The courtyard of the college was all astir with life: the students were arriving in small groups, and there was a constant succession of salutations and embraces, for Orientals are more demonstrative than northern people. Among the new Juniors, we find our friends of last year: the two cousins, Nejib and Dikran, Boghos and his inseparable companion Soghomon, fatter than ever; Aram, Archag and Garabed, who had traveled together from Moosh; and lastly Sumpad and Samouil. The latter was not at all well; he had taken cold during the holidays, and since then had been growing very weak; his cheeks were sometimes burning with fever, again ashen pale. His uncle had been alarmed by his cough, and unwilling to let him go away, but Samouil had begged so hard to be allowed to return to his beloved college, that he had been allowed to come.

“Oh! What is the matter with you?” asked Archag, as he came upon him in the midst of a fit of coughing.

Samouil could not reply for a moment; then he said:

“It’s this cough that hangs on so, and I’m so tired all the time, I can hardly move.”

“The good air of Aintab will make you feel better, and we’ll all look after you. Take my arm to go upstairs, and lean hard on me.”

On rejoining their classmates they heard an unexpected piece of news: Professor Hagopian had sent in his resignation, desiring to take a few years’ rest. His place was filled by Mr. Hairemian, who thus became proctor of the Junior class.

The first recitation was scarcely over when the boys poured into the hall to see if the postman had come. The mail was brought to Aintab only on Fridays, and professors and students, Armenians and Americans, awaited this great day with equal impatience. Twenty times during the day the boys would run to the porter and ask:

“Posta geldinÉ? (Has the mail come?)”

“Yok, yok, Effendis.”

But this time it really had come. A cry rang through all the buildings:

“Posta gelmidÉ! Posta gelmidÉ! (The mail has come!)”

Boys, big and little, came running downstairs. Badvili Melikian opened the bag and distributed the letters scattered over the table, with a word for each:

“Nejib, here’s a letter from your father in Heidelberg. Is he going to stay much longer in Germany?”

“Garabed, the letter from your parents.”

“Monsieur Bernier, a letter from Switzerland, and a parcel of newspapers.”

“Professor Piralian, three letters from your friends in America.”

“Boghos, a letter from your father. Please give him my greetings when you write.”

“Three more letters for Monsieur Bernier. Is it your birthday, or what?”

“Soghomon, the ‘Avedaper.’ Please lend it to me after you have read it.”

“Samouil, there is nothing for you this week.”

“Aram, two letters from Diarbekir.”

“Archag, one letter from Van, and one from—what, Tabriz? I didn’t know you had acquaintances in Adgemistam?”

Archag was blushing with pleasure, for he guessed at once from whom the letter came. He stammered out that one of his friends had been in Persia for the last few months; then, making a sign to Aram to follow, he went out of the room and upstairs to the dormitory. The two boys sat down on a trunk and Archag opened the precious letter, and lowering his voice, read as follows:

“Shall we ever see that brave fellow again?” said Archag.

“Why not?” replied Aram. “We’ll run away to Europe and join him,” he whispered in his friend’s ear.

The dormitory was now full of boys, and it was necessary to guard their speech. Archag put the letter back in his pocket, and went over to the window, where he began to chat with Samouil.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, observing his friend’s pallor.

“I—I—” stammered Samouil; but his speech was checked by a rush of blood. The handkerchief which he had put to his lips was stained crimson. There was a murmur of pity from the boys, and they made haste to carry the sick lad to his bed: Archag kneeling beside him, bathed his temples, while Garabed ran for Dr. Spencer.

The doctor’s face grew grave as he examined Samouil, and listened to his breathing.

“He must be taken to the hospital,” said he to Badvili Melikian; “he will get better care there than here.”

The change was made at once. Samouil was not suffering, but his life was ebbing away. Badvili Melikian told the boys that their comrade was going to die, and they were moved and saddened by his words. The Juniors took turns in going to spend their spare hours with the sick boy, taking him gifts of flowers and fruit. Samouil never complained, but always welcomed his friends with a smile.

“You know,” he said once to Garabed, “I’m not going to live much longer. I am so glad; I have no one left on earth, and I’m so tired all the time.”

For a few days he felt a little better, and was able to get up and walk about in the hospital garden; then he had another hemorrhage, more violent than the last.

“It is the end,” said Dr. Spencer. “I don’t think he will live through the night.”

The boy was drowsy all day, but about five o’clock he opened his eyes and smiled, as he saw Archag sitting by his bed.

“You all spoil me,” he said to his friend, as he smelt the flowers he offered. “When I am down there” (and he pointed to the hospital cemetery), “you will cover my grave with cyclamen, won’t you? It’s my favorite flower.”

“Oh Samouil! You’re not going to leave us! What shall we do without you?”

“Without me?” repeated the sick boy in surprise. “I didn’t suppose there was any one who would miss me.”

“Hush, hush! We all loved you” (Archag was already using the past tense, unconsciously). “Whenever we had a favor to ask, whenever we had no time to do our work and were afraid of being punished, to whom did we turn? To you, always to you!”

Samouil listened, happily.

“Is it true, is it really true, what you are telling me?”

“I swear it.”

“Then I’m very happy, for I’ve been of some use in the world, and there will be somebody to mourn for me when I’m not here any more.”

The two boys were silent for a moment. Archag was too much moved to speak. Samouil seemed very weary; he looked at his comrade in silence, and after a little while he said:

“I’ll wait for you. Up there. I so hope you will all come and join me. You will do your best to, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And when you want to do something wrong, just think that it hurts me, and perhaps that will help you resist the temptation.”

Archag bent his head in assent. Never before had he seen death so near, and he was completely overcome.

The sun had disappeared behind the hills that outline the horizon; the sky had faded from brilliant red to pale yellow. Samouil slept for a few moments, then he opened his eyes again and said:

“I have just seen the new Jerusalem, the city with streets of gold. Angels were holding out their arms to me, and I saw my mother among them; I don’t remember her face, for she died when I was only three years old, but I knew her at the first glance. It’s strange, isn’t it?”

His voice was altered, and in his great black eyes was reflected the mystery of the Beyond. Then he was seized with a choking fit, and Archag held a glass of lemonade to his lips. He drank a few drops, and thanked his friend with a smile.

“How beautiful my mother is! And she looked at me so lovingly! But—she—is—here—and——”

He could not go on; his features contracted in a spasm of pain, then they resumed their expression of peace and happiness.

Archag, terrified, sprang to the bell.

The nurse came running in.

“Is he worse?” she asked.

“I don’t know; I think—he has fainted.”

The nurse gave one look at the bed, and divined the truth.

“He is dead,” she whispered, kissing the marble brow.

“Good-by, my darling boy; God has taken you to His rest.”

Archag was convulsed with tears, as he knelt at the foot of the bed.

The boys planted cyclamen on Samouil’s grave, as he had wished, and in the spring, when the fields are full of flowers, it is covered with a wonderful carpet of pink and white.