THE LETTER
Hassan Bey did not forget the insult which had been offered him in
sending Armenouhi beyond his reach. Frequent inquiries for her brought
him little satisfaction, but they convinced her people that her return
to the village would again expose her to his persistent wooing. Dicran
went to see her during the spring vacation. Throwing her arms about the
old man’s neck, she smothered him with kisses; and then, sitting on his
knee, she gently stroked his rough face. She had a thousand questions
to ask concerning her sister Vassinag and her father, and a thousand
little things to tell about her teachers and her school, so that he
could scarcely say a word. But he gave her a letter bearing the simple
inscription “Armenouhi.” She opened it and near the bottom in a large
boyish hand read Takvor’s name.
“I am going to England to study,” the letter concluded, “but I shall
always think of you, and when I return my first wish will be to see
you. If you ever need me, send for me and I will come.”
“Dede,” she said finally, looking up into the old man’s face, after
finishing the letter.
“Yes, child.”
“Why doesn’t Takvor come to Ak Hissar again?”
“He came, but you were not there; and so he sent you the letter.”
Armenouhi’s eyes returned to the paper in her hand, and once more there
was silence.
“Dede,” and again she looked into his face.
“Yes, child.”
“Am I going home for the long summer vacation?”
“No, child; not if Hassan is there.”
“Must I stay here in school all summer?”
“Yes, Armenouhi, it would be better.”
Again a silence.
“Dede.”
“Yes, child.”
“May I spend the summer with Aunt Vartouhi in Stamboul?”
“Perhaps,” replied Dicran, smiling in sympathy with her unspoken
thought.
Again Armenouhi threw her arms about his neck, and called him her dear,
good Dede.
When Dicran was gone, she read the letter over and over until she could
repeat it by heart. It was the first she had ever received, and she put
it away between the leaves of her book with the anemones and the red
ribbon.