THE station at Stoura is a big stable and a dirty little inn, which has the kitchen in one shanty¹, the dining-room in another, and the beds in a third; a swift mountain stream runs behind it, and a grove² of poplars on the banks moans and rustles³ in the wind that draws down the Lebanon gorge⁴. It was after dark when we arrived, but whether our coming put the establishment into a fluster⁵, I doubt; it seems to be in a chronic⁶ state of excitement. The inn was kept by Italians, who have a genius for this sort of hotel; the landlord was Andrea, but I suspect the real authority resided in his plump, bright, vivacious⁷ wife. They had an heir, however, a boy of eight, who proved to be the tyrant⁸ of the house when he appeared upon the scene. The servants were a tall slender Syrian girl, an active and irresponsible boy, and a dark-eyed little maid, in the limp and dirty single garment which orphans¹⁰ always wear on the stage, and who in fact was an orphan⁹, and appeared to take the full benefit of her neglected and jolly life. The whole establishment was on a lark¹¹, and in a perpetual giggle¹², and communicated its overflowing¹³ good-humor even to tired travellers. The well-favored little wife, who exhibited the extremes of fortune in a diamond ring and a torn and draggled calico gown,

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