"No!" I cried with great positiveness.

"You mean that isn't its name?" the missionary asked.

I nodded.

"Then what is its name, my boy?"

"It's name is . . ." I began, then concluded lamely, "I, forget."

"It don't look the same now," I went on after a pause. "They've ben
fixin' it up awful."

Here the missionary handed to my mother another photograph he had sought
out.

"I was there myself six months ago, Mrs. Standing." He pointed with his
finger. "That is the Jaffa Gate where I walked in and right up to the
Tower of David in the back of the picture where my finger is now. The
authorities are pretty well agreed on such matters. El Kul'ah, as it was
known by--"

But here I broke in again, pointing to rubbish piles of ruined masonry on
the left edge of the photograph.

"Over there somewhere," I said. "That name you just spoke was what the
Jews called it. But we called it something else. We called it . . . I
forget."