“Philena gets there except in bad weather—maybe you and she could go together,” Betsey suggested.
“I’ve the loveliest teacher!” Philena supplemented. “Her name is Kate Sills, and she’s going to marry the postmaster—she has a beautiful white plume on her hat.”
“I’d like to go, if I had shoes. I guess you can’t get in barefoot.”
“Maybe we can find shoes, if that’s all that’s wrong.”
“I can be a home missionary, granny,” Philena’s little old face lighted with smiles. “You know—the money in my bank.”
Thurley flushed. “I don’t want any one’s money—least of all Philena’s. What is a home missionary?”
“I’m going to be a foreign missionary when I’m big and strong,” Philena answered. “It’s some one who sails off to China or Africa where they find heathens ready to eat them up; the heathens throw their babies into the river and don’t believe in God, and the missionaries teach them to build nice houses and dress their babies in white and sing songs. I heard a real true one tell about it last winter—she stayed two days at Lorraine’s house—and that’s what I’m going to be, isn’t it, granny?”
“If you’re well enough.”
“Why couldn’t I go with you to Africa or China and sing the songs, and you could pray and teach and I’d mind the babies while you stitched up the white dresses?” Thurley rattled on. “Let’s be missionaries together—listen, I’ll sing some songs.”
“Granny, fetch all the dolls—they can be heathen—that’s the ship we’re going on—and there is Africa all full of savages—get my Bible, Thurley, and my bag—we’ll pretend we’re there now.” Philena’s crutch tapped quickly over the floor.