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 Sample Final Exam #8
(Summer 2009; thanks to Victoria Kirst)

1. Array Mystery
Consider the following method:
public static void arrayMystery(int[] a) {
for (int i = 1; i < a.length - 1; i++) {
a[i] = a[i + 1] + a[i - 1];
}
}
Indicate in the right-hand column what values would be stored in the array after the method arrayMystery executes
if the integer array in the left-hand column is passed as a parameter to it.
Original Contents of Array Final Contents of Array
int[] a1 = {3, 7};
arrayMystery(a1); _____________________________

int[] a2 = {4, 7, 4, 2, 10, 9};

arrayMystery(a2); _____________________________

int[] a3 = {1, 5, 0, 0, 5, 0};

arrayMystery(a3); _____________________________

int[] a4 = {13, 0, -4, -2, 0, -1};

arrayMystery(a4); _____________________________

int[] a5 = {2, 4, 6, 8, 16};

arrayMystery(a5); _____________________________

1 of 8
2. Reference Semantics Mystery
(Missing; we didn't give this type of question that quarter.)

3. Inheritance Mystery
Assume that the following classes have been defined:

public class Denny extends John { public class Michelle extends John {
public void method1() { public void method1() {
System.out.print("denny 1 "); System.out.print("michelle 1 ");
} }
}
public String toString() {
return "denny " + super.toString(); public class John extends Cass {
} public void method2() {
} method1();
System.out.print("john 2 ");
public class Cass { }
public void method1() {
System.out.print("cass 1 "); public String toString() {
} return "john";
}
public void method2() { }
System.out.print("cass 2 ");
}

public String toString() {

return "cass";
}
}

Given the classes above, what output is produced by the following code?
Cass[] elements = {new Cass(), new Denny(), new John(), new Michelle()};
for (int i = 0; i < elements.length; i++) {
elements[i].method1();
System.out.println();
elements[i].method2();
System.out.println();
System.out.println(elements[i]);
System.out.println();
}

2 of 8
4. File Processing
Write a static method called runningSum that accepts as a parameter a Scanner holding a sequence of real numbers
and that outputs the running sum of the numbers followed by the maximum running sum. In other words, the nth
number that you report should be the sum of the first n numbers in the Scanner and the maximum that you report
should be the largest such value that you report. For example if the Scanner contains the following data:
3.25 4.5 -8.25 7.25 3.5 4.25 -6.5 5.25

your method should produce the following output:

running sum = 3.25 7.75 -0.5 6.75 10.25 14.5 8.0 13.25
max sum = 14.5
The first number reported is the same as the first number in the Scanner (3.25). The second number reported is the
sum of the first two numbers in the Scanner (3.25 + 4.5). The third number reported is the sum of the first three
numbers in the Scanner (3.25 + 4.5 + -8.25). And so on. The maximum of these values is 14.5, which is reported on
the second line of output. You may assume that there is at least one number to read.

3 of 8
5. File Processing
Write a static method named plusScores that accepts as a parameter a Scanner containing a series of lines that
represent student records. Each student record takes up two lines of input. The first line has the student's name and
the second line has a series of plus and minus characters. Below is a sample input:
Kane, Erica
--+-+
Chandler, Adam
++-+
Martin, Jake
+++++++
Dillon, Amanda
++-++-+-

The number of plus/minus characters will vary, but you may assume that at least one such character appears and that
no other characters appear on the second line of each pair. For each student you should produce a line of output with
the student's name followed by a colon followed by the percent of plus characters. For example, if the input above is
stored in a Scanner called input, the call of plusScores(input); should produce the following output:
Kane, Erica: 40.0% plus
Chandler, Adam: 75.0% plus
Martin, Jake: 100.0% plus
Dillon, Amanda: 62.5% plus

4 of 8
6. Array Programming
Write a method priceIsRight that accepts an array of integers bids and an integer price as parameters. The method
returns the element in the bids array that is closest in value to price without being larger than price. For example, if
bids stores the elements {200, 300, 250, 999, 40}, then priceIsRight(bids, 280) should return 250,
since 250 is the bid closest to 280 without going over 280. If all bids are larger than price, then your method should
return -1.
The following table shows some calls to your method and their expected results:
Arrays Returned Value
int[] a1 = {900, 885, 989, 1}; priceIsRight(a1, 880) returns 1
int[] a2 = {200}; priceIsRight(a2, 320) returns 200
int[] a3 = {500, 300, 241, 99, 501}; priceIsRight(a3, 50) returns -1
int[] a2 = {200}; priceIsRight(a2, 120) returns -1
You may assume there is at least 1 element in the array, and you may assume that the price and the values in bids will
all be greater than or equal to 1. Do not modify the contents of the array passed to your method as a parameter.

5 of 8
7. Array Programming
Write a static method named compress that accepts an array of integers a1 as a parameter and returns a new array
that contains only the unique values of a1. The values in the new array should be ordered in the same order they
originally appeared in. For example, if a1 stores the elements {10, 10, 9, 4, 10, 4, 9, 17}, then
compress(a1) should return a new array with elements {10, 9, 4, 17}.
The following table shows some calls to your method and their expected results:
Array Returned Value
int[] a1 = {5, 2, 5, 3, 2, 5}; compress(a1) returns {5, 2, 3}
int[] a2 = {-2, -12, 8, 8, 2, 12}; compress(a2) returns {-2, -12, 8, 2, 12}
int[] a3 = {4, 17, 0, 32, -3, 0, 0}; compress(a3) returns {4, 17, 0, 32, -3}
int[] a4 = {-2, -5, 0, 5, -92, -2, 0, 43}; compress(a4) returns {-2, -5, 0, 5, -92, 43}
int[] a5 = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5}; compress(a5) returns {1, 2, 3, 4, 5}
int[] a6 = {5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5}; compress(a6) returns {5}
int[] a7 = {}; compress(a7) returns {}
Do not modify the contents of the array passed to your method as a parameter.

6 of 8
8. Critters
Write a class Caterpillar that extends the Critter class from our assignment, along with its movement behavior.
Caterpillars move in an increasing NESW square pattern: 1 move north, 1 move east, 1 move west, 1 move south,
then 2 moves north, 2 moves east, etc., the square pattern growing larger and larger indefinitely. If a Caterpillar
runs into a piece of food, the Caterpillar eats the food and immediately restarts the NESW pattern. The size of the
Caterpillar’s movement is also reset back to 1 move in each direction again, and the increasing square pattern
continues as before until another piece of food is encountered.
Here is a sample movement pattern of a Caterpillar:
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 2 times, south 2 times, west 2 times
• north 3 times, east 3 times, south 3 times, west 3 times
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 1 time
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 2 times, south 2 times, west 2 times
• (etc.)
Write your complete Caterpillar class below. All other aspects of Caterpillar besides eating and movement
behavior use the default critter behavior. You may add anything needed to your class (fields, constructors, etc.) to
implement this behavior appropriately.

7 of 8
9. Classes and Objects
Suppose that you are provided with a pre-written class Date as // Each Date object stores a single
described at right. (The headings are shown, but not the method // month/day such as September 19.
bodies, to save space.) Assume that the fields, constructor, and // This class ignores leap years.
methods shown are already implemented. You may refer to them
or use them in solving this problem if necessary. public class Date {
private int month;
Write an instance method named subtractWeeks that will be private int day;
placed inside the Date class to become a part of each Date
object's behavior. The subtractWeeks method accepts an // Constructs a date with
integer as a parameter and shifts the date represented by the Date // the given month and day.
public Date(int m, int d)
object backward by that many weeks. A week is considered to be
exactly 7 days. You may assume the value passed is non- // Returns the date's day.
negative. Note that subtracting weeks might cause the date to public int getDay()
wrap into previous months or years.
// Returns the date's month.
For example, if the following Date is declared in client code: public int getMonth()
Date d = new Date(9, 19);
// Returns the number of days
The following calls to the subtractWeeks method would // in this date's month.
modify the Date object's state as indicated in the comments. public int daysInMonth()
Remember that Date objects do not store the year. The date
before January 1st is December 31st. Date objects also ignore // Modifies this date's state
// so that it has moved forward
leap years.
// in time by 1 day, wrapping
Date d = new Date(9, 19); // around into the next month
d.subtractWeeks(1); // d is now 9/12 // or year if necessary.
d.subtractWeeks(2); // d is now 8/29 // example: 9/19 -> 9/20
d.subtractWeeks(5); // d is now 7/25 // example: 9/30 -> 10/1
d.subtractWeeks(20); // d is now 3/7 // example: 12/31 -> 1/1
d.subtractWeeks(110); // d is now 1/26
public void nextDay()
// (2 years prior)

// your method would go here

8 of 8
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ravished
Armenia
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Ravished Armenia

Author: Aurora Mardiganian

Author of introduction, etc.: Nora Waln

Translator: H. L. Gates

Release date: September 13, 2016 [eBook #53046]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Cindy Horton and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAVISHED

ARMENIA ***
 Transcriber’s Note: Suspected printer errors have been corrected. There are variations
in the spelling of a number of names that have been transliterated from the Armenian,
and these have not been changed.

RAVISHED ARMENIA

THE LONG LINE THAT SWIFTLY GREW SHORTER

One of the most striking photographs of the deportations that
have come out of Armenia. Here is shown a column of
Christians on the path across the great plains of the Mamuret-
ul-Aziz. The zaptiehs are shown walking along at one side.

RAVISHED ARMENIA

THE STORY OF
AURORA MARDIGANIAN
THE CHRISTIAN GIRL WHO LIVED THROUGH
THE GREAT MASSACRES

INTERPRETED BY H. L. GATES

WITH A FOREWORD BY
NORA WALN

AND FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

 NEW YORK
KINGFIELD PRESS, Inc.

Copyright, 1918, by
Kingfield Press, Inc.
New York
 MY DEDICATION
To each mother and father, in this beautiful land of the United
States, who has taught a daughter to believe in God, I dedicate my
book. I saw my own mother’s body, its life ebbed out, flung onto the
desert because she had taught me that Jesus Christ was my Saviour.
I saw my father die in pain because he said to me, his little girl,
“Trust in the Lord; His will be done.” I saw thousands upon
thousands of beloved daughters of gentle mothers die under the
whip, or the knife, or from the torture of hunger and thirst, or
carried away into slavery because they would not renounce the
glorious crown of their Christianity. God saved me that I might bring
to America a message from those of my people who are left, and
every father and mother will understand that what I tell in these
pages is told with love and thankfulness to Him for my escape.
The Latham,
New York City,
December, 1918. Aurora Mardiganian.

THIS STORY OF
AURORA MARDIGANIAN
which is the most amazing narrative ever written
has been reproduced
 for the American Committee for
Armenian and Syrian Relief in a

TREMENDOUS MOTION PICTURE

SPECTACLE

“RAVISHED ARMENIA”
Through which runs the thrilling yet
tender romance of this

CHRISTIAN GIRL WHO SURVIVED

THE GREAT MASSACRES

Undoubtedly it is one of the greatest and most

elaborate motion pictures of the age—every stirring
scene through which Aurora lives in the book, is
lived again on the motion picture screen.

SEE AURORA, HERSELF, IN HER STORY

Scenario by Nora Waln—Staged by Oscar Apfel

Produced by Selig Enterprises

Presented in a selected list of cities

By the
 American Committee for
ARMENIAN AND SYRIAN RELIEF
 CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE

Acknowledgment 9
Foreword 11
Arshalus—The Light of the Morning 19
I When the Pasha Came to My House 29
II The Days of Terror Begin 47
III Vahby Bey Takes His Choice 64
IV The Cruel Smile of Kemal Effendi 80
V The Ways of the Zaptiehs 99
VI Recruiting for the Harems of Constantinople 116
VII Malatia—The City of Death 132
VIII In the Harem of Hadji Ghafour 145
IX The Raid on the Monastery 158
X The Game of the Swords, and Diyarbekir 174
XI “Ishim Yok; Keifim Tchok!” 191
XII Reunion—and Then, the Sheikh Zilan 208
XIII Old Vartabed and the Shepherd’s Call 223
XIV The Message of General Andranik 239
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Long Line that Swiftly Grew Shorter Frontispiece
Map Showing Aurora’s Wanderings Page 75
Waiting They Know Not What Facing Page 158
Driven Forth on the Road of Terror ” ” 192
The Roadside of Awful Despair ” ” 234
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT
For verification of these amazing things, which little Aurora told
me that I might tell them, in our own language, to all the world, I
am indebted to Lord Bryce, formerly British Ambassador to the
United States, who was commissioned by the British Government to
investigate the massacres; to Dr. Clarence Ussher, of whom Aurora
speaks in her story, and who witnessed the massacres at Van; and
to Dr. MacCallum, who rescued Aurora at Erzerum and made
possible her coming to America. You may read Aurora’s story with
entire confidence—every word is true. As the story of what
happened to one Christian girl, it is a proven document.
H. L. Gates.
 FOREWORD
She stood beside me—a slight little girl with glossy black hair. Until
I spoke to her and she lifted her eyes in which were written the
indelible story of her suffering, I could not believe that she was
Aurora Mardiganian whom I had been expecting. She could not
speak English, but in Armenian she spoke a few words of greeting.
It was our first meeting and in the spring of last year. Several
weeks earlier a letter had come to me telling me about this little
Armenian girl who was to be expected, asking me to help her upon
her arrival. The year before an Armenian boy had come from our
relief station in the Caucasus and kind friends had made it possible
to send him to boarding school. I had formed a similar plan to send
Aurora to the same school when she should arrive.
We talked about education that afternoon, through her interpreter,
but she shook her head sadly. She would like to go to school, and
study music as her father had planned she should before the
massacres, but now she had a message to deliver—a message from
her suffering nation to the mothers and fathers of the United States.
The determination in the child’s eyes made me ask her her age and
she answered “Seventeen.”
Tired, and worn out nervously, as she was, Aurora insisted upon
telling us of the scenes she had left behind her—massacres, families
driven out across the desert, girls sold into Turkish harems, women
ravished by the roadside, little children dying of starvation. She
begged us to help her to help her people. “My father said America
was the friend of the oppressed. General Andranik sent me here
because he trusted you to help me,” she pleaded.
And so her story was translated. Sometimes there had to be
intervals of rest of several days, because her suffering had so
unnerved her. She wanted to keep at it during all the heat of the
summer, but by using the argument that she would learn English, we
persuaded her to go to a camp off the coast of Connecticut for three
weeks.
You who read the story of Aurora Mardiganian’s last three years,
will find it hard to believe that in our day and generation such things
are possible. Your emotions will doubtless be similar to mine when I
first heard of the suffering of her people. I remember very distinctly
my feelings, when, early in October of 1917, I attended a luncheon
given by the Executive Committee of the American Committee for
Armenian and Syrian Relief, to a group of seventeen American
Consuls and missionaries who had just returned from Turkey after
witnessing two years of massacre and deportation. I listened to
persons, the truthfulness of whose statements I could not doubt, tell
how a church had been filled with Christian Armenians, women and
children, saturated with oil and set on fire, of refined, educated girls,
from homes as good as yours or mine, sold in the slave markets of
the East, of little children starving to death, and then to the plea for
help for the pitiful survivors who have been gathered into temporary
relief stations.
I listened almost unable to believe and yet as I looked around the
luncheon table there were familiar faces, the faces of men and
women whose word I could not doubt—Dr. James L. Barton,
Chairman of the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian
Relief, Ambassadors Morgenthau and Elkus, who spoke from
personal knowledge, Cleveland H. Dodge, whose daughter, Mrs.
Elizabeth Huntington is in Constantinople, and whose son is in
Beirut, both helping with relief work, Miss Lucille Foreman of
Germantown, C. V. Vickrey, Executive Secretary of the American
Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, Dr. Samuel T. Dutton of
the World Court League, George T. Scott, Presbyterian Board of
Foreign Missions, and others.
And you who read this story as interpreted will find it even harder
to believe than I did, because you will not have the personal
verification of the men and women who can speak with authority
that I had at that luncheon. Since then it has happened that nearly
every communication from the East—Persia, Russian Caucasus and
the Ottoman Empire, has passed through my hands and I know that
conditions have not been exaggerated in this book. In this
introduction I want to refer you to Lord Bryce’s report, to
Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story, to the recent speeches of Lord
Cecil before the British Parliament, and the files of our own State
Department, and you will learn that stories similar to this one can be
told by any one of the 3,950,000 refugees, the number now
estimated to be destitute in the Near East.
This is a human living document. Miss Mardiganian’s names, dates
and places, do not correspond exactly with similar references to
these places made by Ambassador Morgenthau, Lord Bryce and
others, but we must take into consideration that she is only a girl of
seventeen, that she has lived through one of the most tragic periods
of history in that section of the world which has suffered most from
the war, that she is not a historian, that her interpreter in giving this
story to the American public has not attempted to write a history. He
has simply aimed to give her message to the American people that
they may understand something of the situation in the Near East
during the past years, and help to establish there for the future, a
sane and stable government.
Speaking of the character of the Armenians, Ambassador
Morgenthau says in a recent article published in the New York
Evening Sun: “From the times of Herodotus this portion of Asia has
borne the name of Armenia. The Armenians of the present day are
the direct descendants of the people who inhabited the country
3,000 years ago. Their origin is so ancient that it is lost in fable and
mystery. There are still undeciphered cuneiform inscriptions on the
rocky hills of Van, the largest Armenian city, that have led certain
scholars—though not many, I must admit—to identify the Armenian
race with the Hittites of the Bible. What is definitely known about the
Armenians, however, is that for ages they have constituted the most
civilized and most industrious race in the Eastern section of the
Ottoman Empire. From their mountains they have spread over the
Sultan’s dominions, and form a considerable element in the
population of all the large cities. Everywhere they are known for
their industry, their intelligence and their decent and orderly lives.
They are so superior to the Turks intellectually and morally that
much of the business and industry has passed into their hands. With
the Greeks, the Armenians constituted the economic strength of the
Empire. These people became Christians in the fourth century and
established the Armenian Church as their state religion. This is said
to be the oldest Christian Church in existence.
“In face of persecutions which have had no parallel elsewhere,
these people have clung to their early Christian faith with the utmost
tenacity. For 1,500 years they have lived there in Armenia, a little
island of Christians, surrounded by backward peoples of hostile
religion and hostile race. Their long existence has been one
unending martyrdom. The territory which they inhabit forms the
connecting link between Europe and Asia, and all the Asiatic
invasions—Saracens, Tartars, Mongols, Kurds and Turks—have
passed over their peaceful country.”
Aurora Mardiganian has come to America to tell the story of her
suffering peoples and to do her part in making it possible for her
country to be rebuilt. She is only a little girl, but in giving her story
to the American people through the daily newspapers, in this book,
and the motion picture which is being prepared for that purpose by
the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, she is, I
feel, playing one of the greatest parts in helping to reëstablish again
“peace on earth, good will to men” in ancient Bible Lands, the home
in her generation of her people. Her mother, her father, her brothers
and sisters are gone, but according to the most careful estimates,
3,950,000 destitute peoples, mostly women and children who had
been driven many of them as far as one thousand miles from home,
turn their pitiful faces toward America for help in the reconstructive
period in which we are now living.
 Dr. James L. Barton, who is leaving this month with a commission
of two hundred men and women for the purpose of helping to
rehabilitate these lands from which Aurora came, is a part of the
answer to the call for help from these destitute people. The
American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief Campaign for
$30,000,000, in which it is hoped all of the people of America will
participate, is another part of the answer.
You who read this book can play a part also in helping Aurora to
deliver her message, by passing it on to some one else when you
have finished with it.
December 2, 1918
One Madison Ave., New York Nora Waln,
Publicity Secretary,
American Committee for
Armenian and Syrian Relief.
 ARSHALUS—THE LIGHT OF THE
MORNING
A Prologue to the Story

Old Vartabed, the shepherd whose flocks had clothed three

generations, stood silhouetted against the skies on the summit of a
Taurus hill. His figure was motionless, erect and very tall. The signs
of age were in every crease of his grave, strong face, yet his hands
folded loosely on his stick, for he would have scorned to lean upon
it.
To the east and north spread the plains of the Mamuret-ul-Aziz,
with here and there a plateau reaching out from a nest of foothills.
Each Spring, through twenty-five centuries, other shepherds than
Old Vartabed had stood on this same hilltop to watch the plains and
plateaux of the Mamuret-ul-Aziz turn green, but few had seen the
grass and shrubs sprout so early as they had this year. Old Vartabed
should have been greatly pleased at such promise of a good season,
and should have spoken to his sheep about it—for that was his way.
But the shepherd was troubled. A strange foreboding had come to
him in the night. Even at daybreak he could not shake it off. He was
gazing now, not at the stretches of welcome green which soon
would soothe the bleating of his sheep, but across into the north
beyond, where the blue line of the Euphrates was lost in the haze of
dawn. What his old eyes sought there, he did not know; but
something seemed to threaten from up there in the north.
Suddenly the lazy, droning call to the Third Prayer, with which the
devout Mohammedan greets the light of day, floated up from the
valley at Old Vartabed’s feet. It brought the shepherd out of his
reverie abruptly. “There, that was it! That was the sign. The danger
might come from the north, but it would show itself first, whatever it
was to be, in the city.”
The shepherd looked down into the valley, onto the housetops and
the narrow, winding streets that separated them. He caught the glint
of the minaret as the muezzin again intoned his summons. Quickly
his eyes leaped across the city to where the first glimpse of sunshine
played about a crumbled pile of brown and gray—the ruins of the
castle of Tchemesh, an ancient Armenian king. A piteous sadness
gathered in his face. The minaret still stood; the castle of the king
was fallen. That was why there were two sets of prayers in the city,
and why trouble was coming out of the north.
The old man planted his stick upright in the ground as a sign to
his sheep that where the stick stood their shepherd was bound to
return. Then he picked his way down the path that led to the lower
slopes where the houses of the city began. With a firm, even step
that belied his many years, he strode through the city until he came
to the streets marked by the imposing homes of the rich. A short
turn along the side of the park that served as a public square
brought him to the home of the banker, Mardiganian. In this house
Old Vartabed was always welcome. He had been the keeper of herds
belonging to three succeeding heads of the Mardiganian families.
A servant woman opened the door in the street wall and admitted
the shepherd to the inner garden. When she had closed the door
again, the visitor asked:
“Is the Master still within the house, or has he gone this early to
his business?”
“Shame upon you for the asking!” the woman replied, with a
servant’s quick uncivility to her kind. “Have you forgotten what day it
is, that you should think the Master would be at business?”
Amazement showed in the old man’s eyes. The woman saw that
he had, indeed, forgotten. She spoke more kindly:
“Do you not know, Vartabed, that this is Easter Sunday morning?”
 The old man accepted the reminder, but his dignity quickly
reasserted itself. “If you live as many days as Old Vartabed you will
wish to forget more than one of them—perhaps one that is coming
soon more than any other.”
The woman had no patience for the sententiousness of age, and
the veiled threat of coming ill she put down for petulance. But her
sharp reply fell upon unheeding ears. The shepherd crossed the
garden without further parleys and entered the house.
The house of the Mardiganians was typical of the homes of the
well-to-do Armenians of to-day. The wide doorway which opened
from the garden was approached by handsome steps of white
marble, and the spacious hall within was floored with large slabs of
the same material. Outside, the house presented a rather gloomy
appearance, because, perhaps, of the need of protection against the
sometimes rigorous climate; inside there was every sign of luxury
and opulence. The space of ground occupied was prodigious, as the
rooms were terraced, one above the other, the roof of one being
used as a dooryard garden for the one above.
In the large reception room, into which Old Vartabed strode, there
was a great stone fireplace, with a low divan branching out on either
side and running around three sides of the room. Beautiful tapestry
covers of native manufacture, and silk cushions made by hand,
covered this divan. Soft, thick rugs of tekke, which is a Persian and
Kurdish weave built upon felt foundations, were strewn over the
marble floor. Over the fireplace hung a rare Madonna; a landscape
by a popular Armenian artist, and a Dutch harbor by Peniers hung
on the walls at the side. In a corner of the room, under a floor lamp,
was a piano. Oriental delight in bright colorings was apparent, but
the ensemble was tasteful and subdued.
The shepherd waited, standing, in the center of the room until his
employer entered and gave him the Easter morning greeting which
Armenia has preserved since the world was young:
“Christ is risen from the dead, my good Vartabed!”
 “Blessed be the resurrection of Christ,” the old man replied, as the
custom dictates. Then he spoke, with an earnestness which the
other man quickly detected, of that which had brought him to the
house.
It was a vision he had seen during the night. “Our Saint Gregory
appeared to me in my sleep and pressed his hand upon me heavily.
‘Awake, Old Vartabed; awake! Thy sheep are in danger, even though
they be favored of God. Awake and save them!’ This, the good saint
said to me. Hurriedly I arose, but when my old eyes were fully
opened the vision was gone. I rushed out to the fold, but it was only
I who disturbed the flock. They were resting peacefully.
“But I could not sleep again. Each time my eyes closed our Saint
stood before me, seeming to reprove my idleness. At dawn I took
my sheep to the hills—and then I remembered!”
Here the shepherd hesitated. He had spoken fast, and was nearly
breathless. His employer had listened with the consideration due one
so old, and so faithful, but not without a trace of amusement in his
immobile face.
“It is a pity, Vartabed, your sleep was restless. This morning, of all
others, you should be joyful. Tell me what it was you remembered at
dawn, and then dismiss it from your mind.”
“Some things, Master, neither you nor I can dismiss from our
minds. I remembered that once before our Saint appeared to me in
my sleep with a warning of danger. I gave no attention then, for I
was younger, and thoughtless. Those, also, were joyous times in
Armenia, for there was peace and prosperity. But that very day the
holocaust came out of the north; for that was twenty years ago.”
Now, the other man started. He was shaken by a convulsive
shudder, and his face blanched. Twenty years ago—that was when a
hundred thousand of his people were massacred by Abdul Hamid!
Without a word he walked to a window, separated the curtains and
looked out upon the house garden.
 The banker, Mardiganian, was a true type of the successful,
modern Armenian business man. He did not often smile, but his
voice was kind, and his eyes were gentle. In the Easter morning
promenades in any avenue in Europe or America he would have
been a conventional figure, passed without notice. When he turned
from the window, after a moment, only a close observer could have
detected in his face or manner that inexplainable, intangible
something which, indelibly, marks a race cradled in oppression.
“What happened twenty years ago, my Vartabed, can never
happen again. We Armenians have done nothing to rouse the anger
of our overlords, the Turks. On the contrary, we have proven our
willingness to serve the state. Our young men have been called into
this great war which is ravaging the world. Even though their
sympathies are with the Sultan’s enemies, they have not shown it.
They have freely given their lives in battle for a cause they hate, that
the Turk may have no excuse to vent his wrath upon our people.
Less than a week ago the Sultan’s minister, the powerful Enver,
expressed his gratitude to us for the services we are rendering the
Crescent. They dare not molest us again.”
“But the vision that came to me last night was the same that
would have warned me that night in 1895 of the tragedy then in
store for us.”
“This time, nevertheless, it was but an idle dream.”
The banker spoke with the finality of conviction. The shepherd
was affronted by his calm disbelief in the sign of coming evil, as the
shepherd considered it. The old man left the room and crossed the
garden in high dudgeon. His hand was upon the gate, and in
another moment he would have been gone when a fresh, youthful
voice arrested him.
“Vartabed—wait; I am coming!”
The old man stopped abruptly. Looking back he saw coming
toward him the one who was closer to his heart than any other living
thing—Arshalus, a daughter of the Mardiganians.
 Arshalus—that means “The Light of the Morning.” There is but one
word in America into which the Armenian name can be translated
—“The Aurora.” And no other would be so fitting. She was a merry-
eyed child of fourteen years, hair and eyes as black as night; smile
and spirit as sunny as the brightest day. Every sheep in Old
Vartabed’s flock was her pet, especially the black ones.
When she reached the waiting shepherd Aurora quickly discovered
that he was glum, and she chose to be piqued about it.
“Surely you were not going without wishing me the happiness of
the Easter time, or has Old Vartabed ceased to care for the one who
plagues him so much?” She made a great show of pouting, but the
old man’s hurt could not be so easily mended. Perhaps the sight of
Aurora intensified it.
“It is idle to wish happiness; it is better to give it. When one has
none to give he has no mission. I have no joy to give to-day, even to
you, my Aurora, and so I had not thought of seeking you.”
“That is very wrong, Vartabed. To-day Christ is risen, and there is
joy everywhere. And even more for me than many others. Just
yesterday my father told me that before another Easter comes I am
to go away to finish my schooling—to Constantinople, or, perhaps, to
Switzerland or Paris. Does that not make you happy for me,
Vartabed?”
For an instant the old man gazed down upon the upturned face.
Then his hand reached for the gate again, as if to give support to
the tall, straight body that seemed to droop. Aurora thought she had
pained him. With an impulsive fondness she raised her hands as if to
rest them upon the old man’s breast. But before she could reach him
the shepherd was gone, and the gate had closed between them.
An hour later Old Vartabed again stood on the summit of the hill,
looking down upon the city and the plains of the Mamuret-ul-Aziz,
bathed, now, in the glory of the full morning sun. A few miles to the
south lay the ridges and long abandoned tunnels which, according to
tradition, once were the busy workings of Solomon’s mines. Harpout,
where the caravans stop; Van, the metropolis, and Sivas, the “City of
Hope,” were far beyond the horizon, outpost cities of a nation which
was born before history. The old man’s thoughts visited each of
these jewel cities in turn, and pictured the hope and faith with which
they celebrated the coming of Easter. Then he turned again to the
spires and housetops reaching up from the plains below. For he was
thinking not only of Armenia—the beautiful, golden Armenia of that
Easter day in 1914, but, also, of the child who was named for “The
Light of the Morning.”
H. L. Gates.
 THE STORY OF AURORA
MARDIGANIAN
CHAPTER I
WHEN THE PASHA CAME TO MY HOUSE

My story begins with Easter Sunday morning, in April, 1915. In my

father’s house we prepared to observe the day with a joyous
reverence, increased by the news from Constantinople that the
Turkish government recently had expressed its gratitude for the loyal
and valuable service of the Armenian troops in the Great War. When
Turkey joined in the war, almost six months before, a great fear
spread throughout Armenia. Without the protecting influence of
France and England, my people were anxious lest the Turks take
advantage of their opportunity and begin again the old oppression of
their Christian subjects. The young Armenian men would have
preferred to fight with the Sultan’s enemies, but they hurried to
enlist in the Ottoman armies, to prove they were not disloyal. And
now that the Sultan had acknowledged their sacrifices, the fear of
new persecutions at the hands of our Moslem rulers gradually had
disappeared.
And in all our city, Tchemesh-Gedzak, twenty miles north of
Harpout, the capital of the district of Mamuret-ul-Aziz, there was
none more grateful for the promise of continued peace in Armenia
than my father and mother, and Lusanne, my elder sister and I. I
was only fourteen years old, and Lusanne was not yet seventeen,
but even little girls are always afraid in Armenia. I was quite excited
that morning over my father’s Easter gift to me—his promise that
soon I could go to an European school and finish my education as
befits a banker’s daughter. Lusanne was to be married, and she was
bent upon enjoying the last Easter day of her maidenhood. Even the
early visit that morning of Old Vartabed, our shepherd, who came
just after daybreak, with a prophecy of trouble, did not dampen our
spirits.
Standing before my looking glass I was rearranging for the
hundredth time the blue ribbons with which I had dressed my hair
with, I must confess, a secret hope that they would be the envy of
all the other girls at the church service. Lusanne was making use of
her elder sister’s privilege to scold me heartily for my vanity. Lusanne
was always very prim, and quiet. I was just about to tell her that she
was only jealous because she soon would be a wife and forbidden to
wear blue ribbons any more, when my mother came into the room.
She stopped just inside the door, and leaned against the wall. She
did not say a word—just looked at me.
“Mother, what is it?” I cried. She did not answer, but silently
pointed to the window. Lusanne and I ran at once to look down into
the street. There at the gate to our yard stood three Turkish
gendarmes, each with a rifle, rigidly on guard. On their arms was the
band that marked them as personal attendants of Husein Pasha, the
military commandant in our district.
I turned to my mother for an explanation. She had fallen in a heap
on the floor and was weeping. She did not speak, but pointed
downward and I knew that Husein Pasha had come to our house,
and was downstairs. Then my happiness was gone, and I, too, fell to
the floor and cried. Somehow I felt that the end had come.
For a long time the powerful Husein Pasha, who was very rich and
a friend of the Sultan himself, had wanted me for his harem. His big
house sat in the midst of beautiful gardens, just outside the city.
There he had gathered more than a dozen of the prettiest Christian
girls from the surrounding towns. In Armenia the Mutassarif, or
Turkish commandant, is an official of great power. He accepts no
orders, except those that come direct from the Sultan’s ministers,
and, as a rule, he is cruel and autocratic.