In self-defense I told him I was not listening to the man, but praying for him. “The Sisters taught us to do that,” I said. “They taught us to pray for all sinners.”

Father wore a long beard, the custom of his day. When he was very thoughtful or vexed with some problem, he had a habit of twisting up the end of his beard into a pigtail. He would then put the pigtail between his teeth and chew on it.

After I explained what I had been doing, he looked at me strangely, twisted up his beard, put the end in his mouth, and began chewing. He took my hand, something he never did before, and we walked home in silence. He went straight upstairs, and I found some fresh papers, which I read downstairs. When I went up to go to bed he was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall and still chewing his beard. My coming aroused him. He said, “Good night, John,” and we went to bed.

The next evening he came in as usual. He read his paper and I read whatever came to my hand. When we went upstairs, he said: “John, the Sisters taught you many prayers, did they?”