag’s spirits revived; he told a numbers of stories illustrating the old lady’s untiring kindness, and Mrs. Spencer listened with interest. She liked the boy’s frank countenance and vivacity, and when Archag left, he was completely won, and promised to come again often.