“Oh, you speak English.”
“Yes, we have many English visitors. Our children are taught it in the schools.” He looked again, seemingly puzzled.
“What is your name?”
“Martin Steele. My people come from over here.”
“Steele.” He shook his head. “I know none of that name.”
Martin took from his pocket the bundle of old letters. One glance at them and the pastor’s arms were around him.
“I wrote those letters to your grandfather. I am his brother. You are not an American, you are a Swiss. Your name is not Steele, it is Staehli—Martin Staehli. The eldest of our family, for generations back, was always Martin.”
Martin felt a throb of joy; the blood of this fine old man with the head of a Roman ran in his veins. He had known only Aunt Priscilla, whom he wanted to burn.
“Come, I am going to take you home with me.”
Martin looked back at the Swiss “Madel.” In her red skirt and velvet bodice—an image of national womanhood.