Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. “I find it very hard to write this letter. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. Don't unman him. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all.
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