Jonitza had not been a week in Bukurest when he began to wish himself back in the country. At first there had been much to see, especially in the fine shops on the beautiful street called Calea Vittoriei, which extends from one end of the city to the other. On this street is also the Royal Palace and most of the theaters.

Jonitza and his parents were staying with near relatives in one of the many fine residential sections, where the big stone houses are surrounded by beautiful gardens.

Although this section was no great distance from the business center, they never walked to the latter but either drove or went in the big touring car belonging to the family.

"People must be very happy in the 'City of Pleasure,'"—that is what the word Bukurest means—Jonitza said to himself one day as he watched the very lively crowds on the streets. He was standing at the time in front of the splendid show windows of a jewelry store, waiting for his mother who had gone inside. At first he had stared at the rich gems through the glass but the interesting passing crowd had gradually attracted him; the very fashionable ladies, some light, some dark, talking so vivaciously, the priests with their long hair, and, most of all, the numerous soldiers in the splendor and variety of their uniforms.

"Jonitza," said his mother when she came out, "I am going to call on an old-time friend, and as I know such visits bore you, I shall leave you on the way to spend an hour at the National Museum. How will you like that?"

"Very much, dear mother," Jonitza answered.

So the carriage took them to the big Museum building where Jonitza alighted. Indoors he found much to interest him. He lingered before the displays of magnificent royal jeweled collars and crowns, and the specimens of Roumania's mineral wealth: gold, silver, copper, rock salt, and others. There were drawings and paintings, too, to be looked at. He stood long before one of the latter. It represented a Roumanian boyard or nobleman of long ago, dressed in a long, loose, rich costume, with several jeweled daggers in his embroidered belt. A crowd of dependents surrounded him, some bowing low, some kissing his hand, some trying to get him to listen to the tale that they had to tell.

Although Jonitza's mother was late in returning to the Museum, he had still much to see when she did come. A richly dressed young woman, who treated Jonitza like an old friend, was with her.

"It is still early," his mother remarked to his mystification. And she gave some orders to the coachman who then drove them past the "Institution of the Blind," the particular pride of Queen Elizabeth (Carmen Sylva), past the University and schools of various kinds, past a beautiful pure white marble statue of some voivode or other, and on to the extensive Garden of Cismegiu; then again to the Calea Vittoriei, where the carriage stopped before the renowned restaurant of Capsa.

Here Jonitza's father, who evidently knew of their coming, was waiting to escort them into a room with tiled glistening floor, lofty mirrors, beautiful flowers, and exquisitely neat tables. The place was crowded to overflowing, but above the hum of voices could be heard the fascinating music of a Roumanian Gypsy band.

Hardly had they entered, than two fashionably dressed men joined their party. After considerable banter, the conversation became so serious that Jonitza did not understand all of it. Now and then he caught a quotation that he had heard before, as, "Leave a Hungarian to guard the thing that you value most," and "There is no fruit so bitter as foreigners in the land."

Everything tasted very good, but Jonitza would have enjoyed it more had some attention been paid to him. As it was, he was glad when the party at last arose and while the rest of the company went to the theater, he was sent in the carriage home alone.

At home, he found only servants and so went at once to the little room that was his own during his stay at the capital.

Here he threw himself down for awhile in a big armchair and gave himself up to thoughts that he had never had before, about Roumania's past history, about the old-time ballads of heiduks and chieftains that he had heard in the mountains, and about what he had caught in the conversation at the brilliant restaurant that night regarding Roumania's future.

Even after he lay down on his bed he could not but wonder if Roumania was yet to be a great nation, if Transylvania now belonging to Hungary, if Bukovina now a part of Austria, and perhaps Bessarabia, though claimed by Russia—all with a large Roumanian population, would not be restored to her. Finally he fell into a restless sleep in which he dreamed that he was already a man and fighting that those of his own blood might be rescued from foreign governments who despised them and tyrannized over them.