"Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! It is Rolf and Quonab; and vere is dot
tam dog? Marta, vere is de chickens? Vy, Rolf, you bin now a
giant, yah. Mein Gott, it is I am glad! I did tink der cannibals
you had eat; is it dem Canadian or cannibal? I tink it all one
the same, yah!"
Marta was actually crying, the little ones were climbing over
Rolf's knee, and Annette, tall and sixteen now, stood shyly by,
awaiting a chance to shake hands. Home is the abiding place of
those we love; it may be a castle or a cave, a shanty or a
chateau, a moving van, a tepee, or a canal boat, a fortress or
the shady side of a bush, but it is home, if there indeed we meet
the faces that are ever in the heart, and find the hands whose
touch conveys the friendly glow. Was there any other spot on
earth where he could sit by the fire and feel that "hereabout are
mine own, the people I love?" Rolf knew it now -- Van Trumper's
was his home.
Talks of the war, of disasters by land, and of glorious victories
on the sea, where England, long the unquestioned mistress of the
waves, had been humbled again and again by the dauntless seamen
of her Western blood; talks of big doings by the nation, and, yet
more interesting, small doings by the travellers, and the
breakfast passed all too soon.
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