“I don’t exactly know, Rue.”
At this stage of the conversation her father usually laid aside his book and composed himself for the inevitable narrative soon to be demanded of him. 5
Then, although having heard the story many times from her crippled father’s lips, but never weary of the repetition, the child’s eyes would grow round and very solemn in preparation for her next and inevitable question:
“And did Herr Wilner die, daddy?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Tell me!”
“Well, it was when I was a missionary in the Trebizond district, and your mother and I went––”
“And me, daddy? And me, too!”
“Yes; you were a little baby in arms. And we all went to Gallipoli to attend the opening of a beautiful new school which was built for little Mohammedan converts to Christianity––”
“Did I see those little Christian children, daddy?”