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 sitting in the hollow of his hand it can't hurt us."

It struck me as curious that she should be talking of God so familiarly. In my ignorance of their religious side, I considered the Turks as infidels and without religion.

"I didn't know that God had any hands," I remarked. "I thought He was only an eye—at least that is the way He is painted on the ceiling of our church."

Djimlah shook her head. "How can He be only an eye? Have you ever seen a person being only an eye?"

"He isn't a person," I retorted. "He is God, which is very different from being a person," and yet as I spoke the words, something I had just learned popped into my head, that man was created in the image of God. Magnanimously I mentioned this to Djimlah.

"I always knew that," she agreed, "and I know whom He looks like, too. He looks like grandfather at his best."

"Your grandfather is old," I protested. "God isn't an old man."

Djimlah pondered this. "Well, He has lived ever since the beginning of the world—and grandfather is only sixty." She looked at me puzzled. "That's funny. I never thought much about His age."

"Yes," I put in more perplexed still, "and His