"She'll be with other whites—at one of the mission stations."
"Heaven help the missionaries!" I gasped.
"You are rude, Daddy!" cried Molly.
"After all, my dear," I explained, "a missionary is only sent out to enlighten the poor misguided heathen—he isn't supposed to tackle the modern white girl as well."
"Don't you believe it, George," cried Gran'pa. "They'll be delighted to have a bundle of mischief like Molly trotting around. It'll conjure up visions of the homeland—and all the rest of it. . . . She'll have the time of her life there. I've managed to obtain an introduction to the Rev. Timothy Brady from a very old friend of his who knows the place well. The station is at Baraka, on the summit of a hill and near the north shore of the Gaboon river. There are plenty of lime and fruit trees there, as well as the cocoanut and mango. Also, a church—a library—a school . . ." he said, looking at Molly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think it's horrid. . . ."
". . . Which, of course, she will not be obliged to attend," added Gran'pa.
"Hooray!"
"You seem to have arranged everything very nicely," I observed.
"I always do, George. If I left it to you we should never get anything done."