the land that is
aiming to do him good, without any menacing background of
exploitation."

I talked with one bright-faced, twinkling-eyed, red-blooded, big-framed
missionary who was crossing with his family of a wife and four children.
He had spent fifteen years in the Orient as a missionary, and then
because of illness he had been compelled to go to America. There he had
taken a church and had preached for five years. His health came back,
and as he told me, "The lure of the East got me and I had to come back.
I never was so happy in my life as I am on this trip and the whole
family feels the same way. We are going back to _our people_!" And the
way he pronounced those _italicised_ words made me know that he, too,
was weaving a thread in the Fabric of Friendship.

We met a woman who was traveling back to China with her three darling
little tots. I made love to all three of them, and it wasn't long before
I asked one where her Daddy was. I assumed, of course, that they had
been home on a furlough and that Daddy was back there in China waiting
anxiously for them to return to him. I pictured that meeting, for I have
seen many such during war days, both on this side and in France.

"My Daddy is dead," the child said simply with a quiver of her little
lips.

"All right, dear baby, we won't talk about it then," for I was afraid
that those little trembling lips couldn't hold in much longer. But she
wanted to tell me about it. I soon saw that. She liked to talk about her
"dear dead Daddy."

"He went to France," she said simply.

"Ah, he was a soldier?" I questioned.

"No, he was better than a soldier, my Mamma says. He did not go to kill;
he went to help." And back of that sentiment and that statement I saw a
world of struggle and ideals in a missionary home where the man felt
called across the seas to be "in it" with his country and at last the
refuge of the man who could go "not to kill but to help."

"He went to work with the coolies and he got the influenza and died last
winter. We won't have any Daddy any more," and her little blue eyes were
misty with tears. And so were mine, more misty than I dared let her see.
And they are misty now as I write about it. And yours will be misty if
you read about it, as they should be. That is something fine in you
being called out.

Later I met the mother. She told me over again the story that little
Doris had told me of the big Daddy who had felt the call to go to Fr