"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." It was a baseless accusation, but I didn't bother to refute it by reminding him of who found Alfred--the originator of all the trouble. He would only have blustered. "I suppose," I conceded at last, "that if missionaries and their wives can live there, a few months won't hurt Molly. Remind me in the morning, dear, to write a note to your school teacher, and you can take it with you." "Won't all the other girls be jealous!" she cried. "I told some of them I should probably be going out to Africa in a few weeks time--and they were mad! Kitty Vincent said I was just boasting--and I wanted to fight her. . . ." For nearly five minutes she continued in this vein. "You seem to have taken everything for granted, my child," I remarked. "Supposing I had refused? What then?" "But, Daddy, I knew you wouldn't!" Gran'pa arose and stretched himself. "George," he said, "that child's an atavism--a throw-back! She throws back to me. And I'm proud of it! Come and give your poor old great-great-grand-dad a kiss, my dear." Molly saluted him and told him he wasn't the _teeny-weeniest_ bit old. "Perhaps you're right . . ." he mused. Then he chuckled to himself and commenced whistling "Sally in Our Alley." It was followed by "Sweet Alice Ben Bolt." Finally he burst into parodied song: "Oh, Molly! Oh! Molly Barnett . . . Oh, Molly--where e'er did she _get_? She's suddenly flown To regions unknown, Along with a man and his aeroplane-_ette_!" "How's that for a modern version? Eh, George?" "Very true to life!" I laughed. "Ah!" he cried. "It's good to be so young that you can feel yourself back with some of those old songs again. I heard of 'Dorothy Dean' and her 'flying machine' at the Tivoli Music Hall--over fifty years ago. . . . And yet . . . I wasn't so young even then. It's a queer business, George!" He couldn't contain himself that night. He played the piano, sang dead and long-forgotten songs, danced a "solo" minuet to his own whistled accompaniment, and even showed us how the old-time "saraband" went.