Copyright©JanetLunn1981

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproducedortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronicormechanical,includingphotocopying,recording,orbyanyinformationstorageand

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trademarksofRandomHouseofCanadaLimited.

THEROOTCELLARFirstpublishedinCanadabyLester&OrpenDennysLimited,

1981SealBookseditionpublishedAugust

2001

MapbyN.R.Jackson

eISBN:978-0-307-36747-1

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v3.1

WithgratefulacknowledgementstotheOntarioArtsCouncilandtotheCanadaCouncilforprovidingthetravelgrantthatenabledmetoresearchthisbookinOntario,Oswego,NewYork,

Washington,andRichmond.

AndparticularthankstomysonJohn,whowroteWill’s

songforhim.

ToRichard,whohasalwaysknowntheislandandthebay,

thisbookislovinglydedicated.

CoverMapTitlePageCopyrightAcknowledgementsDedication

Chapter1Rose

Chapter2TheHouseatHawthornBayChapter3GhostsChapter4TheRootCellarChapter5SusanChapter6WillChapter7ASongandaSilverRoseChapter8StowawayChapter9TheAccident

Chapter10WhentheWindComesUp

Chapter11TheTraintoNewYork

Chapter12AlongtheRiver

Chapter13ADollaraDayChapter14NewYorkChapter15ToFindaBrother

Chapter16Richmondisa

HardRoadtoTravelChapter17I’mNotComingHomeChapter18TheStormChapter19HomeChapter20TheChristmasKitchen

AuthorInterview

I

Rose

t was a cold wetafternoon in October

whenRoseLarkincametolive in the house atHawthorn Bay. Raindrippedfromthebranches

of the big horse-chestnuttree in the front yard andhung in large drops fromthe tangle of bushesaround the house. Rosestood in the driveway,whereAuntStellahad lefther, feeling that she hadneverbeeninaplacemoredismal in all her life. Itsbleakness seemed to echoher own sense of beingcompletely abandoned. In

the weeks since the deathof her grandmother shehad been shipped fromrelative to relative andfinally delivered—like apackage, she thoughtbitterly—to an aunt anduncleshehadneverseen.Rosewasanorphan.Her

mother and father hadbeen killed in a car crashwhen she was three yearsold, and she had gone to

live with her mother’smother in New York City.Her grandmother was abusiness woman whotraveledallovertheworld.An austere woman, moredutiful than loving, shetook Rose with hereverywhere she went,which meant that Rosespent as much time inhotels as she did in theirapartment on upper Fifth

AvenueinNewYork.Grandmother did not

believe in schools. “Theyteach only what’sfashionable—and that notverywell,”shesnorted.Soevery evening, from theday Rose was five, theydidlessonstogether.Everymorning Rose had to dohomework. Everyafternoon she was free todo as she pleased. Wet

days she read or exploredthe hotel. Fine days shepoked around shops orwent to museums ormovies in foreignlanguages. She often satfor hours in parks,watching people—oldpeople feeding the birds,shoppers, strollers,mothers or fathers withtheir children. Rose hadnever known other

children and theyfascinated her. She oftenlonged to speak to them,sometimeseventobecomepart of their games, butthey frightened her. Theywere apt to be rough andmake loud jokes, and shewas afraid she wouldn’tknowwhattosaytothem.Her grandmother told hermore than once that shewas better off without

them,thatshewouldlearnmoreaboutbeinganadultifsheassociatedonlywithadults.In consequence she

didn’t know much aboutliving with people. Sheandhergrandmotherwerelike two polite strangerstogether.Rosehadlearnedearly that when she wasquiet and obedient hergrandmother was pleasant

—and not so pleasantwhen she wasn’t. Thedeath of her parents hadleft her with a naggingfear that her grandmothertoomightdisappear if shemisbehaved, so shebecame a stiff, self-possessed child aboutwhommany said she wasmorelikeachinadollthanalittlegirl.Shedidn’tlooklike a china doll. Her

bright redhairwaspulledtightly into two neatbraids. She had a longnose and her face waspointed,whichgaveher aslightly elfish look andsometimesledstrangerstoexpect mischief or humoruntil they looked morecloselyathersetchin,hermouth so firmly shut, andthe guarded expressionthat was too often in her

largegrayeyes.Without other children,

an alien among adults,Rose came to theconclusion when she wasabouteightthatshedidn’tbelong in the world. Shebelieved she was acreature from somewhereelse. She could no longerremember her mother orfather, and she figuredthat the story about her

having parents was madeup to keep her fromfinding the truth. Shehadn’ttheleastideawhereshemighthavecomefrom,but she had absolute faiththatonedayshewouldgobackthere.Meanwhileshedid her best to mind herownbusinessandkeepoutofeveryone’sway.Shewasoften lonely, but she hadearly accepted loneliness

asaconditionofherlife.The year Rose turnedtwelve, her grandmotherdecided she should go toboarding school in Paris.They went to Paristogether, and the firstnight, in theirhotel room,her grandmother had aheart attack. Rose wasparalyzedwithfear.“Don’t stand theregaping, child,” her

grandmother croakedbetween gasps of pain.“Call the desk. Get adoctor.”Feelingas thoughher feet were made oflead, like someone in anightmare,Rosedidasshewas told, and she wentalong in theambulance tothehospitalandsat in thewaiting room while hergrandmother was wheeledoff on a stretcher. She

forced herself to think ofnothingwhile doctors andnursesbustledaroundher.Half an hour later thedoctor came to tell herthat her grandmother haddied.Stunned,shemanageda

politenodand said stiffly,“Merci,monsieur.”Shetooka taxi back to the hotel,phoned Great-AuntMillicentinNewYork,and

waited for Great-UncleArnold to come on thenight plane. Her handsshook and she had noappetite,butotherwiseshemanaged to remain calmand possessed all throughthe trip home and thefuneralafterward.She spent a week with

each of her grandmother’ssisters, after which theyhad a meeting in Great-

Aunt Millicent’sapartment.Rosesatrigidlyon the edge of her chair.Uncle Arnold said hethought she ought to besent to school, AuntMillicent said she wasn’tsurewhatshouldbedone,andAuntStellasaid,“Whynot send her to NanHenry’s?”Nan Henry was Rose’s

father’s only sister. She

lived with her husbandand four sons in Canada,on an island off the northshore of Lake Ontario.When Aunt Stella phonedher,Nan said, as if itwasthe simplest thing in theworld,“OfcourseRosecancomeandlivewithus.Tellher to bring a bucket ofpaint and a paint brush.We’ve just moved in.”WhenAuntStellareported

these words, AuntMillicent raised her eyestoward the ceiling butofferednoargument.“Now, dear,” she

gushed, “before you go toyour new home, I thinkwe’d better do somethingabout you, hadn’t we?”Rose felt like a specimeninamuseumcaseasAuntMillicentgaveherbraidsasmall tug, patted the lace

collar of her good navyblue challis dress, andappraised her with sharpeyes, but she was muchtoo bewildered and toowell behaved to sayanything. She wentobediently to thehairdresser where, withtwo quick chops, herbraids were left lying onthe floorandherhairwasin inch-long curls all over

her head. “So chic,”twittered Aunt Millicentand took Rose from thereto a shop where shebought her a pair of tightblack velvet pants, tallslim boots with two-inchheels, and a sealskinjacket,clothessuitedtoaneighteen-year-old fashionmodel. On Rose theylookedfoolishandshewasthoroughly miserable in

them. And she felt nakedwithoutherbraids.AuntStella,whoworked

in television, said she hada trip to Toronto comingup and wouldn’t mindmakingabitofadetourtodrop Rose off at theHenrys’. So one night inOctober Uncle Arnoldpacked all Rose’sbelongingsintothebackofAunt Stella’s blue sports

car and before dawn thenext morning Rose andAuntStellaleftNewYork.Rosesatmostoftheday

with her fists clenched inherlap,alternatelychafingat the discomfort of hernewclothesandshornhairand thinking of thedreadful things that weresure to happen in theHenryhousehold.“Who is Aunt Nan,

anyway?” she wonderedpeevishly, and the answercame, “A woman with nosense.” Her grandmotherhad said that once whenRose had asked.What didthatmean?Andthentherewere the boys—four ofthem. She shuddered. Theday wore on. The NewYork State Thruway wasendless, but at the sametime it wasn’t long

enough. Rose would havebeen glad as they camenearer and nearer to theCanadian border if theycouldhavedriven forever.By the time they reachedLake Ontario she hadworked herself into afrenzy of worry. WhenAuntStelladroveontothelittleferrythatwouldtakethem to the island andsaid, “We should be there

in not more than half anhour,” Rose was almostready to leap out of thecar.It had been raining on

the island, but even witheverything gray and wetand most of the leavesgone from the trees, thelow, rolling countrysidewaspretty.Therewerebigoldhousesandbarns,hugesilos, and field after field

ofbrightorangepumpkins,making a kind of spaceRose wasn’t used to. Andthere were not manypeople in sight. In citiestherewerealwayspeople.They passed throughseveral small, neatvillages,withbighousesofbrick or clapboard wherelateflowersbloomedalongporches and walks. Eightmiles past the last village,

nearthesouthshoreoftheisland, Aunt Stella turneddownadirtroad.Itcurvedaround a deep bay.HawthornBay,asignread.Aunt Stella had her hand-drawnmaponherlapandshe told Rose to startlookingatmailboxes.Theyhaddrivenaroundasharpcorner and over a creekwhen theycame toanoldred brick house, sadly

neglected and all butsurrounded by bushes. Anenormous horse-chestnuttree in the front yardloomedover it,andapairof gnarled maples leanedtoward each other out bythe road. The name HENRYwas printed in unevenletters on the rustymailbox.Aunt Stella pulled into

thedrivewayandstopped.

“IcanseewhyNansaidtobring a bucket of paint,”shesaidwryly.Shegotoutofthecar.“Youwaithere.I’ll tell them we’vearrived.”Rose watched as she

picked her way throughthetallgrassandweedsinher high-heeled shoes andknockedonthefrontdoor.No answer. She wentacross to the smaller door

at the west end of thehouse and knocked. Noanswer. She pushed openthe door and went inside.In less than two minutesshewasback.“There’s nobody home.Isn’t that likeNan! I’ll betshe’s got the wrong day.Well,there’sanoteonthekitchentablesaying, ‘Dearfurnaceman,we’llbebacksoon.Comeinandgoright

down to the cellar.’ Howsheexpectshimtofindthenoteunlesshe’salreadyinI can’t imagine, andanyway who leaves notestothefurnacemansaying,‘dear furnaceman’?ListenRose, I really can’t wait.I’msorrytojustdumpyoulike this, but I expectedNan to be here and Ipromised tobe inTorontofor dinner. I’m sure you’ll

be okay, because the notesays they’ll be right back.Why don’t you makeyourself at home?Now, ifyou’llgivemeahandwiththisstuff—”“I’m not going to stay

here,” declared Rose. Itwas the first time shecould remember everhavingvoicedanobjectionto anything she had beentoldtodo,buttheprospect

of living in a derelicthouse remote fromanything or anyone she’deverknownfilledherwithsudden panic. She didn’tplead. She stated flatly,“I’ll come with you toToronto. You won’t findme any trouble. Then I’llgo back to New York. I’llgotoschoolthere.”“Don’t be silly, Rose.”

Aunt Stella stopped

hauling suitcases out ofthe trunk and brushed awet leaf from her suit.“This is just the thing foryou, though you may notthink so right now. Iexpectyou’remissingyourgrandmother, but Nan’s agoodsortandtheboysarejustwhatyouneed.You’lllove it here. Now comealong and give me ahand.”

Rose gave up. That onesmall declaration ofindependence was all shecould manage.Mechanically, she grabbeda suitcase. Together sheandAuntStellatuggedandlugged and got the threebig suitcases and twoboxes of books out of thecar and into the darkhouse. They didn’t staylong, just long enough for

Rose to get an impressionof a low-ceilinged, old-fashioned kitchen full ofbooksandpapersanddirtydishes. Back to the car tomake sure there wasnothing of Rose’s leftthere,andthenAuntStellawasoff.“Good-bye, Rose. I’msureyou’regoingtoloveithere!Beagoodgirl,havefun. Tell Nan I’m sorry I

missed her.”With a quickwave, she was off downthe road leaving Rosestanding in the drivewayclutching her overnightbag.She stood thereuncertainly. She didn’twanttogobackinsideandshe couldn’t stand in thedriveway all afternoon.She stared numbly at thehouse.

It was a big, squarehouse with a lowwing ateither end. There hadclearly been a porch allalong the front. Where ithad been attached therewas a smudged linespotted with bricks of thewrong size and color,mortared in to repairholes. The chimney at theeast end had crumbled,and the roof of the shed

that still clung to thekitchen was badly cavedin.Nobody cares about thishouse, thought Rose.Nobody. Suddenly, andwithout the sun actuallycoming out, the skybrightened to a luminoussilver and the old housestood etched on thesurrounding air as thoughithadappearedfromsome

other time or place. Itlooked like a painting,with its bright red bricks,itswhitetrim,itspinkandblue and purpleflowerbeds. Fromsomewhere near came thesound of water gurgling,and a bird cried out asingle note that echoedand reechoed in thesilence.Rosegaspedandtookan

eager step forward. Thebrightness faded. The skygrew gray again. Themoment was past. Thehousewas as it had been,its bricks darkened withage and rain, its trim allbut peeled off—and therewerenoflowerbeds.“I don’t understandthat.”Roseshiveredinsideherfurjacket.Stillholdingtightly to her overnight

bag, she marchedresolutely up to the frontdoor. Close up it wasshabbier and morepatheticthanatadistance.In front of the door therewas an old pump she hadnotnoticedbefore,andthegroundarounditwasbaremud.Grabbing hold of the

pump handle for support,Rose leaned forward and

peered into the nearestdownstairs front window.From inside two brightblack eyes peered back ather.

For a full second Rosestood frozen, her heartbeatingfrantically.Shedidnot notice that herovernight bag had slippedfromherhand.Sheleanedagainst the pump handle,

and as the shockwore offshecouldseethattheeyeswerenotfloatinginspace.They belonged in a small,sun-browned face aswrinkled as an appledoll’s. The mouth wasturnedupattheedgesandthe nose was so small italmost disappeared intothe wrinkles. The eyeswere like dark moons,blinking and staring at

Rose in obvious disbelief.AsRosestaredthroughthewindow, the whole facecrinkled up in a smile sobright it seemed as if thesunhadcomeout.Thenitdisappeared.In an instant, an old

woman appeared fromaround the corner of thehouse. Shewas small, notmuch taller thanRose.On

top of her apple-doll face,herwhitehair,thecolorofold ivory, was neatlywoundaroundherheadintwo thin braids. She wasdressed in a cotton printdress that reached almostto her ankles, with afloweredapronoveritanda largeknittedgray shawlaround her shoulders. Shewas the oddest-lookingpersonRosehadeverseen.

“I see you come back.”The oldwoman smiled. “Ididn’tmeantoscareyou.”Shylyshereachedoutandtouched Rose on the arm.Rose jumped backnervously.“Ibegyourpardon?”“Youcomeback.”“I beg your pardon. Ithinkyoumusthavemadeamistake. I’veneverbeenherebefore.”

“Oh, Rose!” For amoment the old womanlookedathersadly.Thenalight of understandingcame to her eyes. “I see,”shesaidslowly,“Isee.Youonly just comenow. Thenyoudon’t…ofcourseyoudon’t. Oh, Rose! Now Idone it.” She stopped andlooked around herapprehensively.I suppose she must be

senile, Rose decided, likeold Aunt Prue. In a minuteshe’ll start shouting andthrowingthings.Asshehadbeentaughttodowithhergrandmother’s aged aunt,she explained slowly andloudly that she was RoseLarkin from New YorkCity.“I’ve come to live withAunt Nan and Uncle Bob.Are you a relative of

theirs?”The old woman sighed.

She shrugged hershoulders uncomfortably.“Oh, well, I’m Mrs.Morrissay,that’swhoIamand—oh, my sweetHannah! What’s happenedto my house?” As she’dbeen talking, Mrs.Morrissay had turnedtoward the house. Shewalked up to the front

doorandpokedherfingersthrough the broken panesofglassoneitherside.Shestamped on the loosedoorstep, then walkedslowly along the front ofthe house, patting theweatheredwindowframes,thumping the ill-fittingbricks. She facedRose. “Itlooksoldandqueer.It’sallbut a ruin. Rose, you gottodosomething!”

“Me?” Rose was soastonished she forgot hermanners.“Well, you … Lord’smercy!What’sthat?”Rose whirled around. Alarge green station wagonwas pulling into thedriveway. Panicthreatened again. “It’sthem,”shewhispered.“It’sthe Henrys, isn’t it?” Sheturned back toward Mrs.

Morrissay, instinctivelyseeking support, but theoldwomanwasnot there.Asswiftlyandasstrangelyas she had come, she hadgone—without even astirringinthebushes.

T

TheHouseatHawthornBay

heytumbledoutofthestation wagon and

across the yard, four boysand a round untidy-

looking woman carryingtwolargeshoppingbags,apotted geranium, and,under one arm, a load ofbooks.Halfwayacross theyardAunt Nan saw Rose. Shestopped.Thebooksslippedfrom under her arm. “Ohdear,nevermind.Areyoulooking for someone? Are—oh, my Lord, you mustbe Rose!” she cried. “Oh,

good heavens, it’s today!Isn’t it tomorrow? Oh,dear!”“Mother! I told you the

lettersaidMonday.”Atall,thin, long-legged boy washalf bouncing, halfdancing on first one foot,then the other, in front ofhis mother. “I told you.Now, if you’d listen towhatI—”“Shut up, George.

Mother, you’re losing thegroceries.” The secondboy, not quite as tall andnotnearlyaswildlooking,grabbed the bags ofgroceries and thegeranium before theycould follow the books tothe ground. He turned tostare at Rose. Two smallboys grabbed him by hisarmsandwhisperedloudlyand urgently, “Is it Rose,

Sam?Isit?”“I don’t know. Are you

Rose?”“Yes, I’m Rose,” said

Rose stiffly, feeling alltheir eyes on her,conscious of howridiculousshemustlookinher city boots and pantsandfurjacket,standingbythe old pump, desperateforaplacetohide.Wildlyshe thought of running,

but her feet would notbudge. “Aunt Stellacouldn’t stay,” she blurtedout.“Oh, Rose!” Aunt Nan

had got over her surprise.SherushedoverandthrewherarmsaroundRoseandgaveherawarmkiss.Rose flinched as though

she had been struck. Noonehadeverbeforeshownher more affection than

Grandmother’s occasionalpatsontheheadandAuntMillicent’s showy littlekissesintheair.AuntNandidnotseemtonotice.Shewent on talking. She wasastounding, the way shelooked and the way shetalked. She was short andasplumpasanoverstuffedcushion. She had a fullmouth,warm brown eyes,and a lot of soft brown

hair coming undone froma knot at the back of herhead. She had on a looseplaid dress with a big,bright green sweater overit,nostockings,andonherfeet a pair of runningshoes with holes in them.And she never stoppedtalking.“Howtinyyouare,”she

crowed. “My goodness, Ican hardly see you inside

that jacket. I write storiesfor girls. It’s to get awayfromboys,yourUncleBobsays, so you can imaginehowniceit’sgoingtobetohave you here. Of course,the new one might be agirl.”AuntNanpattedherstomach;andRoserealizedthat some of theplumpness was becauseAuntNanwasexpectingababy.

“Not that I don’t likeboys.” Aunt Nan’s voicesounded like a xylophonegoing up and down thescales.“Ilikemyboysverymuch. Come and meetthem. Imagine being thisoldandneverknowingoneanother!Boys!Boys!Comeand meet your cousin.Sam!George!Twins!”The twins, dressed in

identical jeans and dark

blue sweaters, lookedexactly like their mother,withthesameroundfaces,the same brown hair androundeyes.TheyinspectedRose solemnly from theprotection of theirmother’sskirt.“Jimmy and Brian are

the babies. They’re six.That’sSam.He’sfourteen.”Samwascrossingtheyardwith the fifth load of

groceries.“Hello,”hesaid,nodded curtly towardRose,andcontinuedonhisway. The only impressionRose had of himwas thathe was a big, stocky boywithbushyredhair.“And that’s George.”

Aunt Nan laughed.“Georgeisfifteen.Hetalksa lot and thinkshe knowseverything.”George slammed the

back of the stationwagonshut with his foot andcame loping toward them.He had light curly brownhair,blueeyes,awidefullmouth in a small roundface.Inhisjeansandwornbrown sweater, too shortatthewaistandwrists,helookedlikeascarecrow.“Hi,” he said in a loud,croakingvoice.“Hi.Iknewyou were coming today.

You see, I read the letterand—”“And that’s all of us,

exceptUncleBob,whohadto go to a meeting thisafternoon inSoames.He’llbebacksoon.”“How do you do?” said

Rose.“Mother!” George was

exasperated. “Mother, youforgot to introduce Grim.You see, Rose, we have a

cat called Grim, forGrimalkin, which meansgraycat—”“Come on,” said Aunt

Nan. “It’s starting to rainagain, and the wind’scomingup.We’dbettergetyour things inside, Rose,dear. Is that all you have,just that one littlesuitcase?”“There are at least four

thousand more in the

kitchen,”saidGeorge.“Oh, good! Rose,

where’s Stella? How longhaveyoubeenwaiting forus out here in this wetyard?”Rose explained again

that Aunt Stella had beenin a hurry. Shewas goingto mention meeting Mrs.Morrissay, but Aunt Naninterrupted. “Same oldStella. No time for

anything. I swear,someday she’s going todropdeadinthemiddleofaTVshow,andwhentheygo to pick up the bodythey’llfindit’snothingbutdust because she’sforgotten to eat for threemonths.” With one handfirmlyonRose’sarm,AuntNan steered her throughthe kitchen door, talkingall thewhile. “Look at all

those boxes! Oh, mygoodness, child, I expectyou left New York veryearly. You must beexhausted. Why don’t Itake you right up to yourroom?We only found outlast week, of course, thatyou were coming, so wehaven’thadachancetodomuch with it. Here, givemeyoursuitcase.Theboyscancarryupthebigones.”

“No,thankyou.I’llcarryit.”Roseheldtightlytoherovernight bag andfollowed Aunt Nan fromthe dark kitchen throughanother gloomy room andup a flight of steep stairstoalittleroomatthebackof the house. Like theoutside of the house, andtheglimpseshehadhadofdownstairs, the room wasdismal. Its flowered

wallpaper, dried andyellowedwith age,was inshreds. The plaster hadcome away from half ofone wall, and where theroof had leaked therewasalargebrownstainontheceiling and running downthe wall by the bed. Shecould see that the wideboards of the floor hadonce been painted darkred, but the paint was

almost gone and some oftheboardshadcomeloose.A brass bed stood againstone wall. There was asmallwhite dresser besideit. Opposite, next to thewindow, was a low deskalso painted white. Theroomsmelledmustyandalittle sour. Sam told Roselater he thought it wasbecauseofallthedeadratsandmiceinthewalls.

“The dresser and thedesk were mine when Iwaslittle,”saidAuntNan,“and the bed was here inthe housewhenwe came.Isn’titnice?”Rose did not answer.

Shehadneverbeento,nordreamed of, any placeuglier or more depressingthanthisone.Asthoughinanswer to her bitterthoughts,AuntNansighed.

“Youprobably thinkwe’reall crazy. People do, Iguess. We’re a bitdisorganized, but we’veonly been here a month.YourUncleBobwasintheforces, and he’s justretired. That’s why wecame down here. He’s thegame warden for theisland, and this is all somuch better for him weshould have done it years

ago. You know, the houseis one hundred and sixtyyears old. It’s going to bebeautiful when we get itfixed up and—oh, Lord,Bob will be home anyminute. I’d better getsupper started. I’ll leaveyou to settle yourselfbefore supper. Okay?”Without waiting for ananswer, shewas off downthe stairs, her burbling

words punctuated by theexcited whispers of thetwins.Then came Sam andGeorge struggling withtwo heavy suitcases each,the twins right behindthem.“What’s in these things?The Statue of Liberty?Haw! Haw!” Georgedropped the bags with athump, tripped over Sam,

and went down for more.Sam put his down, saidnothing, and turned tofollow George. The twinsscooted after. Up theycame again until all thesuitcases and boxes werepiled around Rose, whostood in themiddleof thefloor in an agony ofshyness,willingthemtobefinished.“Well,” said George, “I

guess that’s done.” Rosemumbled, “Thank you,”butwhenshesaidnothingmore, he cleared histhroat, looked around,stared at her, and said,“Well, see you later,” andtheyweregone.Rose closed the doorafter them as tightly as itwould close. Still in herjacket and boots, she satontheedgeofthebed.For

amomentthechaosofthelast weeks threatened tooverwhelmher.Oneweekshe had been with hergrandmother on her waytoParis,steelingherselftofaceboardingschool;threedays later she had beenflying home with hergrandmotherlyingdeadinthe baggage compartmentof the plane. Threeweeksmoreandshewasinarun-

down farmhouse inCanada surrounded by afamily noisier, morerambunctious, thanany inher worst imaginings. Sheclamped her lips tightlyshut and reached downand unzipped herovernightbag. Ithad in ither nightclothes, in caseshe and Aunt Stella hadhadtostopatamotel,andher treasures: her music

box and her mother’s oldcopyofThe SecretGarden.They had been hers sinceherparentsdied,andRosehad always carried themwith her, feeling thatwithout them, and thesilver rose she wore on achainaroundherneck,shewouldn’t be any kind ofpersonatall.She became aware of a

noise at her door. She

looked up and saw thelatch moving. She turnedaround quickly. “Who’sthere?”The door was edgedopen and two pairs ofbrown eyes peeredthrough the opening ather. “It’s us,” whisperedthetwins.“Yes?”“Mother says it’s suppertime.” They stood looking

at her for a moment, letout a long sigh in unison,and retreated from thedoor. Rose could hearthem thumping rapidlydownthestairs.She took off her boots,rummaged through hersuitcases,foundherloafersandtheplaidskirtshewasused to wearing, and putthemon.“Idon’tsupposeIneed to wash for dinner,”

she muttered, but all thesame she found herhairbrush and swiftlybrushed through her shortcurls.On her way downstairs

she passed the opendoorwayofthenextroom.She caught a glimpse offirelight and stopped topeek inside. To herastonishment, a girl wasbusily pulling up the

coversonabig,handsomefour-posterbed.Therewasa smallblack stovewithabright fire between thewindows, a round rag rugon the floor, and acheerful tidiness thatwasn’t anywhere else inthe house. Hastily shebacked out, puzzled, andwentdownstairs.Downstairs was like

turning on a radio and

getting all the stations atonce. The television wasgoing in the living room.George was perched onone arm of the sofa,makingrunningcommentsas he watched. Aunt Nanwas beating somethingwith an electric beater inthe kitchen and talking ina loud voice to someonewho made an occasionalrumblingresponse.Insing-

songvoicesthetwinswereanxiously telling theirmother, “We don’t wantany peas, we don’t wantanypeas.”Rosestoodatthefootofthe stairs trying to take itallin.Thelivingroomwasin worse condition thanher bedroom. It was alarge room full of doorsand windows, clutteredwith furniture that

appearedtohavebeenleftwherever themovingmenhad deposited it a monthearlier. The bare lath wasexposed through largeholes in the walls. Shecouldn’t understand whythe front room upstairshad been made socharming while the livingroomwasinsuchastate.She went through intothe kitchen, which was

much more cheerful. Ithad been scrubbed andrepaired. Along one wallthere was a big oldfireplacewithabakeovenbeside it. The other wallsandthelowceilingwereahoney-colored wood thatreflected softly the lightfrom the fire burning inthe fireplaceand from thelamps on the mantel andon the small table under

the frontwindow. Againstthe back wall was a bigbrown electric range,counters (obviously new),and a sink with smallsquare windows over it.There were shelves fordishesoverthewindows—but most of the disheswere on the big table inthemiddleof the roomorpiled up dirty in the sink.An old wooden rocking-

chair stood by the frontwindow, covered—as wasevery other possible space—with books, magazines,rubber boots, andsweaters.Somethingwas burning.Aunt Nan pulled asmoking pot off the stovewhile she talked toamanwithbushyblackhairanda big black moustache,who sat on a high stool

just out of her way. Thetwins were poking theirfingers into various bowlsand dishes until one themhappened to turn and seeRose standing in thedoorway.“Heresheis,”hewhispered and tugged athis father’shand.His twinechoed,“Heresheis,she’shere!”Rose drew back a step.Uncle Bob looked up. He

gotupandwalkedovertoher. “How do you do,Rose?” He smiled andshook hands. “I’m gladyou’ve come to stay withus.”Uncle Bob was tall andthin like George, withthose same bright blueeyes, but Uncle Bob’s hadwrinklesatthecornersanda quiet dreaminess aboutthem. His nose was thin

and long. He asked abouther trip from New Yorkand said he was sorryabout her grandmotherhaving died. Before shehad to say anything, Nancalledoutthatsupperwasready, and they sat downto eat burned spaghetti,peas, and choppedcabbage salad. There wasorange pudding fordessert.

Sam and George satopposite Rose. “Do youalways talk with thataccent—awrangepudding?”Georgebrayed.Rose flushed withembarrassment. “I’venever thought about itbefore,”shesaid.“Did your grandmotherreallydieinParis?”“Yes.”“Whatdidyoudo?”

“I’m used to Paris andthey know me in thathotel. I managed,” saidRose coldly. She did notwant to talk to George.She did not want to talkabout her grandmotherdyinginParistoanyone.“Do you—” Georgebegan.“George!” Uncle Bobsaidsharply.“Thisisnotacourt martial!” He turned

apologetically to Rose. “Iimagine you’ll findmealtime here a bitdifferentfromwhatyou’reusedto.”“Grandmother and I

generally ate inrestaurants,” replied Rose.ShecaughtSamlookingather, and in thequickwayhe turned she had thefeelinghewasangry.Aunt Nan kept up a

steady flow of talk. Thetwins satoneither sideofRoseanddidnottaketheireyes from her facethroughout the meal.Nobodymentionedthegirlupstairs making the bedand nobody mentionedMrs. Morrissay. Finally,when dinner was nearlyover, Rose got up hercourage and asked aboutthegirl.Forananswershe

got six blank stares and adeadsilence.“I expect she’s themaid,”saidRose.“The maid?” Aunt Nanputdownherfork.George let out a yell oflaughter. “The maid!That’sagoodone!”“Well, as she didn’tcome to dinner I thought.…”“What are you talking

about, dear? There’snobody upstairs. Are youplayingajoke?”AuntNansmiledindulgentlyatRose.Rose did not answer.Everyone else waslaughing.Sheflushedwithembarrassment and anger.Why were they sayingthere was nobodyupstairs?Shehadseenthegirl. But she wasn’t goingto risk another bout of

George’slaughterorSam’sglowering, so she said nomoreabout it anddidnotask about Mrs. Morrissayeither. Instead, in herprimmest voice she said,“I’ve had a rather busyday.I’dliketogotobed.”Uncle Bob saidapprovingly, “Goodsoldiers need their sleep,”and George called afterher, “Tell the maid we

need her in the kitchen ifyouseeher.Haw!Haw!”Rose went swiftly but

sedately upstairs andstraight to the frontroom.There was no one there.There was no four-posterbed,nostovewithafireinit, no round rag rug. Theroom was cold and darkand as ramshackle as therestofthehouse.She was scared. She

went to her own room,closed the door, and satdownonherbedwithherjacket over her. Shewantedtobereadytorunincase somethinghorribleshouldhappen.“Thisplaceisveryodd,”she whispered into thedark night. “It’s like thatstory about the girl whohad theplague in ahotel,and they took her away

and nobody would sayshe’d ever been there. Isaw a girl making thatbed. I know I did. Whathappened to her? Whydon’t they want me toknow about her? And Isaw that old lady.Nobody’s said anythingabout her, and—” Shesuddenly remembered thestrange vision of thehouse. “I saw flowers.

Delphiniums.Isawthem.”She sat in the dark,

silentlyhuddledunderherjacket, listening to thewind rattle the loosewindowframeandwhistlethrough the cracks.A treescratched on the window.The room was cold andmusty. Usually, talking toherself was a kind ofcomfort.Itwasalmostlikehaving a companion. But

onthisnighttherewasnocomfort.Shehadasuddensharp pang of lonelinessfor her grandmother. Shedid not deeply grieve forher—hergrandmotherhadnot let her come closeenough for that—but shemissedthecomfortoftheirfamiliar relationship andthe life they had knowntogether. She ached toleave the frightening

strangenessofpeoplewhowere so noisy andunpredictable and whosehouseheldinitpeopletheotherspretendedwerenotthere.Shechokedbackthetears that threatened, asshe always had chokedbacktears,untilherthroatwassore,andshesatwithher arms tight around herknees until she fell overfastasleep.

Shewasawakenedhourslaterbyathought.Howdidthat old lady know myname?Shetalkedtomeasifsheknewme.She sat up and listened

tothequiet.Ithadstoppedraining and the wind haddied.Shegotupandwenttothewindow.Thecloudshad gone from the sky.The moon was full. Thenighthadwashedawayall

color, and outside theworld was a black andwhiteandsilverlandscape.The tall grass beyondthebusheswasassoftandpale as doves’ feathers.Here and there apple andthorn trees dotted theslope, their trunks andlimbs twistedandblack,afewlateappleshangingonthe boughs like tinyiridescent globes. A creek

followed a meanderingpath to the bay, gleamingunderthemoon.Downpastthecreekwasasmallwood,andthroughit thebaywas justvisible,shining whitely throughthe trees. Up close to thehouse the bushes made adark smudge. In theirmidst was a little glade,not much bigger indiameter than the height

of a large apple tree, acircleofbrightlightinthedark.Rosestareddownat theglade as thoughhypnotized. Then she leftthe window, slid her feetintohershoes,openedherdoor, and crept down thestairs, through the silenthouse and out into thenight.Outside she pushed her

way through the densetangle of the bushes. Sheemerged into the glade,scratched and out ofbreath. There was thecreek, andbeside itwas asmall hawthorn tree. Itsbark was silvery, itsdelicatebranchesstretchedout gracefully around itlike a hundred arms, itstwigs and branchletsforming an intricate

tracery to which tinypointed leaves and a fewdarkberriesstillclung.Thegroundwascovered

with leaves from thehawthorn and from thelilac and chokecherry thatsurrounded the clearing.The creek bubbled swiftlyoverthestonesandbitsofold branches that layclearlyvisibleinitsbed.Itsmelled of wet leaves and

moss.Rosehadneverseenanyplace so beautiful. Sheturned around slowly,absorbing it all.Thegladewas quite bare except forthe creek and the littlehawthorn tree and an oldcedar fence post close by,leaning over and halfburiedindeadleaves.On an impulse shegathered a few small

hawthorn branches fromthe ground, ones that stillhad leaves and a fewclustersofberries,andputthem into the hollow ofthefencepost.“There,” she whispered.“Now I have a secretgarden.” Quietly shewentback into the house andupstairs. This time shetook off her clothes andgot into bed—and slept

soundlyuntilmorning.

W

Ghosts

hen Rose came intothe kitchen the next

morning, she felt asthough she had steppedintoafairytaleattheexactmoment a spell had been

cast. Uncle Bob had hiscoffeemug halfway to hismouth. George and AuntNan had stopped talking.The twins had stoppedeating. Everyone wasstaringatSam.As Rose came throughthedoor,theybegan.AuntNan’s voice was theloudest and most excited.“Why didn’t you saysomething?Oh, Sam!” she

wailed.“Come off it, Sam.”

Georgewasdisgusted,andUncle Bob scolded, “Now,Sam, you know that’simpossible.” The twins,looking at Sam with awe,began chanting, “Sam sawaghost,Samsawaghost!”“Tellmeexactlywhat it

looked like,” demandedAunt Nan. “Well,” Sambegan slowly, pushing his

hand through his thickhair, his blunt facepuckered in a half-embarrassed grimace, “itwaslikeanoldladywithashawl on.At first shewasjust a shadow—I mean,not a shadow, but one ofthose things you makewhen you put your handbehindasheetwithalighton itandmakeyourhandlook like a rabbit or

something. You just seetheshape.It—”“It’sasilhouette,Sam,a

silhouette,” Georgeinterrupted. “It’s namedafterEtiennedeSilhouettein the eighteenth century.He—”“Okay, a silhouette, and

it walked through thatdoor,”Sampointedtowardthe doorway where Rosewasstanding.Involuntarily

she jumped back. Georgelaughed.“Good morning, Rose.”

Aunt Nan smiled broadly.“Goon,Sam.Yousaidthesilhouette came in. Whathappenedtoit?”“Well, it leaned over as

if it meant to putsomething on the table.Thenitdisappeared.That’sall.”“That’s all.” Aunt Nan

sighedhappily.“Andthat’swhat I’ll talk about. I’vepromised togo toTorontotoday and talk about mybooks to some kids in alibrary and I’m going totalk about Sammy’s ghost.Oh, why didn’t I see it? Ithink I’ll write a bookaboutSam’sghost.DoyouthinkIcouldcallitthat?”“No.” Sam got up fromthetable.“Anyway,Idon’t

thinkitreallywasaghost.Ithinkitwasprobablyjustshadows.This roomisfullof shadows. Shadows allover the place. They justlooklikeghosts.Here’stheschool bus.”Hepickeduphis books and his wind-breaker and fled throughthedoor.Georgewasrightbehindhim,andthetwinscrying, “Wait for us!Waitfor us!” trotted after,

swinging their lunchboxes.Aunt Nan got up from

the table. “I completelyforgot to tell you, Rose. Ipromised way last monthI’d do this talk. I’m afraidyou’ll have to look afteryourself today.Ireallyamsorry.Laterintheweekwecan go down and talk tothe school. I expect youcan find your own

breakfast.Ohdear,Ireallyam sorry—just leave thedishes. Have a goodexploring time.Oh dear, Ihavetorun.Coming,Bob?I have to get that eight-thirtybusor I’macookedgoose.”Aunt Nan bustled out

thedoor, the collarofherblouse awry, her hairalready falling out of itsbun. Uncle Bob followed,

stopping long enough tosay, “I’ll be home aroundfour-thirty. Have a niceday, Rose. There arehorses up the road andcows. The woods are fullofsmallanimals.Gotakealook.”Twocardoorsslammed,

therewasthesoundoftheengine starting, and thestation wagon took offdowntheroad.Silence.

Rose sat down at thetable and stared at thebreakfast debris withoutreally seeing it. She hadwanted to ask Aunt Nansome questions, questionsabout things she had toknow, like what shouldshe get for breakfast?Where was the front doorkey?Whatshouldshedoifstrangerscame?Atapdripped.Thewind

rattled an upstairswindow. A stair creaked.“There aren’t ghosts,” shetold herself firmly. “Samwasright, itwasshadows.Ghosts are made up forbooks and movies. Theydon’texist.”Unbidden,theimage of the girl in theupstairs bedroom flashedinhermind.Aghost?Wasthat why everybody hadlaughed? They really did

not know she was there?“Impossible,” she saidaloud, her eyes dartingaround the room. “It wasshadows.”Silence fell once more.

Under the table the catmade a chirruping soundin his throat and jumpedup onto Rose’s lap. Shescreamed. Then shelaughedshakilyandbeganto scratch him behind his

ears. She liked cats. Overthe years she hadbefriendedmanyhotelandalleycats.Thiscatwasbigand soft and gray.“Grimalkinisagoodnamefor you,” Rose told him.“Lots of fairytale cats arecalledGrimalkin.IwonderhowtheHenrysfoundthatout.” He put his headdown,closedhiseyes,andbegantopurr.

There was nothing leftto eat on the table buttoast crumbs. Rose got upand searched thecupboards. She found abox of Shredded Wheat,buttherewasnomilk.Shesatdownagain,crushingadry Shredded Wheatbiscuit, staring glumly atthe chair where Sam hadsat. She had never felt socompletely without

comfort.Suddenly she

rememberedwakinginthenightandfindingthegladein the bushes. She leapedtoherfeetandranoutside,half afraid she woulddiscover that it had beennomore real than thegirlintheupstairsroom.The back yard in the

morning was full of redand yellow and brown

leavesblowinginthefreshwind. Rose pushed herway through the bushesand there, where she hadremembered it, was theglade, and in the hollowfence post she found thebouquet of leaves andberries she had put thereinthenight.She sighed with relief.

“It’s a good secret.” Shepicked up Grimalkin, who

had followed her, andcarried him back to thehouse.For one frightening

second as she opened thedoor she thought she sawold Mrs. Morrissay in thecorner of the room, butwhen she looked againtherewasnoonethere.“This room is full of

shadows,” she said loudlyasiftodispelthembythe

strength of her voice.Nervously she set aboutexploringthehouse,partlyfrom curiosity, partlybecause she wanted tomake sure there were noghostsanywhere.The rooms were alldepressingly alike in theirneed of repair. Thebedroomover thekitchen,obviously Sam’s andGeorge’s, was full of

electrical paraphernalia,half-played games, paints,andaneaselsetupbythewindow.Aunt Nan’s workroomoff the livingroomwassofull of books and papersthat Rose could notimagine being able towriteinit.AuntNan’sandUncle Bob’s bedroom attheotherendofthehouselooked as though itmight

bebeautiful if itwereputtorights,foritwasbigandsunny. Upstairs, over theliving room, was her ownroomandtheotherwherethe girl had been makingthe bed. It waswhere thetwinsslept.She looked that room

over very carefully andcould find nothing in itsclutter of clothes and toysand electric trains to

suggestwhatshehadseenthe evening before. Shebegan tomake it tidy,notbecauseshewasanxioustoplease the twins butbecause she felt that bymaking her own orderthere the room would beless likely to change itselfintosomeotherroom.Shefolded the clothes, madethebeds,put the toysandbooks in the big wooden

box under the window.Then she made the traintracks into an elaboratepattern and set the trainon it. She found theelectric cord and, by thetime she was reallyhungry, she realized themorningwasoverandshehadspentitplayingwithasix-year-old’s toy trains.Uncharacteristically, shegiggled. “They don’t have

to know,” she toldGrimalkin.Asshecamethroughthekitchen door she wascertain she saw Mrs.Morrissay standing by thestove, but when shesteppedforwardtherewasnoonethere.“I’msureIsaw…,”Rosebegan, and stopped. Onthe table was a basket ofeggs. “She was here! But

wheredidshego?”Sherantothebackdoor

and looked out. No one.“Very odd,” she saidnervously,“veryodd.”She found some cheese

in the refrigerator andshared it with the cat.Then she went outsideagain. She followed thecreek down to the shoreand stood for a whilewatchingitemptyintothe

bay in bubbles of whitefroth,thetallweedsbelowthe water’s surfacebending under thepressure. She wanderedthrough the woods andinto the field that lay tothe west and amusedherself for a timeidentifyingthetreesbeforemaking her way back tothe glade. It drew her. Itwasn’t only that it was

beautiful. She had thefeeling, standing with herbacktothethorntree,thatsomethingwasexpectedofherhere.She was still standingthere when she heardbrakes screech in thedriveway. The school bushadarrived.Roseranbackinside and fled up thestairs. She heard the doorburst open downstairs,

letting in loud voices.Doors opened, doorsclosed,ashrillvoicecried,“George, give me mytoast.” There was thesoundof feetpoundingonthe stairs, whispers, then,“Jimmy! Someone’s fixedup our train!” Morewhispers, the buzz of theelectric train. Silence. Thecreak of Rose’s door. Thetwins’ round faces

appearedfrombehindit.“Canwecomein?”“Isupposeso.”“Didyoufixourtrain?”“Yes.”“Do you want to come

and play with us?” askedone, and the other addedquickly, “You can havesomeofourtoast.”“No, thank you. I have

toputmythingsaway.”“Canwewatch?”

Rose looked at theireager faces and some ofher stiffness softened. “Allright.” So while the twinswatched and gave her arunning commentary ontheir school and theirfamily, Rose put herclothes away in the closetand drawers. The twinstold her that Sam wasn’tgoingtoItaly,thatGeorgewas a pig because he

wouldn’t share hischocolate bars, that theirfather liked to go fishing,and that they likedhamburgers better thanmacaroniandcheese.“Are we havingmacaroni and cheese fordinner?” asked Brian (ormaybeitwasJimmy).“Here’sDaddy,”saidtheother. Rose heard UncleBob’s rumbling voice

downstairs. Reluctantlyshe followed the twins.Uncle Bob was saying,“Oh, good. I didn’tremember we had eggs.That’s what we’ll cook,eh?” Talk between Samand George ceasedabruptlyassheenteredthekitchen. She felt acutelyuncomfortable.That night, after Aunt

Nan had come home and

thetwinshadgonetobed,Rose settled down in bedtoreadwiththecatbesideher. After a while shebecame aware of AuntNan’s voice fromdownstairs. “Sam,” shewas saying, “I know howdisappointment can hurt,but your attitude isn’thelping to make thatorphan child feel anybetter.Idon’twanttohear

anotherword!”“I don’t care,” Sam

rumbled(notasdeeplybutin almost the same voiceas Uncle Bob). “Shedoesn’t do anything tomake us feel good either.She’ssnooty.She’sasnob.‘I’m used to Paris, theyknow me in that hotel.’ ”Sam imitated perfectlyRose’sicytones.“Shegoesaround in her stupid fur

coatglaringatpeople.Shelooks like a stuffed owlwithpinkhair!”“Sam, you’re mostunkind. Rose has had ahard time. She’s probablyshy. She’s lived a veryfunny life. It’s true she’svery prim, but I supposeher grandmother hadsomethingtodowiththat.AndRose’shair isn’tpink,it’s the same color as

yours. Your Uncle Davidhadhairthatcolor.”“No,itisn’t—mine’sred.Hers ispink like the colorthings get in the fridgewhen you leave them toolong.Iwishshe’dtakehermoldy, pink hair and herfurcoat—doesn’tsheknowyou shouldn’t skinanimals?—and go back toNewYork!”“Sam!” Aunt Nan said

sharply. “That’s enough!You’refourteenyearsold.Iknow it’s been hard foryoubut I thinkyoumight—”A door slammed. In amoment it was openedagainandRoseheardAuntNan’s voice, more faintly:“Honestly, Bob, I thinkSam is behaving.…” Thedoorclosed.Rosewas shattered. Shehad never heard herself

attacked like that before.Snooty.Snob.Whatdidhemean?Andherhairwasn’tpink! She got up andturned on the light andwent to look at herself intheroundmirrorthathungover the dresser. Shepulled furiously at thehatedshortendsofherredhair.Whathadshedonetomake him say things likethat? She lay awake most

of the night, cold andshaking, saying Sam’sunkind words over andovertoherself.The next morning shestuffed the fur jacket, andthe boots, and the blackvelvetpants,intothebackof her closet and tied alarge kerchief around herhead. She could not lookat Sam. Every time hecame into the room she

stiffened.Shefeltexposed,defenseless. She did thechores Aunt Nan set forher in silence, and shespent most of the time inthenexttwodayshuddledin her thin sweater withher back against thehawthorntreeintheglade,finding comfort in thecreek’s soft gurgle as itflowedover thesticksandstones.

On Thursday Aunt Nantook her to school inSoames and talked to Mr.Hodgins, the principal,who wrinkled up his faceand coughed a dry littlecough at the news thatRose had never been toschool.“I don’t believe we’veever had a problem likethisbefore.”“You could give her a

test,couldn’tyou,andfindouthowmuchsheknows?I’msureRoseisn’tstupid.”“Yes,yes,Iwasgoingto

suggestthat,Mrs.Henry.”Rose thought, No, he

wasn’t.He’safool.Butshesat down obediently andread a simple story outloud, wrote a couple ofparagraphs about it, didsome arithmetic problems,spelled a short list of

words,andansweredafewquestions aboutgeography.“Amazing.”Mr.Hodginscoughed his dry littlecough twice. “Yourgrandmother must havebeenafineteacher.”“Yes.”“Well!”Mr.Hodginswasclearly a bit taken abackby her ready agreement.“Youcanprobablygoright

into grade eight withoutanytrouble.”Aunt Nan took Rose tothe local dry-goods storeafterward.“Youcan’twearthose good skirts all thetime,”shesaidandboughttwo pairs of jeans, acoupleofT-shirts,ajacket,and a pair of runningshoes.Roseputonhernewclothes the minute theygot home. With her

kerchief tied securelyaroundherheadshefelt,ifnot comfortable, lessconspicuous.First thing Saturday

morningthephonerang.ItwasagirlfromTorontotoask if she and hermothercould drive out to see theghost. Aunt Nan had saidto all the children onTuesday, “Youmust comeand visit,” but she had

neverexpectedthatanyofthem would. “Come, ofcourse,” she told the girl,and she said it to threeotherswhocalledthatday.It was like a constantparade of sightseers allentranced by the “weird”place where Nan Henrywrote her books. One girlasked Rose admiringly ifshe was Emily of ShadowBrookFarm,towhichRose

replied frostily, “Mynameis not Emily and this,thank heaven, is the firsttime in my life I’ve everbeennearafarm.”Thateveningasshewassetting the table and thelastvisitorwaspullingoutof the driveway, shemuttered angrily toherself, “This place is likea zoo. Next time someonecomes I’m going to jump

upanddownandaskforabanana.”SheturnedtoseeSam standing in thedoorway, grinning. “Don’tlaugh at me!” she hissed.She was horrified torealize therewere tears inher eyes. “You and yourstupid ghosts! You madeall those people come! Idon’tcareifyouhateme!Idon’tcare ifyouthinkmyhairispink!Idon’tcareif

youthink I’masnob!Justdon’t you dare laugh atme!” She threw down thesilverware with a clatterandranfromtheroom.Shestoodwithherbackagainst the closed door ofher bedroom until herquivering rage hadsubsided. Then she satdownatthedeskinacoldcalm, took out a sheet ofthe monogrammed paper

her grandmother hadgiven her at Christmas,andwroteAuntMillicentaletter.

DearAuntMillicent,I’m sure you didn’t realizewhen you sentmehere thattheHenrysareallmad.Theirhouse is falling apart. It’sdirty.And they see ghosts. Iwant to come back to NewYork. I will go to school. I

will go to an orphanage ifyouwish.Iwillgoanyplacebuthere.

Youraffectionateniece,RoseLarkin

She looked up to reachfor an envelope and therewas Mrs. Morrissaycoming toward herthrough thewall from thetwins’room.

“M

TheRootCellar

rs. Morrissay!” Ashudder like an

electric shock ran throughRose. “What are youdoing?”shewhispered.Mrs. Morrissay said

nothing. She didn’t move.Shestoodhalfinthetwins’room,halfinRose’s,ablueand orange kerchief tiedaround her head, a dustmop in her hand, lookingveryillatease.Rosewastrembling.Herhandswerewetwith coldsweatandshecouldhardlyfocus her eyes. Mrs.Morrissaycametherestofthe way through the wall

and into the room. Shewasno longerhalfvisible.She was solid, threedimensional.“You’re Sam’s ghost.”

Roseheardherownvoice,strange and shrill andaccusing.“I ain’t no ghost.” Mrs.

Morrissay was indignant.“I’m just plain myself,mindingmy own businessandithappens.”

“Happens?”“Ishift!”“Shift?”“Shift. I’m going alongmindingmy own businesslike I said, hoeing orscrubbingormopping,andright in themiddle I shift.And you needn’t be socross, Rose. You ought toknow better. It’s not easyfor a body to shift. I’m inmykitchen, thenquick’sa

cow’stailafterafly,I’minyours—or your bedroom.”She looked around her.“Oh, Rose, ain’t this anawful sight? It was sopretty.” She went over tothe corner by thewindowandpickedatthelayersofwallpaper.“See,thishere’sthe one I put up. It waswhite with pink roses.”Suddenly she smiled atRose, a warm, embracing

smile.Thenshelookedoutthewindow.“Ain’t it something how

them bushes is all grownover? Funny howyou canstill see where the oldgardenwas.”“Mrs. Morrissay, you

haveno right tobehere!”Rose could barely controlher shaking voice. Hersenseofhow things oughtto be had never been so

disturbed,notevenbyhergrandmother’sdeath.“Youdon’t belong here, Mrs.Morrissay—”Rosestoppedabruptly, her fear and hershock subsiding beforeMrs. Morrissay’s smile. “Isupposeitisyourhome?”“Ofcourseit’smyhouse.I grew up in it. I wasmarried in it. I’m like todie in it and”—Mrs.Morrissay finished with a

sigh—“it seems I shift init.”She reached over and

took Rose’s hand. Rosesnatched it away. “It’s allright,”saidMrs.Morrissaysoothingly. “Rose, I toldyou,Iain’tnoghost.Iain’tdead. I’m just shifted, andIdon’tknowhownomorethan you do. It justhappens, like I said. All Iknow is that if the good

Lord sees fit to shiftme, Ishift.Isupposeit’s…well,I dunno. But I do belonghere, and, Rose, I wantyoutomakethingsrightinmyhouseforme.”“Mrs. Morrissay, I can’t

fix yourhouse. It isn’tmyhouse,andanyway,Idon’teven like this house. I’mnotgoingtostayhere.I’mgoingbacktoNewYork.”Rose realized that she

wasactuallytalkingtotheoldwomanaseasilyasshehad used her name, Mrs.Morrissay. “How do youknow so much about me?Whoareyou?”But Mrs. Morrissay was

staring at Rose. As if shehadn’theardherquestion,shesaid,“Don’ttalkaboutgoing off like that, Rose.You ain’t going to NewYork, you know you ain’t

—oh!” Mrs. Morrissaylooked at Rose in alarm,opened her mouth to saysomething, anddisappeared, not slowlythewayshehadcomebutinstantly,likealightbeingturnedoff.Rose started back.

Fearfullysheputherhandtoward the spot whereMrs. Morrissay had beenstanding. There was no

one, no thing. Her mindwas in a turmoil. At thatmoment, through thewindow, she caught sightof something blue andorange moving across theglade.“There she is!” Rose

spoke aloud in herexcitement. “There’s herkerchief!”Sheflewdownthestairs

and out of the house. But

there was no sign ofMrs.Morrissay in the clearing.Rose slumped downagainstthelittlehawthorntree.“It’struewhatIwroteAunt Millicent,” shewhispered.“Theyaremad.AndnowIthinkImustbemad,too.”Shesatthere,dejectedlyscuffing the leaves withher feet, her mind goingover and over what had

happened. Her toe strucksomething metal.Surprised, she sat upstraight and pushed at itwith her foot. It clinked.She went over on herhands and knees to look.She brushed away theleavesanddiscovered thatthere were boardsunderneath with a metallatchofsomesort.“It’s a door, a door in

the ground. How odd.”Excitedlyshebegantopullatthevinesandthickgrassthat had grown over theboards,andwhen shehadpulledmost of themawayshe saw that, indeed, itwasadoor—twodoors, infact, with rusty hook-and-eye latches that securedthemtogether.Withmuchpullingandwrenchingshemanaged to loosen them

and slowly, slowly,withagreatdealofstrainingandheaving she pried themopen.There were steps inside

that had been made bycuttingawaytheearthandlaying boards across. Theboards had all but rottedaway, but the earth stepswere still there. At thebottom, facing her aboutthree feet away, was

anotherdoor,upright,alsofastened with a hook-and-eye latch. The doorwaywas so low she had tostooptogetthrough.Inside she found herself

in a kind of closet withshelves along the sides onwhich stood crockery jarsand glass sealers. On thefloor stood several barrelswith lids on them. Theplacewas cold and damp,

butitlookedtobeinuse.I don’t understand. If

Aunt Nan keeps her picklesandthingshere,whyisitsohard to get into? shethought.Shehadliftedthelid off one of the crocksand found it full of beets.Another was full ofcucumber pickles. Shelooked up. Someonebehind her was blockingthe light. Quickly she

turnedaround.A girl, smaller but

probably about the sameageasher,stoodatthetopof the steps with a jar inher hands. It was the girlfromthebedroomwiththefour-poster bed. She worequitealongdressmadeofsome rough dark brownmaterial, with a whiteapron over it.On her feetshe had awkward-looking

ankle-high boots. She haddark brown hair in onelongbraiddownherback,a plain round freckledface, a small nose, awidemouth—and bright blackeyes. They were blinkingatRoseinconsternation.“Where’d you comefrom?”shedemanded.“I…I…what?”“You’d best get out ofour root cellar.” The girl

came down the steps.“Missus will be terriblecross.” She reached up tothe top shelf and broughtdown one of the crocks.All the while she keptturning around to starenervouslyatRose.Rosestaredback.“You’d best come alongnow.” The girl frowned.“Honest, Missus don’t likehaving strangers around.”

She started back up thesteps.“Look”—Rose followed

the girl—“look, isn’t this—” She’d been going toask, “Isn’t this AuntNan’srootcellar?”butthewordsnever got spoken. At thetopof the steps she foundherself standing beside alittle garden with rows ofyoung plants set out in it.Behind it the creek

bubbledmerrilyandaneatstone path led from thegardentothekitchendoor.Pansiesandsweetalyssumbloomed along the walkand therewerehollyhocksagainst the back wall ofthe house. The brickslookedbrightandthetrimaround the windows andthekitchendoorwasfreshand white. Chickens andducksweresquawkingand

flapping to let her knowshe was intruding, and apair of geese scurriedacross the grass towardher.Downpastthecreekacow and a small flock ofsheep were browsing.Beyond, where thereshouldhavebeenafieldofcrab grass and burdock,was an apple orchard infullbloom.“This time it’s me,”

whispered Rose. “I’veshifted.”

“S

Susan

usan!”A fretful voicecalledfromthehouse.

“Susan,Suusaan!”“Oh,Lord’smercy,thereshe is again,” sighed thegirl. “I don’t know where

you come from, but youbest go back there rightsoon.” She paused. “Youaren’tlostornothing?”RosestaredatSusan,notreallyhearingher.“Are you lost?” Susanrepeated.“Lost?”“Susan!”criedthevoice.“Stay here. I’ll be back.But mind you don’t gohelping yourself to

nothing.”“Susan!” The tone had

become imperious. OffwentSusanontherun.Rose sat down at the

edge of the garden. Shecouldn’t believe what hadhappened. She moved herhand slowly over the softspring grass. She lookedaround at the sheep, theneat little garden, thegeese, and the chickens

who, having assuredthemselves that she washarmless, had stoppedsquawking and werecluckingpeacefullyastheytoddled and scrabbledaroundtheyard.“It’s true,” shewhispered.“Ihaveshifted.And that girl—Susan—isthe girl I saw making thebedinAuntNan’shouse—in this house,” she

amended, realizing thatalthough it looked newand bright, this was thesame house she hated somuch for being old andugly. Dazed, she got upand started walkingaroundtothefront.Itwascertainlythesame

house, the same backporch, the same shed,except that this one wasstrong and straight and,

peering inside, she couldsee that it was full ofthings: awood pile, a bigwooden tub with a scrubboard stuck in it, oldnewspapers, and anassortment ofunidentifiable junk. Therewas a porch along thefrontofthehouse,itsroofsupported by white posts,carved at the uppercornersinelaboratecurves

and curlicues. Dark greenshutters opened out fromallthewindows.The tangle of bushesthat grew so close to theeasternsideoftheHenrys’house was gone. Insteadtherewerethreelargelilacbushes in full bloom.Beyond, partly hidden bythe foliage, was a longopen-fronted drive-shedwhere Rose could see an

old-fashionedcarriageanda wagon parked side byside. Lily of the valleygrew in flower beds oneither side of the frontdoor. In themiddleof theyard was a well with astonewallarounditandasteeproofaboveit.Outontheroadwasa rowof tallelmtrees.It was a fairytale day.

The sun shone warm on

the soft red brick of thehouseandturnedthecreekand the bay beyond toglittering reflections of itsownbrilliance.Tothewestandacross theroad,appleorchards were a haze ofpink and white blossoms.Down past the creek,hawthorn trees coveredwith tiny white flowersgrewsinglyandinclusterslike giant bouquets. Bees

hummed in the smallchestnut tree in the frontyard, and everywherebirds were trilling andcalling to each otherthroughthetrees.Nearby someone played

a few notes on a flute.Roselookedaround.Therewas no one in sight. Thenotes sounded again,above her. She looked upandsawaboywithblond

hair sitting on the roof ofthe drive-shed. He wasintent on his music andhadnotseenher.Shewastrying to decide whetheror not to speak whenSusan came around thecornerofthehouse.“There you are,” she

said,comingtowardRose.“Damn!”saidtheboy.“Oh,Will!”“Well I almost had him

andnowhe’sgone.Susan,why did you have to—Who’sthat?”“I dunno. He says he’s

lost,”saidSusan.“Whatareyouplaying?”

askedRose.Itdidn’toccurto her to wonder at herboldness in speaking up.Talking toWill and Susancame so easily, withoutshynessorthought.“I’mtryingtotalktothe

birds. It’s an experiment,”answeredtheboycrossly.“Mebbe the birds don’twant to talk to you,” saidSusan good-naturedly.“Come along down off ofthere and help this boyfind out where hebelongs.” She turned toRose. “You can’t havecome far,” she saidreassuringly. “Strangersdon’tmuch find theirway

down this road—unlessmebbe you came off of aschooner what dockedover the other side of thebay.Didyou?”“I don’t.…” Rose

hesitated,notsurewhattosay. “I come from NewYork City. Yes, from NewYork and I’m not a boy,I’mRose.”“I thought you was

pretty for a boy,” said

Susan, “only your hair isawfulshortandgirlsdon’twear britches aroundhere.”ShelookedatRose’sjeans. Although she saidnothing more, surpriseshowedclearly in thewayher eyes widened. “Well,I’m Susan and this here’sWill.”“Howdoyoudo?”Rose

put out her hand andSusantookitshyly.

“NewYorkCity’squiteapiece away, ain’t it? Itmust be awful hard withthewaronandallthat.”“Oh,”saidRosevaguely,

wondering what Susancould mean. “It’s awfullybigandnoisyinNewYork.Ithinkthisplaceisbetter.”“Is it?” Will peered

downather fromtheroofas though she were someexotic bird that had just

dropped into the yard.“City folks don’t generallycare much for thecountry.”“See here,” Susan asked

anxiously, “is yourschooner like to go offwithout you? Hadn’t webetterhelpfindher?”“Schooner?”“Yourschooner,theship

youcomeoveron.”“Oh,my schooner,uh—

no, it’s all right. It’s goingtobehereforages.”“Ain’t that grand,” said

Susan. “I got my half-daytomorrowandmeandWillcan show you around ifyou like. I’m hired girlhereand Igot togetbackto work now butWill, hebelongs here so he canhelp you find where yourship’s docked. Does yourpaownit?Hasalltheboys

gone to war? Is that whyyou’re dressed like a boy?Around here nobody’lltake a girl on the boats—except to work as cook.Onlyyougottobeagoodbitolder.”“Yes, my father owns

theship,soit’sallrightforme to stay here tonight.”Thewords tumbled out ofher in her anxiety not toappeartoooutlandish.

“You can’t stay here,”said Susan. “I don’t thinkso,” saidWill, both at thesametime.“You see,” Susanapologized,“Will’sma,sheain’tsogood.Will’spafelloff of a roof in a barnraising and died a coupleof years back and thatsame year Will’s brotherAdamhediedofthechillsand hisma ain’t been the

samesince.Shedon’topenher house much tostrangers. I guess I’m themost stranger that’s beenneartheplacesinceAdamdied, except for the hiredman who used to comeand do the heavy chores.There ain’t much farminghere now. We only gotthem fewsheepandgeeseandchickensandonecow.Bothers works the farm.

Will helps and he’s goingto take it on when he’sfinishedgrowingbut—”“Susan!Susan!”“There’s the missus.

Will, yougotta showRosehow to get back to herschooner. Will you comeback tomorrow?” sheasked eagerly. Rosepromised and Susansmiled, and when Susansmiled it was as though

the whole world grewbrighter. She ran off asWill slid down from theroof and dropped to theground. Rose could seenowthathewasayearorso older than her andalmost a foot taller, aserious-lookingboywithathinfaceandblueeyes.Hewaswearing aheavygrayshirt and brown woolenbritches. His leather boots

were laced to the knees.He stuffed his flute into apocket and started towardtheroad.“Come along,” he saidcurtly. He stopped andturned. “Nope, be shorterbytheboat.”Hestrodeofftoward the bay, and notsurewhatelse todo,Rosefollowed him across theback yard, over the twowide planks that bridged

thecreek,anddowntothebaywhereasmallrowboatwas tied to a dock. Willleanedovertountieit.“You get in first,” hesaid.Rose had been thinkingfuriously. “Will, did youever want to run away?”Shedidnotlookdirectlyathim.“Isthatwhatyoudone?”“I want to stay here,”

Rose answered. “I couldstay over there.” Shepointedtowardthebigredbarn just west of theorchard,theroofandbackof which could be seenfromthedock.Will looked

uncomfortable. “Thereain’t nothing here for astrange girl to do, andyou’re awful little.” Heflushed.“Anddainty,even

in them britches. If youwas a boymebbe I mightsneak you out somethingtoeatandgiveyouahandfinding work and a placeto stay. Around herenobodygives farmwork—or smithing or milling ornothing—to a girl, andwithout they know youwho’sgoingtotakeyouonforahiredgirl?”Rose hadn’t thought

about the complication ofwork.Shehadsimplysaidthe first thing that hadcome to mind. Now sherealized she needed timetothink.“IguessI’dbettergo back then,” she saidquickly. “But I’m comingagaintomorrow.”Willnodded. “Youwantme to take you across thebay?” He looked puzzledanduneasy.

“No, it’s all right. I’drather walk. I came downtheroad.IonlysaidIwaslost because I wanted tostay here. I’ll see youtomorrow.”Will nodded again. She

could feel his eyesfollowing her as shewalked back up past thehouse and started downthe road. When she wassure he could no longer

see,her,shesatdownonarock beside the road todecidewhattodonext.Shewas not going back

to Aunt Nan’s and UncleBob’s. She realized theywould never know whereshe had gone, nor, shefigured, would they care.That thought brought aswift, unexpected twingeof pain. She put theHenrys fromher thoughts,

rested her elbows on herknees,andputherchininher hands. She lookeddown at her new runningshoes and wriggled hertoes inside them. She feltscaredbutexcitedbywhathad happened. Shecouldn’t sit still. Shejumped up and walkedalong the road, stoppingby a wooden bridge thatwentoverthecreek.

“I’m really not goingback,” she said out loud,startlingablackbirdoutofa nearby bush. “I don’thave to. I could stay herealways. I can talk to thesepeople—” She stopped,realizing with a surge ofelation that it was true.Talking toWill and Susanwas easy, as easy astalking to people in herdaydreams. She was

shaken by a thought.Maybe this is where I’msupposed to be. Maybe Ibelong here. She gazedaround at the countrysidein wonder. It all seemedbrighter and moreinteresting than any placeshe had ever seen. Eachblade of grass, each treebranch seemed magical.She walked on, savoringevery detail, hugging

herselfwithdelight.The road was different

fromtheonethatranpastthe Henrys’ house. It wasmore like two dirt trackswith grass andweeds andwild flowers growingbetween and, on eitherside, the rail fences, thetall trees and densebushes.Itwaslikewalkingthrough a wood exceptthat the bright sunlight

through the leavesrevealed the fences andfieldsandpasturesbeyond.Shecametoanopeninginthe brush, climbed overthe fence, and sat downunder a small tree at theedgeofthepasture.“I wonder what Aunt

Nan would think if sheknew. I wonder if Mrs.Morrissay knew all thetime that I was coming

here.Iwonderifshecameto getme. I wonder if I’llseeherhere. Iwonder.…”Rosefellfastasleep.When she woke up itwasnightandshewasstiffand cold and hungry.There was neither moonnor stars. The blacknesswas smothering. She gotup.Shovingherhandsintoher pockets and standingtall to make herself feel

bigger and braver, shescrambled over the fenceand started back towardthe house. Young frogswere crik-criking in anearby swamp. There wasa wind in the trees,rustling the leaves andrattlingintheunderbrush.In the distance an owlhooted his never-endinghollowhootand,closeby,a whippoorwill whistled

softly.Adogbarkedacross thebay.“Thecountryisfullofterriblenoises,”whisperedRose. “I wish they hadstreet lights.” Her pacequickened until she wasalmost running. As hereyes grew accustomed tothe dark, she could pickoutbushesandspaces,andat last the bushes ended.Therewasarowoftrees,a

lawn, and a big squarehouse.Adoggrowledandbegan to bark. A chainrattled.Alightflickeredinone of the windows andwentout.Rosekepttothefar side of the road, herteeth chattering with coldandfear.“This isn’t Will andSusan’s house,” shewhispered. “I must havewalked the wrong way. I

may have gone down allsorts of wrong roads bynow.Idon’tknowwhereIam.”She was terrified of thedog,butshewassoafraidof going farther in thewrongdirectionandlosingherselfcompletelythatshedecided to staywhere shewas. She tried to reassureherself by telling herselfthe dog must be securely

tiedup.She satdownacross theroad from the house,huggingherselfagainstthecold,dozingnowandthen,springingtoherfeeteverytime the dog whined orgrowled.ShethoughtalotaboutWill andSusan.Shewondered how old theywere, what year it mightbe,whatwarwasgoingonin New York. There was

nothing in this tranquilcountryside or the wayWill and Susan spoke ordressedtogiveheraclue.Atlastabirdcalled,onebird with one longmonotonous whistle. Thesky lightened. Rose couldsee the farmhouse, shed,and barn across the road.She stood up and studiedtheroadineachdirection.“I suppose I’ll have to

try them both,” she saidaloud. The dog growled.Shecouldseenowthathewas a large, unkempt-looking hound. “I’m gladyou are chained up,”called Rose softly as shehurried off. She was coldandhungrybutfilledwithabuoyancy shehadneverknown before. She waswet with dew, and thegrass was wet, but the

morning breeze feltfriendly. The sky glowedwith a delicate pink. Thelowing of the cows, thebarking of dogs, and theregularcrowingofroosterswere like a morningchorus. Rose sang inaccompaniment as shetrampedalongpasthousesand barns and over a lowstonebridge.Shestoppedatlastbyan

open field, trying to gether bearings. She leanedon the top rail of a cedarfence and looked acrossthebay.Sheblinkedtwice.She was looking at theback ofWill’s and Susan’shouse, the Henrys’ house,her house. There was thegarden, the cow tetherednear the water, and,suddenly, there was thesoundofWill’sflute,sharp

andclearacrossthewater.With a sigh of relief,

Rose clambered over thefence and ran across thefield to the edge of thebay.From there shecouldsee Will sitting in therowboat just off his ownshore.“Will!”shecalled.Will looked around,

shook his fist, and threwthe flute down in

exasperation.“Will! It’s me. I’m overhere. Can you come andgetme?”“I’vehalfamindnotto,”he shouted, but he pickedup the oars and startedrowing toward her. Shewatchedimpatientlyastheboat came closer. Itprobably did not takemore than five minutes,but it seemed like half an

hour.Before the boat eventouched her shore, Willsaid crossly, “That’s thesecondtimeyouspoiledit.Why’d you have to callrightthen?”“I wanted you to seeme.”“Well,Iseeyou.”“I’mhungry.”“Oh, get in. I got somebread and cheese you can

have.” He reached into asack he had stowed underthe bow seat and pulledoutcheese,bread,andfourslices of dried apple. Roseperched on the seatopposite him and ategreedily.“You didn’t go back toyourschooner,”hesaid.“No.”“Where’dyoustay?”“In a field and on the

road.”“Wasn’tyoucold?”“Yes, a little,” shemumbled through amouthful of cheese andapple.Willofferedherajacketthatwas stuffed under hisseat, and gratefully sheaccepted.He staredathercuriously for a moment,butheaskednothingmoreaboutwhereshehadbeen

orwhy.“Iwasn’tplanningtogohomeforawhileyet,but I’ll take you to theshore. Susan’s free afterdinnerifyouwanttowaitaround.”Rose did not want to

spend the day in Will’sback yard or walking upand down the road. “I’llstay here with you,” shesaid. “I know how to bequiet.” She remembered,

as she said it, the hoursspent sitting at dinnerwhile her grandmothertalked business ordiscussed politics withfriends. She made herselfcomfortable in the bottomof the boat, her backagainstthesternseat.Willfrownedatherbut clearlyhe had decided, forwhatever reason, not toarguewithher.

“Okay,” he said, “butyou got to be awful still.”With one oar he pushedthe boat off the shallowsand began to row acrossthe bay. Rose had onlybeen in boats in CentralPark in New York, and inVenice, places where aman got paid to takepeople out for an hour.Those times had neverseemed real the way this

did.Will rowed steadily

acrossthebayandpasthisown house. He anchoredclose to the shore by alittle wood. He sat back,listening. Rose listened,too, and looked. Thewoodswerefullofsunlightand shade. Thewhite andwine-red flowers thatWillsaid were trilliums, theviolets, and the speckled

adders tongues, coveredthe ground in brightpatterns. The smell ofspring was sweet andsharp. The redwingblackbirds mixed theirmetallic complaints withthe pretty songs of theorioles and the bluebirds.She watched the tinywater bugs skating acrossthesurfaceof thebayandthegauzyredandblueand

green dragonflies likeminiature dancers lightinghereandthereonthepondlilies and cattails, and onthe golden marshmarigolds growing thicklyalong the shore. Downthrough the water,minnowsdartedinandoutamong the weeds, andgray and brown stonesgleamed in the dappledsunlight.She staredather

reflectioninthestill,clearwater and it staredsolemnly back at her. Forthe first time she did notdislikeit.Shethoughthowmuch a part of thewoodsWill looked, his hair sun-golden,hisfaceandhandsas brown as the driedleaves, his eyes deep blueastheviolets.He had picked up his

flute and he played a few

notes. Rose listened. Sheforgotwhere shewas.Sheforgot who she was. Sheknew only the sounds ofthebirdsandtheflute.Shebecame part of thewoodsandthewater,of theboatandWill.The flute played amelody. Overhead a birdsang four notes. Pip-pip-pip-pip. The flute paused,then responded in the

same four notes. The birdpipped again. The flutereplied.Thebird sang, ce-o-lay, ce-o-lay.Very softlythe flute sang back, aconversation. Finally thebirdtrilledalongseriesofrich high notes, paused,gave a little final pip-pip-pip-pip and,with a flutterofhiswings,flewoff.Gradually Rose camebacktoherself,backtothe

boatandtoWillsittingonthe seat opposite grinningat her. He put down hisflute. “You got good luckinyou,”hesaidquietly.“Ibeen trying to do that formonths.”Rose felt a smile growinside her, almost in spiteof herself. She felt veryhappy. The thought came,suddenly and unbidden,that she loved Will. “I’m

going to marry Will,” shedecided. Sure he musthave read her mind, sheblushed. She had neverbeforeeven thoughtaboutloving anyone. She feltvery self-conscious andvery much aware of Willsmiling across at her. Shelookeddownatherfeet,atWill’s feet, at the oarsresting in their locks.Desperate to say

something to ease themoment she stammered,“Can…canIrow?”“Doyouknowhow?”“No.”SoWillshowedherhow

to hold the oars properlyand to pull them at justtherightangleand,beforelong, though a bitlopsidedly and now andagain in complete circles,Rose was rowing. She

rowed strongly for quite awhile, aware all the timeof her new, confusedfeelings. She wanted toreachovertoWillashesatplaying softlyonhis flute.She wanted to tell himshe’ddecidedshemeanttomarry him. At the sametime she was terrified hewould find out. Beingmuch practiced at willingher mind from things she

did not want to thinkabout, she began to askquestions about thosethings she figured sheoughttoknow.“What year is this,Will?”“Huh?”“Whatdateisit?”“Why, it’s the tenth ofJune.”“Butwhatyearisit?”“Year? 1862, same as it

was yesterday. It’s themonth of the Methodistcamp meeting in Soames,thoughIdon’tsupposeyouknowaboutthat.”1862. Then it was the

Civil War they weretalking about. Roseremembered lessons withher grandmother. TheAmerican Civil War, thewar between the Northand the South, Abraham

Lincoln’s war. “Is the waronhere?”sheasked.“No, it ain’t. The war’sgotnothingtodowithus,though there’s strongfeelingsaboutit.Wedon’tmostly hold with theSouth.Wedon’tbelieveinslavery. There’s a fewfellers gone over to jointhe Union army for theNorth. JimHeaton’s gone.Mostly we ain’t much for

wararoundhere,butsomeof us has come over fromthe States. My ma comefrom Oswego, so all herrelatives is there. So didJimHeaton’s.”“I’m glad the war isn’there.Idon’tevenlikewarmovies.”“What’sthat?”Rose realized what shehad said and quicklychanged the subject. “Do

yougotoschool,Will?”“NomoreIdon’t.Iwent

upthroughthethirdbook,butIain’tbeeninacoupleof years. Teacher was amean feller. He used theswitch something terrible,even on the little mites.One day he strung NedBother up by the thumbsand I punched him. Laidhim out flat. I ain’t beenbacksince.”

“A teacher could dothat?”“Yep. Don’t you go to

school?”“Mygrandmothertaught

meathomebutshedied.IguessIwaslucky.”“Iguessso!Abodydon’t

learn much crammed inwith all them other kids,some of ’em only five,some of ’em as old asfifteen, with some devil

standing up front for ateacher.”“Canyouread?”“Yep.”“And you can playmusic,too!”“OldMr.LestriedowntoSoames taught me that.”Rose noticed there wasawe in Will’s voice whenhe spoke of the musicteacher. “Now give overthemoarsandI’llbringus

in.Igotworktodo.”Will rowed themswiftlyto the shore, leaped out,andtieduptheboat.Rosejumpedoutafterhim.“I’ll see you afterdinner,” he promised, andoff he went whistling uptheslope.Rosestayedalongwhileby the water thinkingabout Will, now she wasalone. She made a

daydream in which thetwoofthemwerelivinginthebighouse—“andSusancan live with us,” shedecided.ShewatchedWillas he made his waythroughtheorchardwithabucket in his hand. Howodd,shethought.HereIamwithWill, and down in theUnited States the Civil Warishappening.“The American Civil

Warwas one of theworstwars in the history of theworld.” She could stillhear her grandmother’srich voice in her head.“Your great-great-grandfather and hisbrothers fought onopposingsidesinthatwar.He was a Union man—they were for theConfederacy, for theSouth. When it was over

hisbrothersweredeadandhe came to live in thenorth. He was neverhappy, but he believed intheunion, inonecountry,andhehatedslaverysohehad to fight. I rememberhim talking about itwhenhe was an old man and Iwas a small child. Heloved Abraham Lincolnwith a passion.” Rose hadnever forgotten those

words, partly because itwas such a sad story andpartly because of theunwonted passion in hergrandmother’s own voiceasshehadtoldit.ShehadshownRoseapictureof afierce-looking old manholdingatophat,andtheyhad taken a trip toRichmond,Virginia,wheregreat-great-grandfatherhad come from, and to

Washington, D.C., to seethe statue of AbrahamLincoln.It seemed only a fewminutes later when sheglanced up to see Willgoingintothehouse.It can’t be dinner timealready. It’s not dark. Shehurried up the slope andstationed herself beside abigmapletreenotfarfromthe root cellar. In a few

moments Will came out,and Susan was with him.Will was carrying a largebasket. Susan smiled andwaved. “Here you are,”she called, “and we’vebroughtourdinnertohavewithyou.Comealongandlet’s take it out to theorchard.”They spread a fresh

white cloth out under theflowering apple trees. On

it theyput a plate of coldpork and potatoes, dishesofpicklesandrelish,thickslices of brown bread, abowlofstewed rhubarb,apitcher of cream, and acake. Rose thought shehad never eaten such adelicious meal in all herlife.When they had eaten

everything, Rose andSusan satwith their backs

against the trees, andWillstretched out on thegroundwatching a line ofants carry away the lastcrumbsofcake.Susanhadto hear about the nightRose had spent by theroad.“Youmusthavebeenup

asfarasBothers’,andthatdogoftheirs isabadone.Him and me don’t getalongallthatgood,though

he’s never offered to biteme yet. You’re a braveone.Iguessthat’swhyyouwork on the boats andwear britches,” she saidadmiringly.RoselookedfromWillto

Susan. “What I told youisn’t true,” she said. “I’venever been on a ship. Idon’thaveafather.Idon’thaveamothereither.”“Same as me,”

murmuredSusan.“I don’t know if you’llbelieve me, but I’m goingtotellyouanyway.Icameto live with my aunt anduncle in this house oneweekago—only,ofcourse,it isn’t this house. I meanit is this house, only it’smorethanahundredyearsfrom now. I don’t knowhow it happens. It startedwith Mrs. Morrissay, so I

thinkshehassomethingtodowithit.”Rosetoldthemthe story of her meetingwith Mrs. Morrissay, ofAuntNan,UncleBob, andthe boys. She told themhow she had found therootcellar.Both Will and Susanlistened, fascinated. WhenRose had finished, Susanshookherheadslowly.“Itdon’t matter where you

comefrom,Rose.Weain’tgoingtogiveyouawaytofolks that use you bad.”Rose could see that Susandidnotbelieveawordshehad said, but she did notmind. No one had everlistened to her with suchinterest.“That’safinetale!”Will

satup.“You’veevenputusMorrissays in it. It’s likesome of them stories

Susan’s gran used to tellabout ghosts and strangecritters back where shecomefrominScotland.It’sthekindofstoryyoucouldalmost make a song outof.”Hepulledhisfluteoutofhispocketandplayedafewnotes.“It’skindofsad,too, but I guess it’s likeSusansays, itdon’tmatterwhere you come from. Iguess what matters is

where you belong. Me, Iain’t always sure. I wasborn here, but Ma comesfromacrossthelakeintheStates. Now they got thiswar, I feel like it’s gotsomething to dowithme.My cousin Steve over inOswego says I’m as muchYankeeashim.”“That Steve!” Susan

snorted. “He comes herefrom across the lake with

his ma sometimes, andevery time he comes himand Will get into somekind of trouble. The lasttime he come—just lastsummer—hegot aholdofWill’spa’soldshotgunandhe scared all of Bothers’cows out of their pastureand up the road. Therewasn’t a one of ’em hadgood milk for a week.Grandpa Bother said he’d

be happy to take the gunto Steve any time Will’sma would care to havehim.”Willgrinned.“Hemakesthings jump, all right.”They told other storiesabout the neighborhood,talesofstormsonthelakethat sank whole ships infive minutes, tales ofreligious camp meetings,of boisterous practical

jokes and fights thatwenton for days. Rose couldhardly imagine some ofthe scenes they described.She realized that Will’sname was Morrissay. Shelearned that Susan’sparents had been killedwhentheirsleighupturnedthroughtheiceonthebayandthatWilldidnotwantto farm even though heloved the land. Susan

talked about being anorphan,too,andcomingtowork for Will’s mother.“I’m twelve now. Beenhere three years.” RosecouldhardlybelieveSusanwasthesameagethatshewas. “I got to do awoman’s work,” saidSusan.It didn’t seem likemore

thanafewmomentsbeforethe sun was low over the

bay and the trees weremaking long shadowsagainst the ground. Cowswere lowing in thedistance and, before long,theMorrissays’had joinedthe mournful chorus.Reluctantly Susan got up.“There goes Pearly,” shesighed,“andmyhalf-day’sdonewith.”“What are we going to

do about you, Rose?”

askedWill. “Where is shegoing to stay?” hedemanded of Susan. “Iguess mebbe she couldstay in the barn for onenight.”Susanagreed.“We’lljust

have to figure outsomething else aftertomorrow. But first thinginthemorningyou’llhaveto be getting back towhere you come from—or

findingaplace that’ll takeyouonasahiredgirl. I’mcoming, Pearly!”—as thecow bellowed to bemilked, and off wentSusan, skirts flying, tobringherin.Will did not get up atonce. Now and then beglanced over at Rose.“Them things you said isawful funny,” he saidfinally.“Nomind.IguessI

might as well show youthebarn.”“Don’t we have to pickupthethings?”“Yep.”They gathered up theclothandtheemptyplatesand bowls and carriedthem to the house. At thekitchendoorWilltookhersharefromRose.“Ibestgoinalone,”hesaid.From inside his mother

called plaintively, “Is thatyou,Will?”Throughthescreendoor

Rose could see a womanapproaching. She was tallwith a long, gaunt face,large sunken eyes andgray-blond hair in a tightbun at the back of herhead. Suddenly Rose wasfrightened.Itwasthelookof thewoman, sodrab, soobviously wretched in a

world that was sobeautiful.Sheleapedback.Without thinking whereshe was going she ran totherootcellar,pulledopenthe doors, and scurrieddownthesteps.Seconds later, feeling

foolish, she went back upthesteps—andoutintothecold autumn evening oftheHenrys’backyard.

R

Will

ose was heartsick. Itwaslikebeingbackin

prison, finding herself inthe Henrys’ cold autumnback yard. Frantically sheran back into the root

cellarandoutagain,once,twice, a dozen times. Itwasalways thesame. Inarageofdisappointmentshemadeherwaythroughthebushes and into thehousewhere Jimmy (or Brian)said, “Our mother’s beenlooking all over for you.Wheredidyougo?”“Shut up!” said Rose.Shehadneversaidthattoanyone. She said it again:

“shutup.”Shegavethecata shovewithher foot andstampedupstairs.“It’s time for dinner,”

Brian (or Jimmy) calledafterherinhurttones,andshe realized with a startthat it was the sameevening it had beenwhenshe had found the rootcellarandgone intoWill’sand Susan’s world. Shecould hardly bear it. She

sat down to dinner insilence and a confusion ofbitterthoughts.Monday she startedschool. The school buscame at quarter to eightand stopped along theroad to pick up noisy,curious childrenwho keptturning to stare at herwhere she sat in the lastseat.Theschoolsmelledofchalk and old running

shoes. She was sure theteacher’s “We’re glad tohave you with us, Rose. Ihope you’ll be happyhere,” was insincere. Shedid not want anything todowiththechildreninherclass, and she hated theplayground whereeveryone pushed andshoved and chased eachother. Several girls cameandspoketoher.Shedrew

her head down into thehigh neck of her sweaterlikea turtleandanswered“yes,” “no,” or “I don’tknow” to all theirquestions. She was afraidof them, even Alice, thegentlealbinogirlwith thethickglasses.A coupleofweekswent

by. At school, Alice andMargery, who sat next toRose,andMargery’sfriend

Gail all tried makingfriends, but Rose did notwant their friendship, andthey left her alone. Athome, Aunt Nan in hercasual, chattering fashion,Uncle Bob and George intheir own ways, began totakeher forgranted.EvenSam, although hewas notgracious about it, seemedto have accepted her. Heoncetried tosharepartof

a chocolate bar with heron the bus. But Rosewould have nothing to dowith Sam.Thememoryofhis cruel words was toosharp. Shemade no effortto be especially friendlywith any of them,althoughshedidgiveintothe twins’ pleading to tellthem a story. She toldthemaboutaprincesswhocould not get back to her

own country, and shemade it so sad that theycried.Even Uncle Bob, who

was not very good atnoticing people, said toAunt Nan one evening inRose’s hearing, “Do yousuppose we insulted thatchild in someway?” AuntNan said she didn’t thinkso, that they would justhavetobepatientbecause

Rosewasprobablymissinghergrandmother.But it was not her

grandmother; it was WillandSusanandawholelostworld.“I spent just one day

there,” she lamented, overand over. “One day andnowIcan’tgoback!”Every day after school,

whiletheboyswrangledinthe kitchen, she went out

tothegladeanddowntherotted steps into the rootcellar. It was always thesame.Thefirsttimewasashock. Instead of thesturdyinsidedoorthathadbeen there the first time,therewasadoorasrottenand full of holes as theoutside ones and it washangingby abadly rustedhinge. Inside there wereno shelves, no crockery

jars. There were onlycobwebs and dust and, inone corner, a dead rat.Rose jumped back inhorror and fled up thesteps, dropping the doorsbehind her with so muchnoise she was sure shemust have been heardfrom thehouse.After thatshe was quiet, evensecretive, and in spite ofthedeadrat,shestillwent

everyday,hoping,prayingfor whatever magic hadbeenatworkthatfirstday.The puzzle of it occupiedall her thoughts. Shesearched her memory forevery detail of that day,everymoveshehadmade,andcouldfindnoclue.She walked up anddowntheroadallthewayaroundtheendofthebay.Thereweretallreedsthere

where thewaterhadbeenhigh in 1862. Nothinglookedasithadlookedonthe night she had walkedawayfromtheMorrissays’.Themodernroadwasdirt,butitwaswideenoughforcars to pass each other,and on either side therewere just fields, no highbushesandtrees.October became

November. Some days the

creek had ice along itsedges and the littlehawthorn tree was almostbent double by the wind.Wintercamein,bleakandgray, to the island. Thelow, rolling countrysidelooked bare andvulnerable.Rosehadneverbeen so unhappy in herlife.One afternoon, as she

sat at the back of the

school bus, she felt as ifshe could not standanother moment ofscreaming, fighting kids,and when Jim and PhilHeaton from down theroad got off the bus, shegot off, too. The twinscalled anxiously after her,“Rose, Rose, where areyou going?” The Heatonboys looked at hercuriously, but she paid no

attention to any of them.She stuffedherhands intothe pockets of her jacket,kicked angrily at a stonethat lay in her path, andstarted walking. It wasverycold,butthedaywasbright.Afewwhitecloudswere whipping across theskylikesailboatsinarace.Leaves were swirling upfromtheground.“You want to come

alongoverhereandgiveahand, youngster?” Rosestarted. She had been soengrossed in her ownthoughts that she hadn’tnoticedshehadstoppedbya house. It had an ironfencearoundit,andanoldman was standing by thegatewithalengthofstoutwireinhishand.“Here,” he said again.

He was thin and stooped,

with a small tuft ofwhitehair on top of his longface.Hiseyeswereblue—like Will’s eyes, Rosethought—and they hadsmile wrinkles at thecorners.His facewaskindandhismannereasy.Rosewentovertohim.“You just hold up the

gate so as I can tie it upwith this here wire,” hesaid. She held while the

oldmanwoundthelengthof wire around the gateand post so that the gatehungevenlyandlevelwiththe fence. Only then didshe look at hersurroundings. The big oldhouse, covered with graystucco, looked somehowfamiliar, its yard full oftrees and surrounded bytheironfence.“You like my house?”

Theoldmansmiled.“Howabout coming in andhaving a cup of tea withme?”Rose went with him.Inside, the big,comfortable kitchen waspleasant and warm. Thelate afternoon sunlightstreamedinthroughalongwindow at the back andsettled on an old couchalong one wall. The floor

was covered with wornlinoleum, and the wallswere hung with calendarsand yellowed newspaperclippings. A kettle wassteaming on a big, blackwoodstove.“Sityoudown,”saidthe

old man, “sit you down.My name’s Tom Bother,but you callmeOld Tom.Everyone does. That’s totell me from Young Tom,

though he moved over toSoup Harbour twentyyears ago. Nobody herebut me any more. Youmust be the young ladywho’s come to live up toHenrys’ place. I ain’t beenup there for two, threeweeks but I knowed youwas coming. I do a bit ofwork for Mr. Henry nowandthen.”“How do you do? I’m

RoseLarkin.”“That’s a nice name,”saidOldTom.Ashetalkedhe was making tea andputting out buttered cornmealmuffins.“Have one,” he offered.“I won prizes with mymuffins, though it grateson some of the womenroundheretoknowit.”Rose perched on theedge of the couch and

listened to Old Tom. Hesaid he was eighty-oneyears old and had alwayslived in the same house.“Infact,”hesaid,“Bothershas lived here since 1802when we built the firstcabin in the woods. Wecome up from the Statesafter we was kicked out,when we wouldn’t fightthe king in the AmericanRevolution in 1776. We

come up along with theCollivers, the Heatons, ’nMorrissays, ’n Yardleys, ’nAndersons. Collivers builtthemillandso that’showCollivers’ Corners gotnamed after ’em. Yardleyshad the smithy, andAndersons, Morrissays,and Heatons and us wasjust farmers, clearing thewoodsand trying tomakedoandwebeenhere ever

since and never budged—hardly a one of us. Mygrandfatherusedtotellmeaboutit.Hegotitfromhisgrandfather who was alittle feller when they allcome.”Rose heard him talkingon but she wasn’t reallylistening. Morrissays. OldTomknewMorrissays.Andhe knew Heatons andYardleys. Will had talked

about Heatons andYardleys.“Do you know Heatonsand Yardleys and … andMorrissays?” she askedeagerly.OldTomlaughed.“WellI guess so, they’re myneighbors,”hesaid.“Well,mostof ’emis.Thereain’tMorrissays aroundnowadays. The last onediedafewyearsback.The

old lady lived—Morrissaysalways lived—in thathouseyoulivein.”Rose almost said, “I

know,”butshedidn’t.Shedidn’t want him to thinkshewascrazy.Itmadeherfeel strange hearing himsay that Mrs. Morrissayhad died. Her Mrs.Morrissay was so verymuch alive. She ate hercorn muffin in silence,

wanting to ask more, notsure how to phrase herquestions so that theymadesense.“Well,” she said,

brushing the crumbs fromher lap neatly into herhand,“Ihavetogonow.”“Thank you for your

help,younglady,”saidOldTom. He put his handbrieflyonherhead.“Comevisitwithmeagain.I take

kindlytovisitors.”Shepromisedshewould.Outsidesheturnedtoclosethegatecarefullyafterher,andhermouthfellopeninsurprise—because sherecognized the house shehad sat across the roadfrom all night after shehad left Will and Susan.“Bothers’ house,” Susanhadsaid.Ofcourse.But itwasdifferent.Itwasn’tjust

the new gray stucco. Theshadows were different.The shadows during thatlong frighteningnighthadseemed as permanent asthe house. It came as asurprise to see their longslanting shapes in the lateafternoonsun.She had a suddenelectrifying idea. Shebegan to run. She nolonger noticed the cold.

She was hot withexcitement. She ran untilshereachedtherootcellar.Breathlessly she floppeddown on the cracklingleaves and studied theclosed doors. The shadowof the hawthorn tree fellacrossthemparalleltotheopeningbetweenthem.“Wherewas it theday I

wenttoWillandSusan’s?”whispered Rose. “Where

was it?” She closed hereyes, trying to remember.In her mind she saw thedoors revealedbyher feetscuffing the leaves away,the trees and bushesmaking patterns andshadowsoverthem.“Yes,”she murmured, “yes, itwas! Itwas in themiddle.Exactlyinthemiddle.”Sheopened her eyes. Thehawthorn’s shadowwas to

theleftoftheopening,notmore than an inch. Shewaited, her fists clenchedanxiously.Haditjustbeenorwas it coming?Shedidnot move; her eyes wererivetedtotheopening.Slowly, almost

imperceptibly, the shadowmoved toward the crack.Rose held her breath, herbody tense as a runner’swaiting for the starting

flag. Then, when theshadowfell justwherethehook-and-eye latches met,shepulledopenthedoors,ran down into the rootcellar,andcameupbesidethe little garden in theMorrissays’backyard.Shesatdownbesidethecreek, letting out longbreaths of relief. Thechickens were pecking inthe garden; the sheep and

Pearly the cow weregrazing beyond the creek.Only thesoundofPearly’sbell tinklingas shemovedand the chirpingof robinsin the trees broke thestillness of the warmafternoon. She hurrieddownpastthecreektothebay, then back up to theorchardlookingforWillorSusan. She realized as sheapproached that the apple

treeswerenotinbloomasthey had been last time.Theyweren’teveninleaf.“Time must be strangehere, or at least not thesame as ours,” shedecided.As she walked throughthe budding trees in theorchard, she feltagain themagicofthatotherday.Asquirrelscurriedoutontoabranchatthesoundofher

approach, and she felt thepeacefulnessof itallsettleover her once again. Sheheard voices comingtoward her. One of themwasadeepmalevoice. Inasuddenpanic,lestshebediscovered by strangers,shehidbehindthenearesttree. Within seconds thevoices were almost besideher. Then whoever it wasstopped.

“And don’t you darebreathe a single word ofwhat I told you to Ma orI’ll cast a spell on you,Susan Anderson. There’sways and ways of castingspells and you know itbecause it was your owngran who told us, andsome of ’em you can dofrom far away and I’ll do’em forcertain sure ifyoutell.”

Rose peered out frombehind her tree. It wasSusan and Will, a taller,older Will with a deepcracking voice, likeGeorge’s. He was over sixfeettallnowandhisstraw-whitehairhaddarkenedtoa deep gold color. Susanwasdifferent,too.Shewastaller than Rose andlooked older. Rose washorrified. How old were

they?Howmuchtimehadgoneby?“Sheain’ttoknow,”saidWillfiercely.“But Will,” Susanclaspedandunclaspedherhandsnervouslyinfrontofher. “If you run away it’llkill yourma. It trulywill.Shesaysthere’sacurseonyourfamily.”“I know what Ma says.Don’t she say it every

morningofmylife?Ican’thardlystandtobearound.It’s like living with thedead, living here. Whydon’t she go home toOswego? My aunts arejolly folks and so are mycousins. She only comeheretomarryPa.Herfolksdon’t belong here and Idon’t belong here neither.I’m going to take myselfback there, and Steve and

mewe’regoingtojoinup.They been asking forrecruits again and we’re—”“Will Morrissay! You’renever going to do that!”gaspedSusan.Willclappedhis hands over Susan’smouth. “Shut up! I nevermeant to tell that! Nowyougottopromisesilence.Silence! Because I don’twantnoonehereaboutsto

knowwhereIgone.Andifyou don’t promise I’mgoing to break both yourarmsandthrowyouinthebay.Doyouhear?”Susannodded.Will tookhis hand from hermouth,but he held her armsfirmly. “Are youpromising?”“Will,I.…”“Both your arms,” hesaidgrimly,staringfixedly

into her eyes. “Both yourarms.”“I promise,” said Susan

softly,“andnotbecauseofyour stupid threats butbecause if it matters somuchtoyouI’mnotgoingtotellbut,ohWill,whydoyou have to go and joinup? It ain’t our war. Wegot no part in it. Youheard what happened inSoames the other day.

That Yankee got arrestedfor trying to recruit ourboys. Right here toCollivers’ Corners. BennyBother told Joey Heatonhe was going to set hisdogs on any of themYankeesthatcomeheretofetchourCanadianboystofight in the rebellion. Itain’tourwar,Will!”“It’s part mine, Susan,it’s part mine. My ma

come from the States.Hercountryneedssoldiersbad.The war’s been going onfor three years and thingsisdesperate.Stevetoldmelast time he come herethat him and Aunt MinandthemallwentdowntoNew York City whenAbraham Lincoln wasthere and they seen him.HesaysLincoln’sallbutasaint and I believe him.

Lincoln freed the slavesfrom those rich people inthe South—and you knowyourselfhowsomeofthemblack peoples come acrossthe lake to get away frombeing slaves and theterrible things they toldabout being beaten andputinchainsandmadetowork like animals. Well,after this war there ain’tgoingtobenomoreslaves

and, what’s more, themstates in the South ain’tgoingtobeabletoquittheUnited States just becausethey happen to feel likeit.”“Well, I don’t care iftheydoordon’t.”“Well, I care, and Stevesaysjustaboutalltheboysfrom Oswego County whocan walk have gone. Oneoftheregimentswashome

in February and they wasrecruiting—and he’s goingto go if I’ll go with him.And I’m going. I’mshippingoutwiththeElizaFisher. She’s heading forOswego todaywith a loadof grain, and CaptainSoames says he’s got aday’sworkIcando.WhenI get there I’m going offwithStevetojoinup.”“Will!” Susan took hold

of his arms. “Who’s goingto look after things foryourma?”“Who’dlookafter ’emifIwasdead?”“I don’t know but youain’t dead—not yet, youain’t.Oh,Will!”“Susan, I got to go. Imade up my mind. It’s athingIgottodo.”They were both silent,not looking at each other,

not really looking awayeither. Finally Will tookhis hands from Susan’sarms. He shouldered thesmallpackthathehadsetbeside him on the grass.“Good-bye,” he said. “I’dleave you something for akeepsake, only I don’tknowwhatit’dbe.”“Igotabitofpaperwitha song you made writtenon it. I’ll keep that. Here,

youtakemylocket.”Susanreached up and undid thechainaroundherneck.“Susan, you can’t give

that!Itwasyourgran’s.”“Takeit.”Willstuffedthelocketin

his pocket. He grabbedSusan’s hands. “Youremember what youpromised,”hesaidandoffhe went on his long legs,notoncelookingback.

Susan stood unmovingas the trees. Then, withher head down, huggingherself tightly with botharms, she ran from theorchard.Rose slowly came outfrom behind the tree,stupefied.ShestaredatthespotwhereWillandSusanhadstood.Howcould thishappen? How could theygrow older like that and

leave her behind? Howcould Will just go off tothewar?Shepounded thetrunk of the tree furiouslywith her fists. She feltcheated, betrayed. Paleand shaking, she ran backthrough the orchard, pastthe sheep and the hens,down the steps into theroot cellar, and back upintotheworldshehatedsomuch.

T

ASongandaSilverRose

henextafternoonRosewent down the root

cellar steps with greattrepidation. She wasfurious with herself forhaving run away. “Stupid,

stupid,” she had toldherself off andon all day.“HowcanIfixitifI’mnoteven there?” For she haddetermined to set herworldtorights,tofindoutwhere Will had gone andgethimback. Shedidnotmean to return to theHenrys again, so she hadpacked her overnight bagwith everything she feltshemightneed—herextra

pairof jeans, shirts, socks,and underwear, herpajamas and her treasures—andshehadgonetofindSusan.She came up the steps

into a bright summermorning.Theskywaspaleblue. A breeze wasblowing gently throughtheleavesofthebigmapletreeandfaintlystirringtherosesandwoodgeraniums

beside the cellar door.Susan was hanginglaundry out beyond thevegetable garden. Rosestood uncertainly on thepath, her suitcase in onehand. She felt a bit shywith this bigger, olderSusan, but again, theknowledge that she waswhere she belongedmadeherbold.She cleared her throat.

Susanletoutashriek.“It’s me—Rose. Did I

scareyou?”Susan’s eyes grew big

and round. Her mouthgaped open. She clutchedat the clothesline forsupport.“It’s justme,” saidRose

again.“It is Rose,” Susan

whispered. “It is.… Lord’smercy!”

“Icameback.”“Iseethat,butwherever

did you come from? Oh,my, you did give me astart!” Susan shook herhead. She began again tohang out the laundry, allthe while lookingnervouslyatRose.Rosewasrelievedtosee

thatSusandidn’t lookanyolderthanshehadthedaybefore. All the same she

asked, to make sure,“Where’sWill?”Susan had finished herwork but she had notmoved. She still watchedRosewarily.“Will’sgoneoff,Rose.”“Iknowthat.”“Youknow?”“I was hiding behind atreeandIheard.”“Youwas hiding behindatree?”

“I came back to findyou, and when I heardtalkingintheorchard,andit didn’t sound like you, Iwasscaredso Ihid.Whenwas it, Susan? How longago,Imean.”“Yououghttoknowthat

ifyouwashere.”“Iwashere.Listen.”And

Rose recited to Susan agood deal of theconversation she had

overheard in the orchard.To her dismay it broughttearstoSusan’seyes.“It’s just we ain’t heard

from Will in eightmonths,”saidSusan.“Eight months!” Rose

was. aghast. “How longagodidhego?”“ItwasayearinApril.”“A year! Has he sent

letters?”“Atfirsthesent’em.He

never toldmuch, but theywas letters all the same,and they told he was allright. I got ’em all saved.But there ain’t been nonesince January, and thewar’s been over for fourmonthsnow.”“The war’s over?” Rose

searched her memory forthedate of the endof thewar.“Whatyearisitnow,Susan?”

“It’s the 16th of Augustin 1865, and the war’sbeendone sinceApril andpoorMr.Lincolnshotdeadin the theater and cold inhisgravebynow,andtheystill haven’t caught thatcrazyMr.Boothwhodoneit. If you come from NewYork like you said, howcomeyoudon’tknowthat?How come you.…” Susanstopped. She studied Rose

intently. “There’ssomething queer aboutyou,”shesaid,thenaddedquickly, “I don’t meannothing by that. I don’tthink you’re looney ornothing. It’s just there’sthings I can’t figure outaboutyou.Youcomeherethreeyearsback.Yousaidyouwasrunningawayandyouwantedtostayheresobad. Then, quick’s a flick

of a cow’s tail, you wasgone. Will went in thehouse for no more thanthree minutes, and whenhecomeoutyouwasgoneand we ain’t set eyes onyou from that moment tothis. And here you are asthough it was yesterdayyou come, and you ain’tchanged. Not growed, norchanged. Not a hair ofyou. You even got the

same clothes on. It givesmethejitters.”“I know,” said Rose

remembering thedayMrs.Morrissay came throughherbedroomwall.“Idon’tunderstand it either, but Ididtellyou,Susan,Idid.ItoldyouandWillwhenwewere having our picnicoverintheappletrees,butyoudidn’tbelieveme.IdocomefromNewYork,only

I come from New Yorkmorethanahundredyearsfrom now. You have tobelieve me because it’strue. It’s three years agofor you, but for me it’sonlythreeweeks.Ihaven’tgrown any because I’monlythreeweeksolder.“I didn’t mean to

disappear that day. I randown into the cellarbecause I was scared, and

thenIgotstuckandittookme all this time to figureouthowtogetback.Itwasbecause of the shadow—don’t, Susan, don’t!” shebegged,becauseSusanwasbacking away, her eyeswidewithfright.“I’mreal.Really, I’m real. Stoplookingatmelikethat!It’sjust this thing with therootcellar!”“What thing?” asked

Susan, keeping a gooddistance between herselfandRose.Rose set her bag down.

She looked at the opendoorsoftherootcellarandsaid slowly, “Well,it’s … it’s … I think it’sbecauseofMrs.Morrissay.I don’t mean Will’smother, it’s another Mrs.Morrissay. She started it,but I’mnot sure sheknew

shewasdoing it.Anyway,she showed up the day Icametoliveinthishouse,and she stayed until Ifoundtherootcellar.Itoldyouaboutthat.Then,afterwe had our picnic, Will’smother scared me and Iran back down into thecellar. When I went backupthestairsIwasinAuntNan’s time. I tried andtried to come back, but I

only foundout todayhowto do it. There’s a littlehawthorn tree—it’s likethatoneoverontheotherside of the creek—andwhen the shadow fromthat tree falls exactlybetween the two doorsthatleadtotherootcellar,I can open the doors, gointo the cellar, and comeup in your time. Do youunderstandnow?”

“How old are you,Rose?”“I’mtwelve.”“You said you wastwelve when you cameherebefore.”“I was. I keep tellingyou, Susan, it was onlythreeweeks ago forme. Iwishitwasn’tbecausenowyou’re three years olderand Will isn’t here!” Shelooked accusingly at

Susan. In her frustrationshe felt that it wassomehow Susan’s fault.“Anyway,” she saidimpatiently, “what wehave to do now is findWill.”Susan sat down on theground, put her head inher hands, and burst intotears.Rosehadneverbeenwithanyonecryingbefore.She felt embarrassed and

awkward. After a long,fidgety moment she putout her hand and touchedthe top of Susan’s bowedhead. Susan jumped backinfright.“Youmightbeaghost,”

she whispered, andsuddenlyitallstruckRoseas funny. Mrs. Morrissay,herself, Will, the wholeHenry family,maybe theywereallghosts.Shebegan

to laugh, loud bellowinglaughs such as she hadnever laughed before inher life. She laughed sohard she had to sit down,shakingwithlaughter.“Do I look likeaghost?

Orfeellikeaghost?Susan,I’mnotaghost.”“You don’t and that’s a

fact,”saidSusan.Shedriedhereyesonherapronandsmiled her wide, warm

smile.“No,youain’tadayolder nor a hair changedfrom what you was threeyears ago, and if you canget along with thequeerness of it then IsupposesocanI.”Then Rose told Susanagain how she had foundthe root cellar. Togetherthey marveled over thestrangenessofit,andRosetold her how she felt that

this world was where shereally belonged. Then shesaid confidently, “I knowWill’s alive somewhere.Wehavetofindoutwhereso we can bring himhome.”“We can’t do that,” saidSusan.“Wewouldn’tknowwhere t’start. It was anawful big war, and themthings can’t be as easy tosortoutaseggsorapples.”

Rosejumpedtoherfeet.“Yes, theycan!”shecried.“Yes, they can. They canbe ifallyouhave todo islook in history books forthem. Back at Aunt Nan’sorinthelibraryinSoamesor somewhere there mustbe a lot of books that tellabouttheCivilWar.”“But, Rose, them books,

even if you can find ’em,ain’t going to say what

happened to WilliamMorrissay from theHawthorn Bay, CanadaWest.”“No, I guess not.” Rosefelt deflated. Then shebrightened. “Maybe oldTom Bother knows. Hesays his family’s alwayslivedhere.”“Bothers lives up theroad.”“And they do on Aunt

Nan’s road. At least, onedoes, and I can ask him,andmaybethereareotherpeople who might know.I’ll go and find out. I’llcome back tomorrownight.”Rosestoppedshort.“Susan, what if I cometomorrow night andanother three years havegoneormaybeevenmore?How can we make it bethesametimeforyouasit

isforme?”“I don’t know,” said

Susan unhappily. “I don’tknow, unless mebbe ifwe … no, I guess thereain’tasurewaytodoit.”“What were you going

tosay?”“I was going to say

there’s them believes ifyou give a promise and akeepsake,thenyoualwayscome backwhen you say.

But Will left me akeepsake and I give himone and he ain’t comeback.”“Did you say when

though?Iheardyoudoingthat because Iwas behindthe tree, and I don’tremember that you saidwhen.”“No,that’sso,Ididn’t.”“Sowecantryit.Icould

leaveyoumysuitcase.”

Susan was doubtful.“That ain’t really akeepsake.Akeepsake’sgottobesomethingyoucareagood deal about. It’s likeleavingabitofyourselfforthepromise.”“Here.”Rosereachedupand undid the chainaround her neck. “Yougave Will your locket. Soyou havemine. It’s a roseforme.”

Susan took the silverrose and held it in thepalmofherhand.“Ain’titpretty,”shesaidsoftly.“It came from someonealongtimeago.Myfathergaveittomymotherwhenthey got married and mymothergaveittomewhenI was born. Mygrandmother told me. It’swhatI caremost about inall theworld, so if I leave

it with you then it has tomean I’ll comebackwhenI say. Here, I’ll put it onyou.”Carefully Rose clasped

the chain around Susan’sneck. Susan said, “Waithere,” and ran into thehouse. In less than twominutes she was back.“Here. You take Will’ssong he left me. It waswhat he wrote after the

daywewasalltogetherinthe orchard. It’s mykeepsake from him, andit’swhatIcaremostaboutin all theworld.Thiswayyou got a keepsake frombothofus.”The scrap of paper had

been carefully folded andwrapped in a bit offloweredcloth.Roseputitin the deep pocket of herjeans. She started toward

thesteps.She turnedbackand solemnly shookSusan’s hand. “There, thatsealsit.WhenIcomebackthe same amount of timewill have passed for bothof us. Goodbye.” She randown the steps, this timewithoutlookingback.

W

Stowaway

hen Rose came intothekitchenAuntNan

was getting supper andchattering away about thestory she was writing.Uncle Bob was sitting on

the high stool beside thestove, drinking coffee andlistening.“I want to know aboutthe Civil War,” said Rose,not looking directly ateither of them. She feltlike a cheat. It suddenlydidn’t seem fair to beacceptingtheirhospitality.She felt as though sheought to tell them whereshe was going, but she

couldn’t.“The Civil War?” asked

Aunt Nan. “Do you meanthe Spanish Civil War orthe English Civil War ortheAmericanCivilWar?”“The American.

AbrahamLincoln’swar.”“Are you doing a

project, dear? I guess youcould start with theencyclopedias. They’re onthe bottom shelf of the

bookcase in my writingroom.”Rose went at once tofindthebooks.“Funny girl,” she heardAunt Nan say, but thistimeshedidnotmind.Shepulled volume aftervolume off the shelf untilshe found what she waslooking for. She sat cross-leggedonthefloorinfrontofthebookshelfandread.

“The American CivilWar, also called the WarBetween the States, theWar of the Rebellion, andthe War for SouthernIndependence, was a warbetween the eleven statesofthesouthandthestatesand territories of thenorth. The causes of thewar were many andcomplicated but, althoughemotionsranhighonboth

sides on the issue ofslavery, the basic causewas economic. The issuewas the right of states totheir own government.Abraham Lincoln waselected president in 1860as an advocate of strongcentralgovernment.…Thesouth could not acceptLincoln. The war beganwhen seven states in thesouth seceded from the

Union and fired on thefederal Fort Sumter inCharleston, SouthCarolina, on April 12,1861. Soon afterward theother five southern statesseceded and formed theConfederate States ofAmerica under thepresidency of JeffersonDavis. Its capital was atRichmond, Virginia.…Slavery was outlawed

when Lincoln issued hisemancipationproclamationin1862.Thisfurtherinflamedthesouth.…“ThewarendedonApril

9, 1865, when Robert E.Lee, general of the Armyof the Confederacy,surrendered to Ulysses S.Grant, general of the U.S.army, at Appomattox,Virginia.”

The encyclopedia wentontosaythatthewarwasabitterone.RobertE.Lee,a descendant of GeorgeWashington’s wife, hadbeen a graduate of WestPoint Military Academyand had freed all hisslaves, but he had lovedhis home state of Virginiatoo much to fight againstit.Roserememberedagainher grandmother’s stories

of her great-great-grandfather.The encyclopedia had

pages of descriptions ofbattles and pictures ofgeneralsfrombothsides.It’s interesting, thought

Rose, but Susan is right. Itisn’t going to say a singlewordaboutWill.That afternoon she got

off the bus at Old TomBother’s. She found him

out behind his house,wrapping a piece of tinaroundayoungbirchtree.“Just making sure the

rabbits won’t get at it inthewinter,”hetoldher.“Ilike the rabbits. I alwaysthrow out bread for ’em,but I don’t like themchewing on my trees.Come along inside.” Roseliked Old Tom. He said“mebbe”thewayWilland

Susan did and talked intheir same easy, twangyway.Settled comfortably on

the kitchen couch, Roseasked him: “Can you tellmethingsaboutthepeoplein Collivers’ Corners andSoamesintheCivilWar?”“The Civil War? The

WaroftheRebellionintheStates,youmean?”“Yes.”

“Let me see now. Iremember my old dadusedtosaywesoldalotofwheat in that war.Collivers and Soames andevenmyoldgrandpamadegoodmoney sellingwheattotheUnionarmy.Itwentby schooner across thelake. There was busyshipping in those days.There was alwaysschooners in and out of

here. There was wharvesall along the HawthornBay. All the big farmsshippedwheatandbarley,and anything else theycould sell, over toRochester and Oswego.Boys around here used toearn theirmoney shippingout for a day or week orsometimes a lifetime. Andsometimes they wasknowntostowawaywhen

they couldn’t get a berthand then go off and findthemselves work in theStates. My old dad was agreathandtogooffontheschooners. I never did. Itwasn’t so popular when Iwas a boy. Wasn’t quitethetradenomoreneither.Barleywasfinished.Wheatwasn’tsobig.Therailroadcome through in ’78 andtherewasn’tmuchcall for

shipping.It’sallgonenow.There’s nothing on thelakebutyachtsandabitoffishing. But, you know,thiswholeislandwasbuiltonshipping.”“What about the people

around here? Didn’t someofthemgoandfightintheCivilWar?”“Yes, they did. I

remember Dad sayingthere was a Whittier boy

fromheregotkilled.”“Didn’t… didn’t one of

theMorrissaysgo?”“Mebbeso.Idon’tknow

much about that war,exceptthatwesoldalotofwheat.Canadahadnopartin the war, though ofcourse around here manypeoplehadrelativesacrossthe lake in New York.What made you think ofMorrissays?”

“Well, you said theyusedtoliveinourhouse—I mean, in the Henrys’house.”“Oh did I? Well, of

course there always wasMorrissays in that houseright fromthestart.WhenIwasaboytherewasjusttheoldlady,butshehadayoung relative fromWinnipeg every summer.Name was George

Anderson. He used tocome every year and wehad grand times togetherwhen we was boys. Theold ladywasgood tous. Istill remember howparticular she was aboutthathouse.Loved it. It’sashamewhathappenedtoitafter she died. Nobodylivedtheremorethantwo,three years, excepting theraccoons. Ihopeyou folks

plan to stay. Be good toseeitputbackinshape.”Rose said nothing. Shewishedhewouldn’ttalksoabout “putting the oldhouse back in shape.” Itmade her feel slightlyguilty.Shegotuptoleave.She was beginning to feeldiscouraged about findingout where Will had gone.There was only one placeleftwhere shecould think

tosearch.“Where’s Oswego?” sheasked.“Why,it’sjustacrossthelake. About sixty miles asthecrowflies.”“Howdoyougetthere?”Old Tom scratched hishead. “Well, back when Iwas a boy, we went byschoonerasItoldyou,butnowadays I expect youhave to go all the way

aroundthelakeinacar,ormebbe there’s a bus. ButnowIthinkof it, ifyou’rebentongettingtoOswegoIbelieveyourUncleBob’sgoingtherethisweekend.”“Thisweekend?”“Ibelieveso.”“Then I’m going with

him. Goodbye, Old Tom.Thanks for the tea andeverything.” She grabbedher jacketandhurriedout

thedooranduptheroad.UncleBobhadjustcome

inwhenshegotthere.“Whenareyougoing to

Oswego?”shedemanded.He blinked and drew

backinsurprise.“Whenareyougoing to

Oswego?”sheaskedagain.“Well,Rose,asamatter

offactI’mgoingtherethisweekend. We’re leavingtomorrowmorning.”

“I’mgoingwithyou.”“No,you’renot.”Georgecame across the room,slapped the huge pile oftoasthewascarryingontothe table, andwagged hisfinger at her. “No, you’renot. Sam’s going and I’mgoing. Mother’s notcoming and the twinsaren’t coming and you’renotcoming.”“Afraid so, Rose,” said

UncleBob.“Ipromisedtheboys.I’vebeeninvitedtoaCanadian-Americanenvironmental conferencethat’s being held inOswegoonFridayandI’vepromised to take the bigboys. An outing for thethree of us.We’re leavingearly tomorrow morning.You must have heard ustalkingaboutit?”Rose hadn’t. She had

been so engrossed in thestrange events of her ownlife that she had missedeverythinggoingonintheHenryhousehold.“Please, I won’t be any

trouble,” she said. Rosehad never pleaded foranythinginherlifebefore,but she pleaded now.While George shouted,“No!Youcan’t,youcan’t!”and danced up and down

around her, she pleadedearnestlyandsteadilywithUncle Bob to let her go.She might have won ifAunt Nan had not comeburstingoutofherwritingroom looking mussed andcross.“MyLord,what’sallthiscommotion?”shecried.“Shesaysshe’sgoingonour trip,” said Georgeindignantly.

“Is Rose going toOswego with Daddy andSam and George?” Thetwins had come into theroom behind their motherandwereedgingtheirwayaround her. “Are you,Rose,areyou?”theyaskedanxiously.“No,”saidAuntNan,“ofcourse not. Rose, this isSam’s and George’s trip.One of these days we’ll

have a trip, though Iwouldhave thoughtyou’dhadenoughtraveltolastalifetime.Nowwillyoustopall this racket? Who canworkwiththisnoisegoingon? Rose, why don’t youset the table, and I’ll beout in a few minutes andstartsupper.”Rosesettoworkwithout

a murmur. She had madeup hermind that shewas

going to Oswego. Evenwhile she was pleadingwith Uncle Bob to takeher, she had rememberedOld Tom Bother saying,“Sometimes they wasknowntostowawaywhentheycouldn’tgetaberth,”and she had decided thatshe was going to stowawayinthestationwagon.The next morning,

beforethesunwasup,her

runningshoesinherhand,she crept downstairs andoutintothefrontyard.Dew was heavy on theground. It was a stillmorning filled withunexpected Novemberwarmth. A flock of geeserose from Heaton’scornfieldand,honkingandsquawking, formed intotheirV-shapedflight.Theypassed high over the

house,their loudcallsandthe noisy beating of theirwings breaking sharplyinto the silence. Rosegasped in startled delightand craned her neck towatch. She had a suddenlongingtosharethemwithWill. I suppose he’s seenthem lots of times, shethought.A noise from inside thehouse sent her scuttling

behindthebiglilacbush.In a minute or so the

twins appeared like twoheralds, followed soonafter by the rest of thefamily sleepily luggingraincoats, blankets,suitcases, a huge picnicbasket, and Uncle Bob’sbriefcase. They packed itall into thestationwagon,unpacked it when Sampointed out that they had

put everything on top ofthe lunch, and packed itagain. “I wish we couldgo,” said the twinswistfully and Rose heardSam saying, as theytroopedback to thehousefor breakfast, “I’ll put youin my suitcase with myharmonica.”In an instant Rose had

crawled into the back ofthe station wagon under

the raincoats and blanketsbesidethelunch.Itseemedlike hours of crampedwaiting before the otherscame out of the houseagain, hours more beforethey were actually readyto leave. Aunt Nan hadone more last question,one more last warningabout the road. Then shesuggested, just as UncleBobputhisfootonthegas

pedal, that they reallyshouldn’t leave withoutsaying good-bye to Rose.“Poor kid, she’s probablylonely. Maybe you couldhave.…”“For heaven’s sake,Nan,” said Uncle Bob,“whycan’tyouletsleepingdogs lie?” which madeGeorgesnortloudly.UncleBobputhis foot firmlyonthe accelerator and they

wereoff.Rosecrouchedundertheblankets and raincoats,beside the strong smell ofchopped egg sandwiches,while George talked, Samplayedhisharmonica,andUncle Bob drove silentlyalong winding roads andon and off ferries. At theborder into New YorkState a gruff-voicedcustomsmanaskedifthey

hadanything in thecar todeclare.UncleBobassuredhimtheyhadn’t.“You want to open uptheback?”saidthevoice.Rose stopped breathing.She had forgotten aboutcustoms.Shehadnotevenremembered to bring herpassport. She heard UncleBob’svoiceasheliftedthetailgate. “It’s our lunchand our fishing gear in

casewegetachance.”Helaughed and told thecustoms official about thetrip. A hand gave Rose agood punch. Shewas suretheblanketsweregoingtobe yanked from her. Buttheyweren’t.“Haveagooddaythen,”the voice said cheerfully,and the tailgate wasslammed down. The frontdoorclosed,andtheywere

off.Theydrovealongmorewinding roads, until theblankets, the raincoats,and the smell of choppedeggs were too much forRose.Shesatup.“I think I’mgoing to besick.”“Good God!” shoutedUncleBob,andthestationwagon swerveddangerously.“Iam going to be sick,”

saidRose.UncleBobpulledovertothe side of the road. Samjumped out and threwopen the tailgate. Rosecreptoutofthecarandallbut fell into the ditchbeside the roadwhere shevomited noisily while theothers talked angrilyamongthemselves.“What I’d really like todo,” snapped Uncle Bob,

when Rose had recoveredsufficiently to listen tohim, “is leave you righthere, but there’s probablya law against it. What doyou suppose would havehappened to me, younglady, if the customs andimmigration people at theborderhadfoundyou?”“We would have said,‘That’s our picnic andthat’s our cousin,’ ” said

Sam.“AndhowdoyouthinkI

would have felt,”continued Uncle Bob,ignoring Sam, “and whatwouldyouhavedone?”“I have my passport at

home,”saidRose.“What on earth good

would that be? I—oh,never mind. Get in theback seat. We’ll have tofindaplacewherewecan

call your Aunt Nan. Shemight be worrying aboutyou, though right now Ican’timaginewhy.”Rose got into the backseat—as far from the eggsandwichesas shecould—and they drove in silenceuntil they came to avillage where there was astorewith a sign over thedoorthatreadTelephone.“You wait here,” said

Uncle Bob shortly, and heandGeorgewentinside.Rose sat very still,feeling ill but triumphant.Sam played his mouthorgan. Uncle Bob andGeorge came back withbottlesofpop.“Here.” Uncle Bobhandedherabottle.“AuntNanisveryunhappyaboutyou.”Noonesaidanythingelse to her for the whole

three hours it took to gettoOswego.At themotel,UncleBob

asked for an extra roomforRose.“I’llpay,”saidRose.“Don’tbefoolish,”Uncle

Bob said curtly. MeeklyRose followed him alongthe corridor and up theelevator.Upstairsinherroomshe

could hear the voices of

her cousins through thewall, exploding in wrathagainst her. She couldnotdistinguishtheirwords.Allshecouldhearwereangrytones swelling and fallinglikeastormysea.“I did it!” She smiledjubilantly at herself in themirror.“IdiditandIdon’tcarehowangrytheyare!”At supper she wascontenttositinthesilence

the boys maintainedtoward her. The motelstoodbesidetherivernearthe harbor mouth, andthrough the window shewatched a few smallfishing boats coming inandasailboatunfurlingitssailsinthesettingsun.After supper Uncle Bobinsistedthattheygetsomeexercise. The boyswouldn’t walk with Rose,

but Uncle Bob hadrecovered from his angerand he walked beside herand talked about clearingthe lake of chemicals andmaking the waters ofOntarioandNewYorksafefor wildlife. He saidnothing aboutherbeing astowaway.The river that flowedinto the harbor justbeyond their motel

appeared to divide thetown inhalf.Theywalkedup the hill to the eastalong wide streets linedwith trees and big oldhouses. It was a pleasant,sleepy-looking town. Rosecould not imagine Willgoing off to war in thisquietplace.“That must be FortOntario.” Uncle Bobpointed downhill toward

the harbor where a fewevenrooftopsshowedovera square embankment.“The brochure about thetown that came in myconference kit said that itwas used as a recruitingcenter during the CivilWar. That should interestyou, Rose. Weren’t youaskingabouttheCivilWartheothernight?Thefortisstill in use, but it’s a

museum and an archivesnow,too.”The next morning afterbreakfast Uncle Bob said,“You’reonyourownnow,kids.Anyonewhowantstocome and listen to thelectures is welcome.George, the one youwantis this afternoon.”Hewasso obviously pleased bythewaythingsweregoing,basking in the pleasure of

thecompanyofthepeoplehehadalreadymetonhiswayforhismorningpaper,that he beamed at thethree of them before helefttheroom.Assoonashehadgone,George turned on Rose.“Don’t think you’re goingtotagafterusallday.Boy,Ican’tseewhyyouhadtocome. Don’t you knowwhenyou’renotwanted?”

Helopedoutofthediningroom, turning once toassure himself that shewasn’t following. Samstoodup,hesitatedasifhemight be going to saysomething,butdidnotandfollowedGeorgeoutoftheroom.Rose waited for them

both to be out of sight.Then she headed for thefort. It was a bright

morning and sounseasonably warm thatshe did not need a coat.Indiansummer,UncleBobcalled it. The fort, whenshe reached it, was like ahollowed-out square on ahill overlooking theharbor. There were two-story square stonebuildingssetarounditlikesoldiers on permanentguard. The grounds were

neatlyclippedandeveninNovember still green. Atthe entrance a man wasselling tickets. Rose paidher money and asked toseethepersonincharge.“You can’t bother Mr.Ancaster.He’saverybusyman.”Theticketsellerwasshocked. Rose stood verystraight. “I’m Rose Larkinand I have to see Mr.Ancaster. I’m doing some

researchformyauntwho’swriting a book. She can’ttravel just now becauseshe’sgoingtohaveababysoon.” She said it withsuch assurance that theticket seller went off,shaking his head,muttering.Inaveryfewminuteshe

wasback.“Come on,” he said

curtly, and led the way

into the nearest building,upstairs to a small, dustyoffice cluttered with oldbooks and documents. Atall, thin, gray-hairedmangot up from his chair andintroducedhimself.“I’m, Charles Ancaster,thecuratorhere.WhatcanI do for you?” He wasclearlyamused.Rosetoldhimwhereshecame from and that Aunt

Nan was writing a truestory about a Canadianboy who had joined thearmy in Oswego duringtheCivilWar.“Sheneedsalist of the boys whowentfromtheisland.”“My dear child,” saidMr. Ancaster, “there wereover twelve thousandmenfrom Oswego County whofought in that war andthey were all mustered in

the city of Oswego. Someof them were from acrossthelake,buttheydidn’tallsay so. Can you be morespecific?Doyouknowthename of the boy you’relooking for? Whichrecruitingstationhemighthave gone to? Exactlywhen he joined up?Whathisregimentwas?”“His name was WilliamMorrissayandhejoinedin

1864,” saidRose,catchingherbreath. Itupsether tobe talking about Will likethis. It made such astrangerofhim.“Well, we can get outthe listsandhavea look.”Mr. Ancaster lookeddubious,buthewentovertoacupboardandbroughtout threehugeold leatherrecordbooksandputthemon the table that stoodby

the room’s only window.Fora longwhileRoseandMr. Ancaster scanned thelists of the names of themen and boys who hadenlisted to fight in theUnion army in 1864. Theonly sound in the roomwastheturningofthestiffoldpages.Then they found it. In

the beautiful script thatlistswerewrittenininthe

1860s,theinkbrownwithage,wasthenameWilliamMorrissay, age fifteen,fifer, 81st Infantry. Justabove it was StephenJerue, age fourteen, andthe place of residence, forbothofthem,wasgivenasthe city of Oswego. Rosefelt sudden sharp tears.There he was. There wasWill. And Stephen JeruemustbecousinSteve.

“Isn’t that interesting,”said Mr. Ancaster.“William Morrissay. Yousay he came from acrossthelake.Ofcoursealotofthem did and didn’t wantit known in case theirrelativesmightmakeafussaboutit.NotallCanadianswere sympathetic towardour cause. After all, thosepeople across the lakewere refugees from the

American Revolution andthat was only eighty-fiveyearsbeforetheCivilWar.I’ll just note that name.”Mr. Ancaster got out anotebook and quicklywrote down theinformation Rose gavehim.“HewasSteve’scousin.”“Stephen Jerue,” Mr.

Ancasterread,“adrummerandafifer.”

“Will played the flute.”Rosesuspectedthecuratorwould not especiallywanttoknow that,but shewasso eager to share withsomeone the knowledgethat Will had really beenthere that she had to sayit.“Well, I suppose theywouldhavebeengladofaboy who had someknowledge of an

instrument, althoughplaying the flute andplaying the fife are twovery different things, youknow.Iseetheybothwentwiththe81st.”“The81st?”“The81stregiment.Theregiment was home onleave in January of ’64.They’dbeenthroughsomerough battles. They hadfirst formedup inJanuary

of ’62, and they’d seenactionprettysteadilyrightfrom the start—Bottom’sRidge, Seven Pines,Malvern’sHill. They camehome for a rest and togather recruits, so Isuppose that’s when yourfellowjoinedup.”“Oh, no! It was later

because there were budsonthetrees—”Mr. Ancaster chuckled.

“You sound as thoughyou’dbeenthere.”Rose nearly said, “I

was,” but she recoveredherself. “We read it in adiary.”“I’d like to see that

diary. Itmight be helpful,fill in some of the blanksinourrecords.”“Er … um.…” Rose

shifted her weight fromonefoottotheother.“You

see, it was Susan’s diary,really, and it doesn’t sayanything else about thewar. Are there any liststhat would saywhenWillcamehome?”They looked throughthree more books of listsand did not find eitherSteve’sorWill’sname.“Does that mean theywere killed?” asked Roseinasmallvoice.

“Not necessarily. Thelists are incomplete. Infact, if you or your auntare researching this boy,I’d appreciate finding outfor our records what didhappen to him. All thismeans is that they didn’tmuster out here whenmostoftheregimentdid.”“What does mustermean?”“It’s a military word.

Means to gather troops.They’re mustered whenthey’reformedandthey’remusteredforpay,sickcall,and when they’redisbanded.Yourboymightpossibly have run off,too…skedaddledwasthewordused for that”—Rosedid not think Will wouldhave skedaddled—“buttheymay have been ill orwounded and, of course,

theymayhavebeenkilled.The81stfoughtinsomeofthe war’s worst battlesafter February ’64. Theywere at Cold Harbor andlost two-thirds of theirnumber there. They wereat Petersburg, Chaffin’sBluff, and the siege of theConfederate capital atRichmond. They took aterriblebeating.Yourauntcan find the details of

thosebattlesinanyhistoryof the Civil War, but youcan give her this.” Hehanded Rose a booklettitledOswegoCounty in theCivilWar.“There’salotofuseful information in it.Andtellhertogetintouchwith me if she needsanythingmore.Wouldyoulike to take along aphotocopyofthenames?”She left Mr. Ancaster’s

office,herheadfullofthethings he had told her,with the photocopy thatsaid Will Morrissay hadjoined the Union Army inOswegoin1864heldtightin her hand. She walkedfor some time, trying toimaginethetownasithadbeen for Will. She satdownon a low stonewalland looked at thephotocopy with Will’s

name. Then she took thescrapof a songoutofherpocket. She unwrapped itcarefully, studying thenotesshecouldnotread.

“What’sthatsong?”Rose went cold andcrammedthesongbackin

her pocket. Sam wasstanding in front of her,hishandsbehindhisback.“I didn’t see you.” Rose

swallowedhard,tryingnottoshowhernervousness.“CanIsitdown?”“It’snotmywall.”Sam didn’t move. “I’m

sorry,”hesaidabruptly.“What for? That this

isn’tmywall?”“No, I’m sorry I’vebeen

suchapigtoyou.”Rose looked up at him

fora second.His facewasalmost as red as his hairand he was gazingsteadfastlyathisfeet.“Oh, well, I.…” Rose

was trying to say withcarelessdisdain,“Ihaven’tnoticedthatyou’vebeenapig,”buthervoice startedto croak and she couldn’tget the words out. Sam’s

apology was sounexpected.“This is what

happened,” said Sam, stillnot looking at her.“Mother and Iwere goingto Italy—toFlorence—so Icouldlookatpaintingsandsculpture. She promisedmewecouldgo,agesago,one time when I won aprize for a painting. Shesaid if she ever got a big

chunkofmoneyallatonceshe’d take me, and eversince then I’ve read allsorts of books aboutFlorence. Then this springshewonaprizeandsomemoney for a book shewrote, and she said wecould go in the fall. Shesaid it would be the besttime, when all the othertouristswerebackhome.Icould stay out of school

and we could go for amonth. On purpose shedidn’t start another book.Then your grandmotherdiedandyourauntwhat’s-her-namephonedandsaidcould you come and livewith us, and Mom said,yes,ofcourse.Shesaidshecouldn’tverywell sayyoucould come, then takeright off for Florence. Sowe used themoney to fix

up the kitchen and someother things—and I wasmad. I guess I’ve beenreally rotten. Yesterdaywhenyou threwup in theditch, first I thought youwereawfulthenIthought,what if it was me? So IstartedthinkingabouthowmeanI’dbeentosaythosethings. And anyway, Ididn’t mean to say themwhere you could hear

and … well, I’m sorry,that’sall.”Rose had never before

beenthecauseofsomeonehaving to do withoutsomething reallyimportant. For her, goingto Italy wasn’t anythingspecial, but she could seethat for Sam it was adream. Having been keptforthreeweeksfromgoingback to Will and Susan,

she knew the pain of thatkindofdisappointment.“Icanseewhyyouhate

me,”shesaid.“I’dhatemeif I really wanted to gosome place and I camealong and wouldn’t letme.”“I don’t hate you. Not

anymoreanyhow.”“It’s all right. I mean,

I’m glad if you don’t hateme anymore, but I know

you can’t likeme either. Idon’tmind.”“What do you mean?

Whycan’tIlikeyou?”“Nobodydoes.”“That’s dumb. People

likeyou.”“No,theydon’t.”“Ido.”“No,youdon’t.”“Idon’t?”“No. Nobody does. It’s

because I don’t belong

here.”“Don’t belong here?Whatdoyoumean?” Samhad got over hisawkwardness.Hesatdownon the stone wall besideRose.“I don’t belong here,”she repeated. “I figured itout a long time ago. I.…”She stopped and lookeddown at her hands, herfingers nervously

entwined. Sam’s sudden,unexpected offer offriendship had filled herwithanoverpoweringrushof gratitude and animmediateurge to confidein him—to give himsomething in return.“I … Sam, if I tell yousomething, will youpromisenottotellanyoneelse?”“Sure.”

“Doyoupromise?”“Ipromise.”Rose told him the story

ofMrs.Morrissay,therootcellar,andSusanandWill.Then she showed him thephotocopy of Will’s nameand took the crumpledsongoutofherpocketandshowedhimthat.Sam got up. He paced

back and forth in front ofher, his hands first

swinging wildly at hissides, then pushingthrough his hair until itstoodonendlikethequillsof a porcupine. Finally hestopped in front of her.“Okay,”hesaid,“IadmitIthoughtIsawaghostthatonemorningandIadmititdid look like an oldlady”—he swallowed—“infact, sort of like the oldlady you’re talking about,

and it wasn’t just asilhouette. Ionly said thatto steerMomoff. Itwasafaceandeverything,butitcould have been shadowsand so could yours. Allthat other stuff about therootcellarandgoingbackin time—that’s crazy. Buteven if it were absolutelytrue,itwouldn’tmeanyoubelonged there. Youbelong here. You belong

withus.You’reourcousin.Even if you are anAmerican.” Sam grinned.“But that’s okay. Mymother’sanAmerican too,remember? Your fatherwas my mother’s brother.His name was DavidLarkin, and there’s apicture of him on mymother’s dresser. I’ll showyouwhenwe get home. Idon’tknowwhyyouthink

peopledon’tlikeyou.Whyshouldn’t they, unless”—Samcametoahaltinfrontof Rose—“unless it’sbecauseyoudon’t like therest of us very much.You’re not exactly thefriendliest person in theworld,youknow.”Sam stopped. Rose saidnothing. She was toostunned. David Larkin—she had never thought

about her father as a realperson, someone whomight even be in aphotograph, someoneother people knew about.She feltacurious senseofshock. “Come on,” sheheard Sam saying, “it’sgetting cold. Let’s go findsomething to eat. Howmuch money have yougot?”Rose searched her

pockets and found acoupleofdollarsandsomechange. She got up fromthewallandtogethertheywalkeddownthehill.Samasked if she would showhim Will’s song, and heplayeditonhisharmonicaastheywalked.Pricklesstoodoutonthe

back of Rose’s neck andalong her arms, listeningto Sam play Will’s song.

Shestoppedandclosedhereyes and put her handstightly to her face, tryingto hold the world still, soswiftlydid it seem to spinand whirl. Through thenotes Rose heard again inher head the sharp, sweettones of the wood thrush.Samstoppedandlookedatherinalarm.“Yourfaceiswhite as paper. Are youokay?”

“Yes.” Rose clenchedand unclenched her handsin her pockets, and in amoment she felt better.After a few minutes shebegan to hum the song,thinking about Will andaboutherunknownfather.Eventually they found

themselvesonwhatlookedtobeanoldstreetthatranalong the water. It waslined with weathered

buildings, most of themcrooked and leaningagainst each other asthough seeking comfortagainstthewindthatevenon this balmy day carriedwith it a chill from thelake. There were shopsalong one side, and acheerful-lookingrestaurantwith a geranium in thewindow invited them tocome inside. They ate

muffins and drank cidertogether. Sam told Rosewhat he knew of herfather, which was onlythat Aunt Nan had lovedhim very much. Roselistened, bemused. Thenshetriedtoexplaintohimaboutherownlifeingreatcitiesaroundtheworld.“No wonder you thinknobody likes you,” saidSam after a while, “if the

onlypeople youknowarethose aunts and uncles.You don’t know anypeople, not kids, notordinary people. You’rejust lucky your father hada sister and she had kidsandthey’reus.”“I guess so,” said Rose,

but she was too confusedin her mind to thinkclearly about that or anyofwhatSamhadsaidthat

afternoon. It had upseteverything she’d alwaysthought true, and it wasrather wonderful but shedidn’t trust it. In fact, shedidn’t really believe thatSamdidn’thateher.But all the way home

thenextday,Rosethoughtaboutwhat Samhad said,and she felt thebeginningof a warm feeling insideher.

Whentheyarrived,AuntNanwaswaitingforthem.

T

TheAccident

he car had hardlystopped in the

drivewaybeforeAuntNanwas out through thekitchen door and acrossthe yard. Rose got out to

meether,knowingshewasgoing to be scolded. Shewas not prepared for thehurtandrage thatgreetedher.Aunt Nan’s face waswhite and her eyes werered and swollen. She wasin a greater state ofdisarray than Rose hadever seen her. Her hairlooked like an owl’s nest,herskirtwashangingway

down at the back whereshe had not done it upproperly, and her sweaterwasoninsideout.“You must be the most

difficult child the worldhas ever known,” she saidin low, angry, carefullymeasured tones. “You’reungrateful, inconsiderate,selfish, and cruel. AfteryourUncleBobphonedonThursday I could hardly

believemyears.Youknewit was a special outing. Itold you so myself. Areyou so used to doingabsolutely everything youwant that you had to goskulkinginthebackofthestation wagon to ruin thetrip for Sam and Georgeand Uncle Bob? And allyou left me was this. Iwouldneverhavefounditif I hadn’t started to feel

sorry for you. I wentupstairs this morning togetyourdirtylaundryandthereitwas!”ThereweretearsinAunt

Nan’s eyes by this time,and she shoved a piece ofpaper under Rose’s nosethat Rose recognized asher monogrammedstationery—the letter shehad written to AuntMillicent and never sent.

Shehadforgottenallaboutit.“CanyouimaginehowI

felt?” Aunt Nan had losthercarefulcontrolandhervoice was rising witheveryword. “Canyou justimagine? Well, Miss RoseLarkin, I’ll tell youwhat Idid. Iwent straight to thephone and called yourAuntMillicentandshewasvery upset. She said she

couldn’timaginewhathadgotten into you. She saidshe didn’t know what todo. She’d have to talk toArnold and Stella andphone me back. I don’tknowwhattodowithyou.I’veneverbeensoupsetinmywholelife.Butyoucanjust be sure someone willfindyouaniceorphanagesomewhere!”AuntNanhadrunoutof

steam.Tearswerepouringdownherfaceandshewasgripping Rose’s arm asthough Rose were a wildanimal fighting to getloose.ButRosestoodstill,utterly shaken. She hardlyfeltthepainofAuntNan’sfrenziedgrip.Shecouldn’tspeak.“Nan, Nan, what’s this

all about?” demandedUncle Bob. “Let me see

that paper.” He loosenedAunt Nan’s fingers fromthe now crumpled, tear-soaked paper. The boysstood in awed silence.Aunt Nan let go of Rose’sarm and reached for herhandkerchief. Rosethought she was going tohitherandleapedbackinfright. She slipped, fell,pickedherselfupand inapanic started to run

toward the back of thehouse.All she could thinkof was the safety of therootcellar.“No, you don’t,” cried

Aunt Nan. “You’re notrunning off. You can juststay right here and facethe music, you littlecoward”—and she lungedafter her. She ran a fewsteps, slid on a patch ofwet leaves, her feet went

out from under her, andshe fell flat on her back.For a moment nobodymoved. Then Uncle Bobwas kneeling beside her.“Rose,” murmured AuntNanandfainted.“Callthedoctor,”barked

Uncle Bob. White-faced,Sam ran into the house.AuntNanopenedhereyes.“ThankGod,”saidUncle

Bob. “Now lie absolutely

still. I don’t think youshouldmoveuntilDr.Bestgetshere.”Thetwinshadstartedto

cry and George wasangrily telling them toshut up. Rose, halfway tothe corner of the house,hadturnedandinanguishwatched the scene asthough it were happeningatagreatdistance.Georgeturned to glare

murderously at her, butotherwisenoonepaidheranyattention.Dr. Best was not longgetting there. She lookedAunt Nan over carefully,felt for broken bones, gother to stand up, andwithUncle Bob’s help led herintothehouse.After she had goneGeorge turned on Rose.“Are you crazy or

something?” he yelled.“Youcould’vekilledMom.You’re the most selfishperson in the wholeworld!”The twins stared from

Rose to George and backagain, their faces solemn,their eyes big and roundand frightened. Sam cameoutthroughthedoor.“Comeon,youguys,”he

said to the twins. “Mom’s

okay.Thedoctor’sintheretalking toher and I heardthem laughing. You wantto play race cars? Youcome too.” He turnedtowardRose.“No,” said Rose

hoarsely.“Come on,” he said,

coming over to her. “Itwasn’t your fault. Momgets like that sometimes.She goes hairy. That’s all

this is. The doctor saysshe’sokay.Comeon.”“No.”“Well,all right,but—all

right.” Sam went insidethe house. With onewithering look, Georgefollowedthem.“She’s going to die,”

Rosewhispered to herself.“She’sgoingtodieandthebaby’sgoingtodieandit’smy fault.” She had not

movedfromwhereshehadstopped half an hourbefore, when Aunt Nanhad fallen. She could notmove, her legs would notcarry her. The scenereplayeditselfinhermind—the shouts and shrieks,her breaking loose fromAunt Nan’s clutch, AuntNanrunningafterherandthe fall, over and overagain,thefall.

The doctor came out ofthe house. At last Rosemoved.“Please,” she said, “is

AuntNangoingtodie?”“Oh,no, of coursenot,”

said Dr. Best. She was asmall, sturdy woman whoin her brisk movementsexuded a sense ofconfidence. “No, she’sgoingtobefine,thebaby’sgoing tobe fine.Theonly

problem is that she’swrenched her back andshe’sgoingtohavetostayinbedforatleastamonth.As long as she’s carefulshe’ll be fine. You’ll allhave to help. Don’t youworry.”“Thank you, thank you

verymuch,”saidRose,andwithout stopping to saygood-bye she ran aroundthe corner of the house

and threw herself to theground beside the rootcellardoors.“I don’t care,” she saidagainandagaintoherself.“She’sallrightandIdidn’tkillher.Shehatesme,butshe’sgoingtobeallright.Ididn’t kill her. Sam’swrong.Idon’tbelonghere.Idon’t.”Shewassoconsumedbyher own misery that she

almost let the shadow ofthethorntreeslippasttheopening between thedoors. Just in time shejumped up and ran downthesteps.

R

WhentheWindComesUp

osesniffedthesummerair hungrily. But she

didn’thavethestrengthofspirit to go looking forSusan. Instead, she satdown and clasped her

hands tightly around herknees and put her headdown. The words stillpounded in her head:“ungrateful, inconsiderate,selfish, cruel.” “Youcould’ve killed Mom.”Then she heard againSam’s voice: “Not exactlythe friendliest person intheworld,youknow.”Sheshuddered and tried topush thevoicesoutofher

mind but still theyhammeredather.“Ididn’tkill her,” she whispered.“I’m not going back thereever, if I get to be threehundred and seventy-fiveyearsold.Never!”“Rose?”saidSusan’ssoft

voice. “Rose, are yousick?”Rose looked up. “Oh,

Susan,” she said and, forthe first time she could

ever remember, she burstinto tears. “I didsomething really awfuland Aunt Nan almostdied.” Through her tearsshe told Susan what hadhappened.When she had finishedtherewasasilencethattoRose seemed filled withhershameandunkindness.Then Susan said, “Well, Idon’t see you been so

terrible bad. I don’tsupposeyououghttohavestowed away in the cart,but it ain’t such a terriblething. The letter was toobad. You wrote it whenyouwasmad.Youcanseehow it would be a hardthing to come across. Andbesides, your aunt’spregnant and sometimesthat makes a personchancy. Even cats and

cows when they’repregnant can be someupset.Notthatyouhavetobe pregnant to have achancytemper.Iguessyouain’t used to hearingpeople get riled like that.From what you say, yourgranneverdid.”“No,shedidn’t.”“Well, it seems to me

yourauntisonewhodoes.You’llgetusedtoit.When

you go back there you’llfeellotsbetter.”“I’m not going back.Ever!”“Oh,Rose,ofcourseyouwill! Them folks is good.You’ll catch on to how toget on with ’em.” Susanpushed back a strand ofherbrightbrownhairandsmiled.Rosesighedquaveringly.Susan’ssoothingvoiceand

kind words at leastrestored her to calm. Sheremembered why she hadcome. She fished into thepocket of her jeans forWill’s song and handed itto Susan. “Did it work?”she asked eagerly. “HowlonghaveIbeengone?”“It’s a week since you

comelast.”Rose breathed a happy

sigh. “It’s a week for me,

too.”Susan gave the song

back to Rose. “You betterkeep it for now.Will saidyou brought good luckwhenhewantedsobadtotalk to the birds. And itworked tobringyounow,somebbe,ifyoukeepit,itwill bring us both luck,andWill,too.”“Then you keep my

rose.” Rose put the song

backinherpocket.“Susan,IsawWill’snameonalistin Oswego.” She told herabout Mr. Ancaster andFortOntario.Susan had only one

thing to say. “He didn’tfindnolistthatsaidwhentheycomeback.”“No, but he said that

didn’t mean they didn’tcome. It only means theydidn’t comewhenmost of

theothersdid.Susan,whatwe have to do is go toOswegoandfindout.”Theideahadsailedinto

Rose’shead so swiftlyandneatly thatshehadhardlytimetonoticeitbeforethewords were out. “I had abooklet,butIleftitinthecar with the copy of thelist. It told where all thebattles were. I canremember quite a lot of

them.Butwecan findoutmore ifwe goover to thefort again. They’ll know.And we can go to seeStephenJerue’sfamily.”“Rose,wecan’tdothat!”“Whynot?”“It’stoofar.”“It isn’t. I’vebeenthere.

I’ve just come back fromthere.”“I never been farther

thanSoames.Ican’tgo.”

“Susan, what if Will issickorwoundedandcan’tget home and can’t let usknow, and they could tellus at the fort where tolook? Maybe StephenJerueishomealreadyandhecantellus.”Susanlookeddoubtful.“What if not goingmeans we never see Willagain?”“I’llgo,”saidSusan.Her

eyes were large andfearful. She clasped andunclasped her handsnervously. “I’ll go,” sherepeated. “But whatever’sthemissusgoingtosay?”“It’s for Will, isn’t it?

We’ll go across LakeOntario on one of thoseschooners and we’ll findtheJerues.I’msurethey’llhelp us. Thenwe’ll find—Susan, we don’t have any

money!”“Igotsome.”“Gogetit.”Although she was now

three years younger thanSusan, Rose suddenlyrealized that she, notSusan, knew what had tobe done this time. Sheknewthat shehad to takechargenowor theywouldneverleaveHawthornBay,never find Will, never be

abletofaceanydangerordifficulty that might lieahead. It was as thoughSusan, too, understood.She hesitated for amoment, then ran off intothehouse.She was gone long

enough for the last of theafternoon to fade intoevening. An oriole trillinghis three liquid notesflitted higher and higher

intotheshadowyleavesofthe big maple tree. Achipmunk scurried alongthe rail fence thatseparated thegarden fromthe rest of the back yard.Susan came out of thekitchen.Her facewas stiffandwhite.Hermouthwasset in a straight line.“Will’s ma’s raising anawful ruckus, crying andcarrying on about how

Will wouldn’t never havegoneifitwasn’tforSteve’sbadinfluence.AsifanyonecouldmakeWillMorrissaydo a thing he hadn’t themindto.”“Does that mean you

won’tgo?”“I’mcomingand,what’s

more, Imadeher givemefiveYankeedollars.”Susanopened her fist andshowed Rose a handful of

money. “And I got more.Atthebottomofmytrunk.Forty dollars—Yankee,too. Ma and Pa saved itfromtheirwedding trip intheStatesandleftitformeto getmarriedwith, but Ifigure mebbe this is moreimportant.”“Thenwecango.Allwe

havetodoisgetarideonaship.”“First thing in the

morningwe can go on uptoJamieHeaton’s.Likeasnot they’ve got a loadgoing to Oswego. Rose,would you mind sayingyou was a boy, like meandWill thought the firsttimewesawyou?”“Why?”“Well, you know. Boysget paid more mind toand, what’s more, I’d besafer.”

“Howcome?”“Folks will think I gotprotection. And, anyway,nobody’d believe you’re agirl in them britches andyourhairallcutoff.”“All right. I don’t care.You can say my name isDavid.”Rose slept that night inthe barn. Shewas up andready when Susan cameforheratdawn.Susanhad

on a blue and whitecheckered dress and asmall black bonnetwith apink flower in it. Shelooked neat and pretty.She was carrying Rose’sovernightbaginonehandand in the other a smallsquare straw one of herown.GratefullyRosetookher

bag. “I forgot I left ithere,”shesaid.

They took turns rowingup the bay, eating breadand cheese as they went.They startled a big blueheron away from hisbreakfast. He gronkedcrosslyat themashe tookoff, his huge wingspumpingupanddownlikesome great prehistoricbird. From somewherebehind thema looncalledinhishighflutteringtones.

“It isn’t like any otherplaceinthewholeworld,”sighed Rose. Susannodded.Within tenminutes theyheard men’s voices andsoonpulledintosightofawharf where a smallsailing ship was beingloadedwithgrain.“It’s Arn Colliver. Iexpect he’ll take us,” saidSusan.Hervoicewastight

and nervous. “CaptainColliver,” she called,shipping the oars andtying the boat to thewharf. “If you’re going toOswego,meandmyfriend—David—wanttosailwithyou.”Sheclimbedupontothewharf.Rosescrambledafter. “Will, he ain’t comehome yet from the warand I figure to go lookingforhim.”

“Well now, SusanAnderson, can you trim asail?” asked the captain.Without waiting for ananswer he walked awayfromthemdowntheplankintotheship.“Isn’thegoingtotellus

ifwecancome?”Rosewasworried.“He’lltakeus.Whenthe

wind comes up.” Susanperched tensely on the

edge of a large woodenbox. Rose followed suit,watching the short bulkyfigure of Captain Colliverashemovedabouton thedeck of the ship,overseeing the loading ofthegrainfromthewagonsdrawnuptothewharfandfor half a mile behind. Itwas a long, low shipwiththree masts and a singlecabin on the deck. The

grain was being loadedinto the hold below. Oneby one the wagons wereemptied, the farmers“geed, hawed” and“giddapped” their horses,leaving the captain, andthe three boys and theman who made up hiscrew,tolevelthegrain.“That’s Billy Foster andJoe Heaton and I don’tknow theotherboy.Hank

Bother’s the cook,” Susantold Rose. “The two boysbelongtoourChurch.ThatBilly Foster was an awfulone for making troublewhenhewasalittlefeller.Him and Will’s brotherAdam, they was a pair ofterribleteasers.Ifithadn’tof been for Will there’stimesImighthaverunoff.I come to Morrissays towork when I was nine.

Them boys made thingsmiserableforme.Iusedtohide back in Bothers’woodsandWill,he’dcomeand find me and makeAdamleaveoff.”The sun got hotter and

hotter as they talked.Finally,justbeforenoon,abreeze started up andCaptain Colliver came outof the cabin. “All right,lads,” he called. “Looks

like a wind’s coming up.Let’sgetgoing.”Heshooedaway several cats and alarge dog and nodded atRose and Susan. “Comeaboard,youtwo.”“Thishere’sDavid,”saidSusan. Captain Collivernoddedbrusquelybut saidnothing. “Island folks islikethat,”SusantoldRoselater.“Theydon’tpry intoa body’s business though

they’re busting to knowthings.”Thegirlswentdownthegangplank into theschoonerand satdownona coil of rope. With thecaptainatthewheelgivingorders, the three boysuntied the ropes that heldthe ship and with longpoles pushed away fromthe wharf. They driftedslowly out into the lake

and hoisted a sail. As thewind caught the sail thecaptain straightened theschooner,theboyshoistedthe remaining sails, andtheywereaway.There was the odor of

fish,themustyscentofthegrainbelow,andthesharpsmell of fresh coffeebrewinginthecabin.Rosefelt the cool wind againsther back, lifting the hot

hair from her head. Shesmiled at Susan. WeaklySusansmiledback.At noon they ate pork

and onions and potatoesand rhubarb pie. By thistime the neighbor boyshad made Susanacquainted with RobertJames, an Oswego boywho said he knew Will’scousin Steve. While theyate,Robert spokeof Steve

and the other boys whohad gone to fight in thewar. “The regiments havebeen coming home sinceApril,” he said, with awein his voice. “We’ve beenhaving some mightycelebrations for them.The147th come in July andthere wasn’t more than ahundredandforty-sevenofthemtocomeneither.The110thain’thomeyet.”

“What about the 81st?”askedRosetensely.“Is that them SteveJeruewentoffwith?Theywastheonesthatwasfirstinto Richmond. They tooka company of coloredswith them. It must havebeen something for themcolored fellers to marchinto that rebel town andraise the old stars andstripesoverit!Boy,Iwish

I’dbeenthere!”“What do you mean,‘colored’?”askedRose.“Theslaves.”“Oh. Have they comehomeyet?”Rosepersisted.“I believe they comehome only the other day,butIain’ttalkedtoanyofthemyet.”Rose and Susan lookedquicklyateachother,thenas quickly looked away,

their eyes saying maybe,maybe,notdaringmore.AfterdinnerSusan,whohad got over her initialnervousness, insisted thatsheandRosehelp,sotheyscraped and washed thetincupsandplates.The voyage took allnight. Wrapped inblankets, Rose and Susanslept on deck. Rose wokeonce in the night. She

heard the water slappingagainst the sides of theship and the ropescreaking as they pulled intheirblocks.Shelookedupandsawtheimmenseblue-black sky sprinkled withbright stars and fell backto sleep, wondering if thewhole adventure was adream.Inthemorningshewoketo find they had reached

Oswego harbor. To theeast was Fort Ontario.Farther in along thewaterfront werewarehouses and hugegrain elevators. In thedistance, church spiresrose high over the town.The harbor was full ofbarges, tug boats, andsailingshipsatanchor.“Here, give a hand tohaul in on this.” Robert

Jamesthrewheranendofrope.Shouldertoshoulderwith the boys, she leanedback, her feet apart, andpulled with all herstrength as the schoonerslidupagainstthewharf.After they had docked,Robert offered to guidethemtotheJerues.“That’sgood of you,” said Susangratefully. When sheoffered passage money to

Captain Colliver, hepushed her hand asidegently. “Many’s the sail IhadwithBobMorrissayinhisday. Iguess Icanhelpoutwherehisboyfigures.”Susannodded.They followed Robertalong Water Street whereRose and Sam had hadlunch in the restaurantwith thepinkgeraniuminthe window. The street

was crowded. Womenwore long, wide hoopskirts, with shawls overtheir shoulders and strawbonnets on their heads.Men had narrow-leggeddark suits, high shirtcollars,andontheirheadstall silk hats or flat strawones.Rosewas fascinated,but there was no time tostop and look. Robertwovehisway through the

morning crowd of dockworkersandshoppers,likea needle darting throughcloth. They caught only aglimpse of the coal yards,the starch company, androwsofinteresting-lookingshopsastheyflewby.Robert stopped at thebridge that spanned theriver dividing the town.“Wehad a banquet here,”he said proudly. “Right

here on the bridge. Whenthe 127th come home.They was so badly donethewholetowngavethemabanquet.Therewasneartwo thousand people allsittingatonelongtable.Itran the full length of thebridge. My dad says weain’tlikelytoseeanythinglikeiteveragain.”They crossed the bridgeandwalkedawayfromthe

center of town up alongstreets that Roseremembered from herwalkwith Uncle Bob. Shelooked over at Susan totell her and saw Susan’spale, set face. With hereyes she followed whereSusan was looking andrealized, for the first time,how many soldiers therewere.While she had beencaughtupinthewonderof

Oswego and the people intheircurious1865clothes,Susan had been watchingforWillineveryface.Andshe had forgotten. Andthereweresomany—somemarching smartly alongwith a wife or mother,their uniforms fresh andspruce, others in fadeduniforms, their facesdrawn and hollow-eyed,others without an arm or

leg—somany,andshetoobegantosearcheveryface,trembling with therealization that the warover might not mean thatWillwasallright.About halfway along awide, shady street theycame to a huge, brownclapboard house with ascreened porch around itandflowersalongitswalk.“Here’s Jerues’,” said

Robert.“Ididn’tknow theywasrich,” said Susan insurprise.“It’sabighouse.”“Theykeepboarders.”At that moment awoman came out of thehouseanddownthesteps,carryingashoppingbasketonherarm.Shewasatall,stout woman with acomfortable kitcheny-lookingface.Shehadona

bright purple flowereddresswithahoopsolargethedressstuckoutatleasta footandahalf fromherbody all around. On herhead was a large yellowstraw bonnet decoratedwith velvet daisies andbright red cherries. “Youlooking for someone?”sheasked.“We’ve come to findWillMorrissay,”saidRose.

“Will?”“I’m Susan Anderson,

Mrs.Jerue.”Susansteppedforward nervously. “Youknow me. I works forMorrissays over toHawthornBayinCanada.”“My land, child! Of

course I know you. Whaton earth are you doinghere?”“We’ve come to find

Will,”repeatedRose.

“Will?” said Mrs. Jerueinbewilderment.“Whyareyou looking for Will?Where’shegone?”“We thought since Willand your son Steve joinedthe army together, maybethey came hometogether?”Agroupof childrenhadcollected on the sidewalk.Robert James said good-bye andwent off.Nobody

noticed.“You mean to say thatmynephewWillMorrissaywent and joined up? Andneversaidawordaboutit,and Stevie neither? Noteven in oneof his letters?Oh,myland.Itmusthavenearlykilledhismother.”“Ain’t theyhere?”askedSusanfaintly.“There, now.” Mrs.Jerueputherarmsaround

Susan and hugged hertightly.“Thewar’sbeenanawful grief to us all. Wehad letters regular up toFebruary. Then theystopped. The regimentcomehome lastweek andthe adjutant says there’sboys still to come who’vebeenwoundedortooksickor had special dutieswithanother regiment. He saysStevetooksickandthathe

got a wound. But”—hervoice faltered—“hecouldn’t tell me nothingmore. I didn’t know, ofcourse, to ask about Will.Oh, imagine those boysdoing that and not tellingasoul.Anyway,hesaidhewassorrytosayhehadn’tseenhidenorhairofStevesince they was inRichmond. Come to thinkof it,now I recallhe said,

‘those boys,’ but I didn’tpay much mind at thetime. Then he said we’dhave towait, that’s allwecan do, and, my sweetlamb, that’s all I can tellyou.” Mrs. Jerue took alarge handkerchief fromhersleeveandwipedawayatear.“We won’t wait,” saidRose. “We came here tofind Will. If he’s in

Richmondwe’llhavetogothere.”“Oh, no, son, you can’t

go to Richmond!” Mrs.Jerue was aghast. “Why,Richmond’s away downsouth hundreds of milesfrom here, and what’smore,it’sallburnedout.Isuppose you don’t hearabout those things acrossthelake.Therebelsburnedout the city the night

before our soldiersmarched in. And there’ssickness and desperatepeople. Desperate peopleall through the south, Idaresay. You can’t godown there by yourself, adelicate little fellow likeyou.”“Not by myself,” saidRose firmly. “Susan and Iaregoingtogether.”“Well, now.”Mrs. Jerue

was somewhat takenaback. “You’re a rightforward little mite, aren’tyou? What’s your name,son?”“David Larkin. I comefromNewYorkCity.I…Iran awaywhenmy fatherandbrotherswerekilledinthe war and my motherhadtogoouttowork.Butthe war’s over now andSusan said she’d take me

home.”“I must say you’re aplucky little fellow. Youcan’t be too much olderthan Charlie here.” Mrs.Jerueputherhandonthecurlybrownheadofaboystanding beside her. Helookedtobeabouteight.“I’m twelve,” declaredRose.“Land sakes! Aren’t yousomething! Your mother

willbeinastateoveryou.She’s lost all those boys,andforallsheknowsshe’slostyou,too.Yououghtn’tto have run off like that.Well, there’s trains everyday to New York andthere’ll be no trick tofinding someone goingthere who’ll take youalong and see you findyourmother.Fornowyoujust stay with us. And

Susan,you’llhavetogoonhome. Who brought youover?”“ArnColliver.”“Arn don’t usually stay

more than a day, so youcan likely go back withhiminthemorning.Comealong inside, the both ofyou, now and have awash-upandabitetoeat.”Rosehadnot figuredon

Mrs. Jerue being difficult.

“We can’t go back yet,”she insisted stubbornly.“WehavetofindWill.Weneedtogoseethatcaptainyoutalkedtoatthefort.”“I declare I never sawthe likes of you!” Mrs.Jerueputherhandsonherhips and blinked down atRose. “You can’t go toRichmond, son. I’d neversleep a wink nightsworrying about you. It’s

bad enough in the northwith soldiers on the looseall over the countryside—ohmy, no, the good Lordwouldn’t give me aminute’speace if I letyougo. But I don’t supposethere’s any harm in yougoingonup to the fort totalk to Captain Prentiss ifit’ll settle your minds.After dinner, Charlie herecanshowyoutheway.”

Huffing and puffingfrom heat and exertion,Mrs. Jerue led the wayinto the house. Thechildren Rose had takenforneighborsturnedouttobe the seven small Jerueboys. Whispering andstaring,carefulnottomissathingthatwasgoingon,theyfollowed.Asmall,fatcocker spaniel waddledafter.

“Andyoukeepsboardersalongwithalltheseyoungones?” Susan wasincredulous.“Oh my, yes. Thechildren fit neat as pinsinto the sparecornersandthemendon’tmindatall.They’re mostly sailorsfrom over your way.Mother kept boardersbeforeme.That’showBobMorrissay come to marry

my sister Patty and tookherofftoCanada.”AsshetalkedMrs.Jeruesqueezed herself down anarrow hall and into alarge sunnykitchenat thebackofthehouse.Itwasabig square room with alarge scrubbed woodentable in the middle.Between the tall windowsatthebackwasabigblackwoodstove.Totherightof

it was a stairway and apantry beyond. ItremindedRoseofoldTomBother’s kitchen withouttheclutter.“Now you”—Mrs. Jerue

sethershoppingbasketonthe table—“you get alongtothewashroomandwashup the dirt. Outhouse isout back if you need it.”She took off her bonnetand shook out her fading

blond ringlets. She turnedto the stairway andshouted in a voice thatwould have served a drillsergeantwell,“Girls!”Feet pounded. Three

girls, from about nine tofourteen years of age, indresses made from thesameblueclothwithwhitepinaforesoverthem,camedownthestairs.“Sally, Jenny, Louisa,

this is Susan Andersonfrom your Aunt Patty’sacrossthelake.It’sawhilesince you been there; youmaynotrememberSusan.”The girls all smiled. “Andthishere’sDavid.”Infifteenminutes,undertheir mother’s watchfulsupervision, the girls hadput a meal on the table:enormous plates of coldchicken, potato salad,

lettuce, tomatoes, freshrolls, and fresh peacheswith cream so thick Mrs.Jerue had to spoon it on.She said a quick blessing,the children scraped theirchairs,nudgedeachother,shushed each other loudlyand giggled throughoutthe meal. The cockerspaniel watched everymouthful eagerly,obviously expecting a

share.“Well, now, I expect it

will setPatty’smindmoreatresttooifyouwastogoup to the fort and talk toCaptain Prentiss.” Mrs.Jerue got up from thetable. “Charlie,” she said.Gleefully Charlie detachedhimself from the group.“Follow me,” hecommanded.The day was sultry.

There was no breeze andpeople were walkingslowly, some of themfanning themselves withnewspapers or fans.Charlie marched alongsmartly while Rose andSusan kept pace half ablockbehind.“She’sright,”saidSusan

anxiously. “Richmond’stoofarforus.”“No, it isn’t.” Rose put

herhandinherpocketandpulled out Will’s song.“This is for good luck,remember?We’llgetthereandwe’llfindWill.”“It ain’t no use. It’s too

far. We shouldn’t havecome.”Rose firmly began to

humWill’ssong.Thefortwasaconfusion

of tired-lookingsoldiers inblueuniforms.Therewere

soldiers everywhere,lounging on the grass,walking around, standingonduty.Theairsmelledofsweatandhorses.Charlie presentedhimself to the sentry. “Iwant to see CaptainPrentiss. I’mStevieJerue’sbrother.”“That so, sonny?” thesentry smiled. “Well, wegot a lot of brothers here

and we’re pretty busygetting them sorted out.We got no time forchildren, so how’s aboutyou just running alongnow?”Rose pushed her wayforward. “We have to seeCaptain Prentiss. We’vecome all the way acrossthelake.It’simportant.”“Please,”saidSusan.“Sorry.” The sentry was

firm.Rose was not to be

thwarted. She opened hermouth and shouted,“Captain Prentiss! CaptainPrentiss!”“Now that’s enough!”

The sentry was no longersmiling. “You just getyourselves—”“Wait a minute, sonny.

Captain Prentiss is rightover there. Wait here.” A

soldier standing inside thegate had been listening tothem. He went over to agroup on the far side ofthe parade square andspoke to a tall officer.Together they came backtothegate.“Yes, I’m John Prentiss.

What can I do for you?”thecaptainaskedSusan.“We’re looking for Will

Morrissay,”saidRose.

Suddenly the captainlookedverytired.Rosefelta pang of fear. Beside herSusan drew in her breathsharply.“Isee,”saidthecaptain.

He looked down atCharlie. “And what’s yourname?”“CharlesWalkerJerue.”“I see.” Captain Prentiss

looked at Rose again.Susancouldn’tstanditany

longer.“IsWilldead?”shewhispered.“Idon’tknow,” said the

captain. “I really don’tknow.The last time I saweitherofthoseboyswasinRichmond outside theLibby prison as the flagwas going up. Things gotpretty disorganized for awhile after that, and bythe timewehadourselvessorted out those boys had

disappeared. I don’t knowwhat happened to them.I’msorry.”“’Scuseme,Captain.”Itwas the soldier who hadspokenupforthembefore,ashort,red-beardedman.“Yes,Christie?”“I couldn’t help hearingwhatyouwassayingandIwanted to tell these kidsthat I knowed both themboysandthereain’tnoone

in the Union army couldhavecalledeitherof’emaskedaddler. I seen Stevewounded at Cold Harborandheneveroncestoppedto think about it throughthe whole battle, andwhen he took sick Willwaslikeanursetohim.”“Was—was Will hurt?”Susan’sfacewaspale.“No,no,hewasn’thurt,not so far as I remember.

Could be, you know, theygotseparatedfromtherestof us at Richmond. Stevewasprettysick.”“It’s possible that they

attached themselves toanother regiment,” saidCaptainPrentiss.“Theonlythingwecandoiswaittofindout.I’msorry.”“Iftheytooksick,where

would they be?” Susan’svoiceshook.

“Well,itwouldlikelybein Washington—but, seehere, you youngsters can’tgo down there byyourselves!” CaptainPrentiss wasthunderstruck.“Mister, if them boys is

lying in some hospitalneeding care, I expectthere’s no way for us toknow about itwithoutwego and find out.” Susan’s

eyes flashed. Rose couldhardlybelieveitwasSusansuddenlysobold.Captain Prentiss told

them it would beimpossible for them to goto Washington. “A younggirl with only a little boyfor protection. It’s a long,expensive, tiring journey.There’s almost no chanceof finding the lads. Ifthey’re in a hospital in

Washington they’llbe senthome as soon as they canwalk. And if.…” CaptainPrentiss did not finish hissentence. Instead he saidgently, “I’m afraid youreally will have to waitlike the rest of us.” Hewished them well andwent back across thegreen.“Theywere a good pairoflads,”saidChristiesadly

to himself, and followedthecaptain.Susanwasbadly shakenby what Captain Prentisshadsaid.“That’s what he toldMa,” said Charlie. “Gohome and wait. Ma saysit’snousehangingaroundthe train station like somefolks do. You want to godowntotheballfield?”heasked Rose. “Or go

swimming?”“No, thank you.” Rose

wasbusythinking.Charlieoffered one or two moresuggestions, gave up, andas soon as they reachedthe foot of his street, hetookoff.“We’ll take the train,”

announced Rose whenCharliewasoutofearshot.“Mrs. Jerue says they goevery day. We’ll go to

Washington. But first wehave to talk her into notsendingyouhome.”ButMrsJeruewouldnot

hearofit.Nomatterwhatthey said, no matter howtheypleaded.“Arn Colliver’s gone

already,” she told Susan,“but Jake Pierson fromyour bay is going in themorning. As for you,young David, you stay

herebymeuntilIcanfindsomebody going to NewYork City. Now then,Susan, as long as you’rehere you might as wellgive my girls a hand atgettingsupperforthemen.You run along with theboys, David. Mind, nomischief.”Rosehadonlyonething

inmind.Lookingcarefullyin all directions to make

sure she was not beingobserved, she saunteredtoward the bottom of thestreet and around thecorner. She asked the firstperson she saw fordirections to the railroadstation.Thensheran.The station was a big

barnofabuildingwithtalldustywindowsallaround.At one end of the roomwere high-backed benches

in rows; at the other endthe ticket seller wasreading a newspaperbehind a wicket. Thestation was otherwisedeserted. Standing ontiptoe to make herselfseen, Rose asked whattime the train went toWashington and howmuch it cost. “Eighto’clock, same as always,”answered the ticket seller,

not looking up from hisnewspaper. “Change atSyracuse,Albany,andNewYork City. Fare’s thirteendollars and eighty-fivecents.”“Is it eight in themorning or eight atnight?”“Eight in the morning.You get to New York atseven-thirty p.m.Connections to

Washington at twelvemidnight.”WhenRosearrivedback

attheJerues’,theboardershad been fed and thefamilywassittingdowntoameallargerthantheonetheyhadeatenatnoon.After dinner Mrs. Jerue

said, “Well, it’s allarranged with JakePierson. He says to bedowntothewharfbyhalf

past seven, and if thewind’s comeupgoodhe’llsail.”Susan said, “Yes,

ma’am,” obediently, andwent upstairs to the littleroom theyhadbeengiventosleepin.“Now, you children

brighten up them longfaces,” Mrs. Jerue toldthem as she bade themgoodnight. “You’d think

tomorrow was hangingdayforthebothofyou.Itain’t. Susan’s going homewhere she’s needed, andyou’re going home whereI’m sure your mother isgoing to be one mightyhappywoman. I know it’sa trial, but you have tohave some faith that ourboys will get home safewithout your help. Thegood Lord’s been running

thisoldworlda long timewithout your telling himhow to do it, and Iwouldn’t be one bitsurprised if he was to goon doing it long afteryou’rebothpushingupthedaisies.”After she had left themtheylookedtheroomoverfor ameans of escape.Allthatoffered itselfwas onewindowwithaporch roof

below, but the porch wasat least twelve feet down,and there was anothertwelve or thirteen feetfrom there to the ground.It seemed as though Mrs.Jerue had known whattheymeanttodo.Theonlyentrance to the room wasthroughherbedroom.They sat for over anhour concocting wildplans.Sittingontheircots,

they talked inwhispers oftying sheets together andloweringthemselvesoutofthe window. Susan wassure they would fall andbreakalltheirbones.Rosesaid that even if theymanaged to get away andhide all night in therailroadstation,Mrs.Jeruewas sure to discover theyhadgone.“She’ll come marching

down to the station togetus.” Rose giggled. “I cansee them, the seven littleboys, the three girls, andmaybe all the boarders,too.‘Givethemup!’they’llshout.Thenthey’llleadusoffinchains.”“What if we set out for

the schooner withoutmaking no fuss and thenslip off and go to thetrain?”

“Susan!You’reagenius!Why didn’t I think ofthat?”“Shhh!”“Allright.Whatwehave

todo issay I’mcomingtoseeyouoff.Thenwe’llgetaway somehow and getovertothestation.IwishIhadn’tmade up that storyaboutNewYork.Thenwecould both go withoutthem asking why. Mrs.

Jerue said you have to beat the wharf at seven-thirty, so if we run likethieves we can get thetrainontime.Whatagreatidea!”Susansmiled.“Ain’tyou

getting giddy! I neverknowedyoutobelikethis.LikeMinJeruesays,you’reaforwardlittlefellow.”“Yes, I am, aren’t I!”

Rose was pleased with

how things were workingout. She had never beforefelt so in command of asituation. As Susan said,she felt giddy. “Here, youfindroomformythingsinyoursuitcasesotheywon’tsuspect.”Susan put Rose’s socks,underwear, and cleanjeans in the suitcase withher few things, but whenRosehandedherthemusic

box and the book, shestopped. “What did youbringthesefor?”“I don’t know.” Rosewas embarrassed. “I justalways do.” Susan stuffedRose’s treasures into thecornersofhersuitcaseandsaidnomoreaboutthem.At quarter to seven thenext morning, resplendentin a parrot-green dress,Mrs. Jerue served them a

breakfastofporridge,ham,eggs,andfreshmuffins.“Charlie’ll take you

down to the wharf,” shetoldthem.“I’vemadeupapackage of things I wantyou to take to Patty andI’ve written a letter, ifyou’lloblige,Susan.”“Yes, ma’am.” Susan

didn’tlookatRose.“I’m going with Charlie

to see Susan off,” said

Rose.Mrs. Jerue eyed her

suspiciously.Rosereturnedhergazewithoutblinking.Mrs. Jerue was notconvinced. “You go along,butmindyoustayclosebyCharlie.Joeysaysyouwasdown street by yourselfyesterdayandI’mnotsurewhat you’ve been up to.I’ve half a mind to comealongandmakesureSusan

getsoffwithoutyou.”Rose gulped. She

thought quickly. “Whydon’tyoucome?” she saidsweetly.“Aw,comeon,Ma,”said

Charlie. “You’re too fat,you’ll take too long.”Nimbly he jumped toavoid the cuff his motheraimedathisrightear.“Charles Jerue, you

mindyourtongue.Well,it

is getting late and I havethingstodo.You’llhavetogowithoutme. Butmind,no hanky-panky, David,and I’ll see you back herein no more than half anhour. Good-bye, Susan.”She gave Susan a hug.“YougoonhomeandbeacomforttopoordearPatty—Lord knows she needsit.”Susan said good-bye,

and off they went afterCharlie who, with somesense of either duty orcompanionship,stuckrightwith them until indesperation Rose saidloudly, “Oh, Susan, youforgotyourshawl!”“My shawl?” said Susanblankly.“You know, Susan. Youleft it in the bedroom. IfCharliecouldrunback.…”

“Why don’t you goyourself?” demandedCharlie.“Imightgetlost.”“It’s just around the

corner.Youcan’tgetlost.”Susan looked from one

to the other. “Please,Charlie,”shesaidinalowvoice.“Oh, all right, but you

wait.Don’tyoumove.”As soon as Charlie was

outof sight,RosegrabbedSusan’s hand and theyracedoff.Thestationwascrowded

with people laden withparcels and suitcases,saying good-byes, chasingstraying children. “I’ll getthe tickets. You keep alookout in case someonecomes after us.” Rose’svoice was sharp withexcitement.

“I ain’t standing overhere if you’re going overthere,” cried Susan. Shegrabbed Rose’s arm. “NotifMinJerueandthewholeUnitedStatesarmywas tocomeafterme,Iain’t.”Sothey went together,pushingtheirwaythroughthe crowd, turninganxiously every othersecond to check if therewas anyone coming after

them. Waiting in line forthe tickets seemed to takeforever. Susan washorrified at the cost. “Youcan buy a whole cow forlessthanthatbackhome!”But she gave Rose themoney.The train was smaller

than any Rose had everseen. The engine wasbright blue and trimmedwithbrass. It bore a brass

bellinfrontofitscab,andacowcatcheroutinfront.Its smokestack was coneshaped, thesmokecomingout of it in steady puffs.Behindtheenginewasthecoal tender and a row ofluggage cars and coachesthat proclaimed on theirsides: OSWEGO AND SYRACUSERAILWAY.Inside, the coach was

paneled indarkwoodandthe seats were straw-covered and prickly. Roseand Susan found seatsabout halfway down thecar, stowed their suitcasein the rack overhead, andsat down, peeringnervously through thewindow and down theaisle.Thecarfilledquickly.Awomanwith four children

settled her family in twodouble seats across theaisle. A sour-lookingman,carefully dusting off hisseatfirst,satdowninfrontof them. A sad-facedsoldier, a couple of noisyboys, and a very fatwoman paraded towardthe back of the car. Rosebreathed a sigh of reliefandsatback justasSusangasped. “Look, Rose!”

Through thewindowRosesaw Charlie comingthrough the crowdaccompaniedbyatallmanand followed by Mrs.Jerue steaming like thelocomotive, her collarundone and her bonnetawry.Asthoughonsignal,Susan and Rose duckedbelow the window ledge,staring into each other’seyes.

“All aboard,” shoutedtheconductor.“Allaboardfor Syracuse,Albany,NewYork. All aboard,boooard!”“Wait!” It was Mrs.

Jerue.“Wait!”The train whistled its

loud, high-pitched toot-toot, and with a jerk, astop, and another jerk,pulledoutofthestation.

I

TheTraintoNewYork

n a few minutes theconductor came along

and punched their tickets.“You youngsters have tochangetrainsatSyracuse,”he told them. “Now I’ll

keep an eye on you andsee you get off all right,but you keep Syracuse inmind.” He was a big,comfortable-looking manwith a pink, clean-shavenface and a ready smile,and at first they weregrateful to him. Butwhenevery time he camethrough the car he said,“Well, now, how’re youyoungsters getting on?”

and patted Rose on thehead, they began to seehim as a big nuisance.Rosedrewapictureofhimin the coal dust on thewindow,andSusansaidhelooked a little like a pigHenry Bother had oncewon a prize for at theSoames fair, that wascalled DerringtonHalpenny. So they calledthe conductor Derrington

Halpennyandnudgedeachother every time he camenear.They watched throughthe window as they flewby the farms and villages.Sometimes there wereshacks built near thetracks and children camerunning to line up andwave at the train.Sometimes they passedoverbrooksorsmallrivers

wheretheshrillscreechofthe sawmills could beheardevenoverthesoundofthetrain.“They got elms and

maples and cedar andtamarack swamps same asus,” said Susan. “Theygotvillages that looks likeCollivers’ Corners, even ifthey talkdifferentandaregoingall the time. I guessmebbe the States isn’t all

that different.” Comfortedby this observation, shesettledback.Rosenodded.“Isuppose

Americansare a lot busierthanCanadians.”Shewatchedthewoman

across the aisle trying tokeepherchildreninorder.“I’ve got to say I’m goingto be some pleased to getthemhome,” shecalled toRose.Itturnedoutthatthe

woman was called Mrs.Heilbrunner. She wassmall,withpale skin,palehair, and pale blue eyes.She was dressed in black,because her husband hadbeenkilledinthewar,andshe said she was going tolive with her mother andfatheronthefamilyfarmafewmilesnorthofAlbany.Rose told her that sheand Susan were brother

and sister and they weregoing south to look fortheir brother who hadn’tcomehomefromthewar.“God bless you.” Mrs.

Heilbrunner had tears inhereyes.Sheaskedwhichregiment Will was in.When Rose told her, sheexclaimed, “Why, myWalter, Lord rest his soul,was in that regiment. Hedied at Cold Harbor.

What’s your brother’sname?”RosetoldheraboutWill

and Mrs. Heilbrunnerremembered her husbandwriting her about a boywho could play the flute.“Charm the birds out ofthe trees he could, that’swhatmyWalter said.Andhe’s your brother, landsake!”Mrs. Heilbrunner was

sympathetic.ShetoldRosethatWalter had been in ahospital in Washingtonand gave her the name ofthehospital.Rosewrote itdown on the back of hertraintimetable.Ittookfourhourstoget

from Oswego to Syracuse,bywhich time the delightof traveling had begun towear off. Rose and Susanwere sticky fromheatand

coal dust and glad tochange trains just to havesomethingtodo.Theyhadno chance to look aroundthe station, however, asDerrington Halpenny tookthemcompletelyincharge,carrying their suitcase,beaming at them, tellingthem at every step, “Nowyou two youngsters, don’tyouworry. I’ll get you onthat train for Albany all

right.” He piloted themthrough the station andsettledthemontheAlbanytrain, with three-quartersofanhourtowaitbeforeitstarted.The fat woman and the

sour-faced man got on,too. Mrs. Heilbrunner andherfourchildrensatdownoppositethem.Adrunksatright behind them,mutteringandcomplaining

anddrinkingnoisilyoutofabottlehehadwithhim.Through the windowthey watched the busycrowds. There were manysoldiersandthenumberofblack people amazedSusan. “I ain’t never seenbut two before,” shewhispered. “They comeacross the lake withCaptain Armitage. They’drun off from being slaves.

They was kind of sad. Idon’t know where theywent after. Ain’t theyblack!”“Isupposeso.I’venever

thoughtaboutit.TherearelotsofblackpeopleinNewYork, as many as whitepeople,Ithink.Susan,let’sgetsomethingtodrink.”“Wedon’tneednothing.

We got to watch ourmoney. I know we got

seventeen dollars andthirtycentsleft,butthingsisterribledear.”“ButI’msohot.Really.I

feel like a baked apple.You can stay here if youlike and I’ll go and get it.Givemesomemoney.”Reluctantly Susan gave

Rosetwenty-fivecents.Out on the platform,

Rose found a lemonadestall and asked for two

cups. She discovered thattherewasonlytheonetincupattachedbyastringtothe stand, so she had herdrink and hurried back toSusan.“You have to go. He

doesn’thaveanycups.”“Howmuch?”“It’sonlyfivecents.”“Five cents? A whole

five cents for one cup oflemonade? I don’t want

none.”“Don’t be silly, Susan.

It’sgood.”“Idon’twantnone.Five

cents!Themanwhosoldittoyouisathief.”“That’s right, girlie, you

tell’em.”Thedrunkintheseat behind leanedforward, breathingwhiskyin their faces. “You gotbrains in that pretty littleheadofyours.Ilikethat.”

Susanshrankawayfromhimandsaidnothing.Roseglared at him over theback of the seat. Hefrowned at her, leanedforward, and pulled hernose.“Mindyourmanners,sonny,” he growled. “Youbettersitbackhereandletme sit with the little ladyso her and me can talk.”Hestaggeredtohisfeet.Stunned by the surprise

of the attack on her noseandthesuddenpain,Rosejuststaredattheman.Butbefore he could makeanother move, Mrs.Heilbrunner leaned acrossthe aisle and said sharply,“Don’t you pester thoseyoungsters!”At that moment, the

conductor came throughand the drunk sat back inhis own seat, grumbling

and muttering aboutmeddlesomeoldhens.The bell clanged, thewhistle blew, theconductorshoutedhis“Allaboard!” and the trainstarted.“Did he hurt you?”Susanwhispered.“No,” said Rose, but hehad,andhehadfrightenedher. She was relievedwhensheheardhimbegin

to snore loudly. Susandozedbesideher.Theyweretravelingeastacross the state throughthe Mohawk Valley. Thelandscape looked moreand more desolate withevery click of the train’swheels. “It’s themseventeen-year locusts,”Mrs.Heilbrunner toldher.“My ma says them bugshas ate up everything in

UpperNewYorkStatethatgrows,andlotsthatdon’t.”Thegrainhadbeenneatlystacked near Oswego andacross the lake inCanada.Here everything waschewed to the ground. Inthe August heat, with thecoal dust along the traintracks, it was a dismalsight.“My ma says she don’t

knowhowthey’regoingto

feedusallbecauseofthemlocusts.” Mrs. Heilbrunnersighed.“Butshesaysshe’ssupposing the Lord willprovideand I’msupposingthat,too.Whatelsecanwedo?”Rose listened to bits of

conversation from otherpassengers talking invoices loud enough tosoundoverthesquallingofMrs. Heilbrunner’s

children and the clickety-click of the train wheels.Someonewassinging“TheUnion Forever” in an off-key baritone and themanin the seat behind wokenow and then to cursemumblinglyintohisbeard.Rosewas so hungry shehad a headache, and thedaywas sweltering. Therewas no breeze. To openthe window meant coal

dust and large cindersflying in. Coal dust layover everything—it waseveninherteeth.They reached Albany inthe late afternoon. Roseclimbed up and broughtdown the suitcase. Shesaid good-bye to Mrs.Heilbrunner, who wishedthem a tearful Godspeed.Then, with Susan clingingto her hand, she led the

way into the station.Susan,socalmandcapableathome,wasunexpectedlyterrified in the pushing,shouting city throngs. Shehad never in her life seensuch crowds. Hernervousness worried Rose,andshenolongerfeltthateuphoriathathadsetthemboth giggling wildly theeveningbefore.Thestationwas jammed with people.

Men with megaphoneswere shouting the arrivalof their train and threeothers on their way toNew York, Boston, andMontreal. A group ofsoldierswasbeinggreetedwith cheers and a bandplaying “When JohnnyComes Marching Home,”and everywhere thehawkers shouted theirwares. By pushing and

shoving, and hittingpeople with the edge ofthesuitcase,Rosegotthemthrough the crowd, foundtheir train, and got themon it. Susan was white.Herjawwasset.“There’s so manypeople,Rose!”Rosewasabout toreplythattherewerealotmorepeople in New York Citywhen she was interrupted

by a familiar, raspingvoice.“Allright,now,boy,you

justmoveawayandletthelittle lady and me have anicetalk.”Ahandgrabbedthe back of her shirt andshewas liftedout into theaisle. It was the drunkfromtheseatbehindthemin the Syracuse train. Hereachedpasther and tookSusan by the arm. There

was a nasty smile on hisface.“Rose,” gasped Susan.

Withoutstoppingtothink,Rose grabbed Susan’s armand yanked. The drunkwas so surprisedhe let goofherotherarm,andRosefledwithherfromthecar.They ran down the

platform, through thestation, and out onto thestreet beyond. There they

crouched down behind acarriagethatstoodwaitingto pick up passengerscomingfromthetrain.After a few minutes,Rose had caught herbreath. “We have to goback, Susan.Our stuff’s inthe train.” She stood upresolutely. Susan wasshaking so hard her teethwere chattering. “I can’t,”shewhispered,“Ican’t.I’m

afraidofthatman.”“Then you stay here.”But Susan would not stayalone so they went backinto the station together.Rose had completely lostherbearingsintheirflightand had to ask directionsalloveragainforthetraintoNewYork.“Better hurry, son.” Theman at the informationdesk looked up at the

clock. “I’m not sure thattrain’sstillhere.”They started to run,

bumping into people,tripping over baggage,frantically making theirwayaroundvendors’stalls,and reached the platformjust in timetosee the lastcar pull away from thestation.Susan started to cry.

Rose swallowed her own

threatening tears andthoughtfuriously.“It’sallright,Susan.The

suitcase will go to NewYork andwe can get it atthe ‘lost and found.’ I’vedone that with mygrandmother.Westillhaveourtickets,sowecanstayhere until the next traincomes. Even if it doesn’tcome until tomorrow. Wecanwait.”

“We can’t,” wailedSusan. “The tickets andourmoneyareontheseatof the train.We don’t gotnothingatall!”

“D

AlongtheRiver

on’t be silly, Susan,you must have the

money.Howarewegoingto get to New Yorkwithout the tickets or themoney?”

“I don’t know,” Susanwhispered. The frightenedexpressioninherbigblackeyesmade her look like adog that expected to behit. Rose wanted to hither. She stamped acrossthe platform and into thestation in a high rage, aragethat,althoughshedidnotrealizeit,wasmaskingher own terrible fear ofbeing lost, stranded in a

timeandplaceshedidnotknow.Shehadto lashoutat Susan to give herselfstrength.“How could she have?”

she muttered angrily.“Howcouldshehavebeenso stupid?Well, she’ll justhavetofigureoutawaytogetusthere,that’sall. I’mnot going to.” She pushedher hot sticky hair backfrom her angry face and

jammedherhandsintoherpockets—andrealized thatshehadmoney.Shepulledit out, the twenty centschangefromthelemonadeat Syracuse. She wentstraight to the buffet andbought ameat pie, an icecream, and a glass oflemonade. Greedily andspeedilysheate itall.Shefound a washroom, but itcost a penny so she left,

muttering crossly toherself, “I suppose theyexpect you to wetyourself.”Allthesame,thefood had made her feelbetter and she wentlookingforSusan.Shefoundheroutonthe

platform, huddled in acorner behind a baggagecart.Herfacewasredandstreaked with grime andtears, and her bonnet had

slippedtooneside.Atthesight of her, Rose felt atwingeofremorse.Theicecream and the meat pieflip-floppeduneasilyinherstomach. She found shedidnotwanttolookSusanin the eye; neither couldshe tell her what she haddone. Putting her handguiltily to her mouth tofeel if there were crumbs,sheswallowedtocoverher

nervousness.“Now, then.” Shecleared her throat. “Whatwehavetodoisfigureoutwhat to do next. Do youhaveanyideas?”Susan looked at herblankly.“You know, for gettingtoNewYork.”“Wegotnothingbutourowntwofeet,Rose.Idon’tseewegotmuchchoice.”

“No.” Rose’s blusterwilted. “I guess not.” Shehitchedherselfupontothebaggage cart and lookeddown at her coal-blackhands, wriggling her toesin her running shoes.Albany? Where wasAlbany? And how werethey going to get toWashington from Albanywithnomoney?Sheclosedher eyes and recited

mechanically: “Albany isthe capital of New York.It’s a hundred and forty-fivemiles fromNew YorkCityandit’sontheHudsonRiver.”Onceagainshewasgrateful for hergrandmother’s lessons.“SoIsupposewhatwehavetodo now is find the riverand follow it to NewYork.” She brightened fora moment. “When we get

there everything will beokaybecause I knowNewYork.Ahundredandforty-fivemilesisn’tsofar,isit?I bet we’ve come that faralreadytoday.”“Yes,butwewas in the

train, and now all we gotisourfeetandnoplacetosleep for the night andnothingtoeat.”At the word eat, Rose

winced. “We’ll manage,”

she said quickly, “we’llmanage. Maybe we canjust stop somewhere andask for some supper andthepeoplewillletussleepintheirhouse.”“Rose!Iain’tnobeggar.

We’ve got to start up likeyou say and hope bytomorrow morning there’sgoingtobefolkswho’llletus work for ’em so’s wecan get breakfast and

maybeearnabittogetusgoing.We justgot topraywe don’t run into no onewith no nasty notions.”Sheshuddered.“I suppose so,” Rose

grimaced. She didn’t likethe idea of working forsomebody. The pictureSusanbroughttomindwasofhavingtoliveforweeksormonths inanattic, likepoorSaraCrewewithonly

crusts of bread to eat andstale water to drink, andshe didn’t like it eventhough itwas romantic toread about. She wishedfleetingly that she wasbackatHawthornBay,andsighed. “I guess wemightaswellfindtheriver.”Shehopped down from thebaggagecartandwentintothe station building oncemore.

By this time the band,the soldiers, and theirfamilies had left, thecrowds had thinned, andsome of the vendors wereshutting up their stands.Roseaskedthemanattheinformation desk how toget to the river. Heguffawed loudly and said,“Why you just use yourtwo feet, sonny, just useyour two feet,” and

pointedeast.They left the building

and looked east and therebelow them, not twohundred yards away, wasthe Hudson River glintingin the afternoon sun, thebluehillsoftheCatskillsinthedistance.“ThiswaytoNewYork,”

said Rose. They starteddown the hill past shackswith little gardens of

cabbages, tomatoes, andbeans, thickly coveredwithcoalsoot(“Iwouldn’twanttoeatnoneofthem,”whispered Susan as theyhurriedpast),andcame,atlast,tothedeepmudflats,thedocks,thewarehouses,and the river, wide andgreen, flowing deeply,steadily toward New YorkCity.They walked until they

had put the busy docksandwarehousesofAlbanybehind them. They satdown to rest on a smalldesertedfishingwharfandwatched the gulls andsandpipers and listened tothe steady lap, lap of thewater against the woodenpilings.Susan tookoffherbonnet, leaned over theedge of the wharf, andwith her cupped hands

brought water to her faceto wash. She dried herhands on the cattails thatgrew at the edge of theriver. She was stillstreaked with black, butshe looked brighter.Wordlessly, Rose followedsuit.“Why don’t we take off

ourthingsandgetin?”shesuggested.“Rose!” Susan was

scandalized. “Just becausewe got no money don’tmeanwe ain’t still decentfolks. Look at all thosemenoutintheboats.”Outon the river,barges

and fishing boats wereheaded toward shore, themen shouting good-natured banter at oneanother as they preparedtocomeinforthenight.“I think we’d better get

on,”Susansaid,uneasy.“Allright.”WearilyRosegot to her feet. The tidewas low and the muddyshore was full of shells,dead fish, and horseshoecrabs, as well as bottlesand old boards, so theywalked well back, alongthe fringe of river weedsand toughgrass.Nowandthen a fisherman on hisway home said, “Good

evening.”Sometimesadogbarked, a cow mooed.Voices in the distancecalled to one another asthe day settled intoevening. The hills grewdark, looming over themlike giants huddled inblack cloaks, watchful,mysterious.Themudgaveway to adifferent shoreline,sandier, and along the

high-tide line there weretrees—poplars, dogwoods—and occasionally baresandy patches. Cautiouslythey picked their waythrough the dusk. Everytime they heard a smallanimal rustling in thegrass, or a startled birdflutter in the trees, theystarted and then, morecautiously than before,movedon.

“We got to stop soon.”Susan’s voice soundedexhausted. They halted byalargetree.“Maybe we can find a

barnor something. Idon’tlike it right outside likethis.”“Ain’t nothing out here

going to hurt us near asbadaswhatmightgetusifwestarthangingaroundinsomebody’s barn.” Susan

made a move to start upagain. Suddenly, shestopped. “Rose! What’sthat?”There was the sound ofsomeone thrashing aroundnot more than three feetfromthem.Theyfroze.Rustle, rustle, stomp,stomp,thesoundofheavybreathing. Susan began tolaughshakily.“Soo boss,” she said

softly, “soo boss.” Inanswer there was a long,drawnout,“mooooo.”Theywalkedaroundthetree and there, its whitepatches glimmering in thetwilight,wasa largeblackandwhitecow.“Soo,bossy, soo.”Susanstroked it gently betweenits eyes and behind itsears. It nuzzled happilyagainsther.

“We could stay herewith the cow,” said Rose,hopefully.“Wecouldhavesome of its milk. You canmilkacow.”“That’dbestealing.This

here’s someone’s backpasture. We ain’t stayinghere.”Away from the crowds,

back in the countryside,Susan was again her owncapable self.NothingRose

could say would persuadehertochangehermind,sothey proceeded in glumsilence.They had been pushingtheir way through darkbushes for almost half anhour when they smelledcooking.“Chicken,”saidSusan.“Doesn’t that smellwonderful!”Rosesighed.“Don’tpaynomind.We

gottosteerclear.Wedon’tknowwhoitis.”Susan put her handnervously on Rose’s arm.Theycreptslowly, stepbystep,alongtheshore.Theywere edging their wayaround a thick clump ofbushes when they almostfell into a small clearingwhere a chicken, spittedon a stick, was cookingovera lowfire.Therewas

nobodyinsight.“Doesn’t it smell good?”

breathedRose.“Don’t you set one foot

near that there bird! TheLordknowswho’scookingit or what he might do ifhe was to catch us here.Let’sgetgoing.”Therewasarustleinthe

bushes behind them.“Hands up or I’ll spit youon this knife and add you

to my dinner,” growled aharshvoice.Rosefeltthehaironthe

back of her neck standstraight out and her heartlurched in terror. Susangasped and leaped aside.They both raised theirhands.“Now you just move

alongso’sIcanseewhatIgothere.”Somethingsharppricked

Rose in the shoulder.Terrified, she stumbledinto the clearing, halfshovingSusanbeforeher.“Youngsters,” said thevoice contemptuously.“You alone?” he askedsuspiciously.Theynodded.“Whereyoufrom?”They were both tooafraidtospeak.“Iain’tgonnahurtyou,”

said the soldier, for theman who came around tostand before them wasdressed in the faded blueuniform of the Unionarmy.Hewasgray-haired,small, and thin as a coathanger, with a face thatwaswornintotwolinesoneither cheek, sodeep theywere clearly visiblethrough his untidy graybeard. He had only one

arm.“Iain’tgonnahurtyou,”

he repeated in anaggrieved tone, “andwhat’s more, I expect I’mgonna have to share mydinner with you. Youhungry?”Rose had almost

recovered from her fright.The roasting chickenwhich the soldier leaneddown to turn smelled like

a banquet. She nodded.“We’reveryhungry.”“I supposeyoumightas

well set,” the soldier saidglumly. “I didn’t mean togive you such a scare”—his tone softened—“butyou see, I’m like you. Isuppose you’re waifs withnomoneyandnoplace togo. I lostallmymoney toa card shark down toWashington. I’m on my

way home to HoosickFalls, but there ain’tnobody’ll give work to aone-armed soldier—or asoldier of any kind, forthat matter,” he addedbitterly. “Wewas just fineand wonderful, and itseemed the whole UnitedStates was dying to weepoverusandsingout‘GloryHallelujah’ and ‘JohnnyCome Marching Home’—

until we started to comehome. Then, bang, thedoorswas shutagainstus.Seems the whole world isafraidofus.Iwarrantfolksareevenafraidofthelittledrummer boys, nine, tenyearsold.Killers,theysay.Trained killers. You’dthink we all been havingfun. Gettysburg.Chancellorsville. ColdHarbor. I was at all them

swell places. And while Iwas having me such agood time, my wife tookoffwithanotherfella. ‘I’mafraidIhavetomakeotherarrangements, Joe,’ shesaid, ‘because there isn’tno money comin’ in.’ Ofcourse there wasn’t nomoney. The blessedgovernment wasn’t givin’usnoneforallthatfunwewas having, not regular

they wasn’t. But we stuckwitholdAbe,Godresthissoul. And now there ain’tnobody wants us.” Hisrough, angry voice ceasedabruptlyandhepokedthefirewithastick.“Yougotalotoftrouble,mister,”saidSusan.“Yeah, yeah,” he saidcrossly. “What about youyoungsters? What bringsyou to the river late at

nightlikethis?”Rose told him that theywerebrotherandsisterontheir way to Washingtontofindtheirolderbrother.She told him about theman on the train andlosingtheirmoney.“But we’re going to getitbackinNewYorkCity,”shesaid.“I wouldn’t make noplans to that effect,” said

the soldier dryly. “What’smore, I wouldn’t hang ontoo hard to that notion offindin’ your brother.They’re moving soldiersout of them hospitals asfastastheycanmove’em.I know. I was in one ofthem places for this.” Heshrugged his armlessshoulder. Susan paled.Rose, somewhatshamefacedly, turned her

eyesawayfromtheempty,pinned-upsleeve.“If thatbrotherofyoursis still alive, chances arehe’sonhiswayhomeandyou’re gonna miss him.You might better turnyourselves right straightaround and wait for himbackthere.”Thesoldiertoldthemhisname was Joe Haggerty,andhesaidhedidn’tknow

Will, though he had beenin battle with the 81stregiment.Bythattimethechicken was ready.Holding the bird steadywith one knee, Joe cut itupwiththeknifethathadbeen somurderous only alittlewhileearlier,putthepiecesonhistinplate,andpassedthemaround.“I never stole nothin’beforeIwentinthearmy,”

Joe Haggerty saidmournfullyaroundbitesofchicken. “We soon foundout if we was gonna getdinnertofighton,wewasgonna have to helpourselves,andnowIdon’tmind a bit. If folks isn’tgonnashareout thework,they’re just gonnahave toshare out the dinneranyways. Yessir, themiserable cussed, mean-

minded, penny-pinchin’….”He spat out abone with such force thatitthunkedagainstatree.Joe continued to calldown God’s curses on thepopulace, the army, thehospitals, and his wife inparticular, until finally hegrew tired, retreated fromthem to make ready forthe night, and settleddown near the fire, his

coat flung over him. Thegirlsfollowedhisexample,huddlingclosetogetherforwarmth.The next morning,before the sun was up,they had left the riversideand followed Joe a halfmile up the hill to thehighway.“Youwon’tfindnoworknor food following theriver,”he told them. “You

got to follow the road.Goes to the same place,New York City. If you’dtakemy advice, you’d geton home. Like I said, youain’t gonna find yourbrotherinWashington,notalive,youain’t.”Andwiththat last dismal warning,he gave a half-heartedwave with his good armandturnednorth.Rose looked at Susan.

SusanlookedatRose.“It ain’t so,” said Susanfirmly, and Rose,responding to herassurance, took a deepbreath and said, “Sowhatwehavetodonow,isjustgo.”“You always say that,”Susanlaughed,andinthatcomradely frame of mindtheysetoffontheroadtoNewYork.

A

ADollaraDay

t the first farmhousethey came to, while

Rose waited on the road,Susan went around to theback door and knocked.Shewasbackinaminute.

“She ain’t got work,” shesaid.At thenext farm, itwasthe same,andat thenext.“They mostly got young’uns as big as uswho cando all they need done,”saidSusan.“They shouldn’thave somany youngsters,”grumbled Rose. “I’mstarved. My stomachhurts.”

They had been walkingfor almost an hour whenthey reached a smallvillage, its blacksmith,general store, church, andhouses centered around agreen.Theygotthemselvesadrink fromthewell thatstoodonthegreen,andsatdownonabenchoppositea bakeshop. It was stillearly and the shopkeeperswere just opening up for

the day, shaking outcarpets, sweeping theirsteps, setting out theirwares. They watched thebaker put buns and cakesinhiswindow.“Rose.” Susan’s facebrightened.“Rose,yougotmoney. Remember?Yesterday when you wentand got lemonade and Ididn’t have none. You gottwentycents.Lookinyour

pocket.”Rose’s stomach

tightened. Her face grewhot. “I lost it,” she saidquickly.“Look in your pockets.

It’sgottobethere.”“Itisn’t.Ilostit.Iforgot

totellyou.I…Susan,whyareyoulookingatmelikethat?”“Iain’tsure.”Rose got up from the

benchandtookafewstepsacrossthegrass.Shecouldfeel Susan’s eyes on herback. “Oh, all right,” shesaid crossly, whirlingaround, “all right. I spentit. I spent it on somethingto eatwhen Iwasmad atyou because you left thetickets and the money onthetrain.”Susan stared at her in

disbelief. Tears came to

hereyes.Shestoodupandwithout a word startedtoward the road,herheadhigh,herbackstiff.“Susan, wait!” Rosecameupbesideher.“I don’t want to walkwith you.” Susan kept abrisk pace along the roadthatledoutofthevillage.Rose fell back. She felthated,thewayshehadfeltthe time she had

overheard Sam tell hismother how ugly anddisagreeable shewas.Andthis time she knew shedeserved it.She feltworsethan she had after AuntNan’s accident. She wasashamed. She was willingto do any kind of work,ask anybody for anythingif only Susan wouldn’twalk ahead like that—sofast, so stiff and straight,

so cold. I’ve never had afriend before, she thought,andshewassuddenlyverymuch afraid of losingSusan’s friendship. She satdownon a fallen tree andlet Susan get well out ofsightbeforeshestartedupagain.At the first house

outside the village shestopped.Anoldmancametothedoor.

“Have you got anyjobs?” she askednervously.“You’re the second

youngster come along thiswayintenminuteslookingfor work,” said the oldmansourlyandclosed thedoorinherface.Humiliated, she gritted

her teeth and marcheddown the road. “I don’tsuppose it’smuchgoodus

comingoneaftertheotherto the same house.” Thenext house was big andhandsome, with whitepillars around a curvedporch in front, its lawnsclosely cropped anddecorated with brightflowerbeds. As Rosereachedit,amangallopeduponahorse.“You, boy, how would

you like to earn five

cents?” he shouted as heleaped off at the frontdoor.When she ran up,

nodding vigorously, hehandedherthereinsofhishorse. “He’s gentle but heneeds to be held firmly,”said the man and ran upthe wide curved steps ofthehouse.The horse, a big dapple

gray, was gentle but

willful, and he wanted toeat the asters andmarigolds that grew alongthe walk. Rose spent aback-breaking half-hourtugging on his reins,around the drive, alongthe road and back, untilherhandwasblisteredandhertemperwassore.“Will and Susan canbothdrownintheAtlanticOcean! And I hate you,

whatever your name is,”shewhisperedpassionatelyin his ear, and tuggedfuriously at his reins toventherfeelings.He gave a startled

whinnyandlookedaroundat her. She was sure hewaslaughing.Shegrabbedthereinsmore tightly,butbefore she could give himthe shake she intended,the man came out of the

house.Seeing her grim, red

faceandthehorsecraninghis neck toward theflowers again, the manlaughedheartily.Hewasatall, thinmanwith a thinnondescriptface,butwhenhe laughed he whoopedand bellowed and cackledwithsuchpleasurethathebecame quite astonishingto watch, and Rose could

nothelplaughing,too.“He’s got the soul of a

goat, that Hermes,” hesaid, “the soul of a goat.You’re fortunate he didn’teat your shirt—eat yourshirt, upon my word,you’re fortunate. You’re agoodlad.”Hegavehertencents and, with one quickleap,mountedhishorse.“Thank you,” said Rose

weakly. “Thank you very

much.”Themanlookeddownat

herinsurprise.“You don’t come from

aroundhere,”hesaid.“IcomefromCanada.”“You’realongwayfrom

home, little Canuck, Godbless.”Andoffherode.Rose clutched the

precious ten-cent piece inthe hand that wasn’tblistered and raced down

theroadtofindSusan.“What if I can’t find

her?”shewhisperedassheran. “What if she’sworking in some house?What if she decided to gohome?”“Rose.” Susan was

sittingona rail fence thatedged a field beside theroad.Rose stopped. She

walked over and held out

the ten cents. “I owe youten more,” she saidawkwardly.Susan didn’t take the

money. “It ain’t so muchthemoney,Rose.It’sjustIdidn’t know you wasmean.”Rose flushed from her

toes to her scalp. Shedidn’t say anything. Asquirrel scampered up anearby chestnut tree,

chattering.“Come on,” said Susanshortly, climbing downfromthefence.“Wegottogetussomethingtoeat.”Rose shook her head.“It’s your money. I don’twantanything.”“Who’s going to carryyouwhenyou’resohungryyoufaint?”“Youcanleaveme.”“Rose, we got troubles

enough without youshould start feeling sorryfor yourself. Now pick upandcomeon.”Feeling both hated andhateful, Rose followedSusan down the road. Atthe next farmhouse theycame to, their ten centsbought them a lot morethan tencentshadboughtat the railroad station inAlbany.Theyateeggsand

bread and butter anddrankaglassofmilkeach.Thewomanwatchedthemsuspiciouslywhiletheyateand told them they couldwash at her well foranothertencents.“No,thankyou,ma’am,”

saidSusan.Past farms and

meadows, across streams,through three smallvillages they tramped and

there was no work. Theydid not speak. Susan keptup a steady pace untilRose was so tired andfootsore, so totallywretched, that she satdown at the side of theroadandwatched,withoutfeeling, as a large greenand black garter snakeslitheredawaythroughthegrass with a frog in itsmouth. She put her head

down on her knees andclosed her eyes. After atime she felt Susan comeandsitdownbesideher.“It’s an awful hot placet’sit.”“Idon’tcare.”They said nothingmorefor a few minutes. It waspast noon.The sunblazeddown on them through agray haze. Fewbirds sanginthenoonheat.Onlythe

cicadas with their fretfulbuzzing brought any signof life to the wiltinglandscape. Traffic on theroad was desultory. Nowand then a buggy rattledby or a farmer’s wagon.Sometimes a horsemanclop-clopped along. In thedistance the train whistletooted.“We got to get going,”said Susan, rising to her

feet. “The last milepostsaidwecomesixteenmilefrom Albany, and if yourcalculation is rightwegotalongwaystogo.”Rose pushed her hands

through her dusty, dirtyhair, which was by thistime a dull brown colorand sticking out all overher head. She lookedsidewaysatSusan.“I’m sorry about the

money,”shesaid.“I expect you are,” saidSusan and that, Rose feltsure,wasall thewordshewas going to get out ofSusanonthatsubject.That afternoon theywere lucky. They came tothe village of Paiseleyaroundfiveo’clock.Itwasa village very like theothers they had passedthrough, with a cluster of

housesandstoresaroundagreen on which stood thevillage well and a smallbandstand. In addition,stretched out across thegreen, was a long tablemade up of several tablesendtoend,withplacessetfor all the people in thevillage.Abandwastuningupinthe bandstand. The greenwasfullofpeople—women

setting the table with allkinds of pickles andrelishes, platters of coldchicken and beef, salads,and fruits; small childrenrunning around, shouting,orbeingshoutedordersbytheirmothers. “Here, you,Johnny, you take thispaper and swat themflies!” “Alice, you runacross t’Misses VanArpen’n tell her we’re a mite

short on butter!” And themen—young and old,soldiers in uniform—weregathered on the green inknots, talking andlaughing. There was agreat feeling of joy andexcitement which did asmuch topickup the girls’tired spirits as did thesightofallthefood.“Can we help?” Susan

asked an old man, who

was sitting at the edge ofthe village green andseemed to be organizingthe celebrations, wavinghis stick and rattling offdirections.“You passing through?Where’re you from?Where’re you headed,girl?”Susan told him aboutWill. The old man lookedat them both intently.

“Wait here,” he said and,standing up carefully,went into anearbyhouse.He came back with asquare of blue and whitecheckedcloth inhishand.He went along the fulllengthofthetable,puttingmeatandcheeseandbunsand cakes into the squareofcloth.“Thevegetablesiskind of skinny on accountof them locusts,” he said.

Then he slowly andmethodically tied the fourcorners of the clothtogether and handed it toRose.“Here, young feller, you

carry this, and never letanyone say that JamesCampbell ain’t a thankfulmannorthatthevillageofPaiseley don’t know howto celebrate. We’recelebrating the return of

our boys, and may thegood Lord bring yoursoldier home safe as hebrungmine.”Hethrustthebundleof food intoRose’shand and turned back tofussing over how thepreparations were comingalong.“Thanks, mister,” said

Susan.“Godblessyou.”The little scene had

gatheredasmallaudience,

which so embarrassedRosethatsheforgottosaythankyou.Onceoutof sightof the

village, Rose was all forsitting down beside theroad and eating the foodrightthere,butSusansaid,“No,thisain’ttheplacetostop.”Almostamileandahalf later they came to alittle wood where theyfound a stream, and there

Susan stopped. Gratefullythey took off their shoesandstockingsandsatwiththeir feet in the streamwhile they ate their waythroughallbut twopiecesof cheese and two buns.“We got to save them forbreakfast,” said Susan.Reluctantly Rose agreedand they settled into asilence which, althoughnotascompanionableasit

might have been, waseasier than anything theyhad achieved sincemorning.They traveled the roadforoveraweek,managingtenor twelvemiles aday.Thoughthefieldsweredryand chewed up and sad,thedistanthillsweregreenand blue and glinting inthe sunlight. Sometimestheypassedthroughwoods

and surprised deer orraccoons, squirrels andchipmunks.Thebirdssangnoisily.TheyalwaysmadeRose think of Will. Nowand then the road dippeddown into a valley topursue its path almost bythe river’s edge, and thenthe steady lapping of thewateras its tides roseandfellwas a kind of song tomarch to. Rose felt secure

bytheriver.Sheknewshecouldn’tgetlost.Theriverwould take her to NewYork.It rained once or twice,butmostly theywere dry,scorchingdaysthatburnedtheir skin and blisteredRose’s feet. They slept inwoods or fields, andwashed in the river, inbrooks and tiny streams.One night they sheltered

fromathunderstorminanold fishing shack by theriver, huddled togetheragainsttheburstsofwhitelightthatilluminated,thenobscured,theblackhills.Sometimes they wereluckyandfoundworkandatewell.Other times theywenttosleephungry.Theyhoed gardens, washedwindows, ran errands toearn twenty-five or fifty

cents. Once they white-washed a hen house for adollar. More than oncethey held horses forpennies. Sometimes theygot rides with kindfarmers,buttherideswereslow.Once they rode in abuggy with a pair oftravelingplayers.Whiletheirclothesgrewthinner and dirtier andtheir shoes were

dangerously worn, theirbodies grew tough andsunburned. They learnedtoaskforworkandtotakeabusefromstrangers.OnceRosewaschasedbyagangof boys in a village whoshouted and swore at herand threw ripe tomatoes.Onceanoldwomancalledthem “thieving children”and threatened themwiththe county jail. Another

time, passing through atown on a Saturdayevening, Susan wasbothered by a man whosidled up to her andofferedtobuyheraprettydress if she would showhimagoodtime.Rosewasnot takenunawaresasshehad been on the train inAlbany. She came upbehind him, poked herfinger in his back, and

threatenedtoshoot.“I’m just out of thearmy,” she growled, “thetoughest drummer boy inthe81stregiment.”“Okay,son.Didn’tmeannothing by it.” The manslunkaway.“What made you thinkto say that?” Susan wasfull of relief andadmiration.“IrememberedwhatJoe

Haggerty said: ‘They’re allafraidofsoldiers.’Andsee,theyare,evenlittleones.”For the first time sinceSusanhadfoundoutaboutRose spending themoney,they had a real laughtogether. They hadpatched over the troublebetween them by notmentioning it, but it hadnotgoneaway.Itwaslikeabandagedsore.Rosewas

aware every day thatSusan did not feel thesamewayaboutherasshehad on that morning thatseemed so long ago whenthey had set out fromHawthorn Bay. She waspolite, kind, andthoughtful, because thatwas what Susan was, butthe companionship theyhad felt was missing. Itwasalmostasthoughthey

had a job to do together(although they nevermentioned that either)and, when that job wasdone, they would saygood-bye to each otherliketwostrangers.One morning theywashed in a small stream.Roselookeddisgustedlyattheremnantsofhersocks,two lengths of gray,tattered cloth. She stuffed

themintotheknot-holeofatree.“Even the robins won’twant tomakenestsoutofthem,” said Susan. “Theycan have my bonnet. It’sgot almost as many holesas a sieve.” She tied themisshapenblackstrawtoabranch. She lookedruefullydownatherdress,by now grimy and thin.“Ain’tnothingmuch tobe

doneaboutthat.”Rose’sjeanshadholesinboth knees and werecrusty with dirt. She wassousedtothemshehardlynoticed.“Come on,” she said.“Wemustkeepgoing.”Asthesuncameupoverthehills, they reached theedge of a small villagewhose signpostannouncedthatitwascalledDorland.

Opposite was a littleunpaintedstoreinfrontofwhich stood a blacksmithshop. The shop was quietand the smith wasstandingoutside,hishandson his hips, looking verydisgruntled.“You, boy,” he called,when he caught sight ofthem coming along theroad, “you want a job?”He was a squat, swarthy

man with hairy arms andstraight black hair, and abeard that almost hid hissmalltightmouth.Rosecrossedtheroadto

stand beside him. “Howmuch money?” she askedboldly.He looked her up and

down. “You’re prettysmall,” he said. “Give youtwenty-five cents a dayandroomandboard.”

Rose went back towhere Susan waited.“Twenty-five cents a dayisn’t very much,” shewhispered. “We’d onlyhaveadollarandseventy-five cents at the end of awholeweek.I’mnotgoingtodoit.”Susannodded.“No, thank you,” shecalled. They started ontheirway.“Wait!Comehere,boy.I

can see you’re a brightlittle lad. Now if you wasto work hard for me, Imightseemywaycleartogiveyouawholedollar.”Rose looked at Susan.Susan said ina lowvoice,“If I could find work inth’village and earn thesame, at the end of theweek we’d have fourteendollars and we could getback on the train all the

waytoWashington.Ithinkyou might better tell themanyes.”“I’ll do it,” said Rose

and, with those words,began the most miserableweekshehadeverspentinher life.WhileSusanwentoffuptheroadtolookforwork, Rose was led intothe darkness of theblacksmith’sshop.Her chief job was to

wield the bellows so thatthefireintheforgewouldburn hot enough for thesmith to soften hishorseshoes,wagonwheels,and plough points over it.The forge looked to Roselike a big, brick barbequewithoutagrill on topandwithaholeintheside,justunder the firebox, for thebellows to blow airthrough. The bellows was

like a huge fan made ofaccordion folds of leather,attachedatoneendtothefloor, with a large handleattheotherendwhichthebellows boy was to pumpvigorouslyupanddowntodrive theair thatkept thefireroaring.The shop was deep andclose. Its only light camefrom the one door at thefront and the red glowing

fire. The two windows ateither side werepermanently shut andcoveredwithblackdust.Itwas only after her eyeshad become used to thedark that Rose could seewhat else was therebesides the forge, thebellows, and the anvil onwhich the smith poundedthe white hot metal intoshape—the ringing of

metal on metal deafeningto the ears and the flyingsparks frightening towatch. There were kegstoward the back, full ofhorseshoes and nails andspare bits of farmmachinery. There wererings along one side wallfor horses to be tied towhile they were beingshod. There was a bucketfull of cold water, which

Rose was required to cartfrom the well that stoodjust off to the east of theshop. The water was forquenching the hot metalwhen the smith wasfinishedshapingit,anditssizzleandsteammadethewhole shop seem to Roselike descriptions she hadread in books of torturechambersanddungeons.Nor was the smith a

friendly man. He saidnothingallmorningexceptto let loose a long streamof curses if somethingwent wrong. He stoppedonce at midday andbrought out a lunch ofbread, lard,andcheese,ofwhichhegaveRoseaverysmall portion. He had abottle of beer for himself.Rose had water from thewell. The only thing he

said to her as he wasgetting up from his lunchwas “Too hot to work.Farmersbeinallafternoonwith their horses.” Andthey were, from earlyafternoon until theshadows grew long. Theystood around outside andlooked curiously at Rosebut no one spoke to her,while Peter Maas (Roselearned that that was his

name by listening to themen)pokedthehorseshoesintotheglowingcoalswithhis long tongs and shepumped furiously at thebellows, feeling sure, atfirst, that her arms wouldfall off, and then growingsonumbshehardlycared.When evening came at

last, PeterMaas put downhis hammers and left theforge.

“Stay by until the firedies,” he growled andstumpedoffupthelanetohis shack. Rose didn’tknowwhattodo.Shewasvery hungry and so tiredshe was almost fallingover. She waited by thefire. Peter Maas did notcome back. She heardvoices from the village,but no one camenear theblacksmith shop. There

wasno signofSusan.Thefire died down. She fellasleep, her back againstthefrontoftheshop.Whenshewoke,thesunwas coming up over thedistant hills. She got up,drank at the well, andsplashed water on herface. She stretched hertiredlegsandalmostcriedwith the stiff pain in herarms. She was dizzy with

hunger.“Adollaradaywilltake

us toNewYork,” she toldherself grimly, and thatrefrain kept her going forthe rest of the terribleweek. Peter Maas camedownfromhishouseearlythatfirstmorning.“Here,boy,”hesaid(he

never asked her namenortoldherhis),andgaveheranother slice of the thick

brown breadwith lard onit.Hestartedworkatonceand stopped only for hisbrief lunch. That night hetold Rose, “There’s a bedin behind the shop” andleft her another slice ofbread and lard. She slepton a narrow iron cot andsometimes dreamed ofSam or Aunt Nan orGrandmother, too tired tocare where she was. “A

dollaradaywilltakeustoNew York,” she wouldmurmurandfallasleep.“AdollaradaywilltakeustoNewYork,”shewould tellherself as she was gettingup. “A dollar a day willtakeus toNewYork,” shewouldchanttotherhythmof the bellows and thehammer on the anvil. Thefourth evening Susancame.Shewashorrifiedto

seeRosealmostexhaustedand covered with suchblack soot she looked asthough she had beenpainted with stove black.She had had a chance towash not only herself buther clothes and lookedfreshandbright.“Oh, Rose!” Susan was

aghast. “You oughtn’t tobedoingthis.”“A dollar a daywill get

ustoNewYork,”saidRosetiredly. “How are you,Susan?”“I ain’t so bad. I got

work helping outwhere ahiredgirl’s tooksick. Igetfiftycentsadayplusroomand board. Is he feedingyougood?”Rose told Susan about

the bread and lard. Thenext evening Susan camerunninguptheroadwitha

bundle under her arm. “Iain’t supposed to be out,”shewhisperedandranoff.The bundle had in itsome cheese, a tomato, abit of cold beef, and asmall jar of milk. Rosestared at the feast indisbelief. Then shegobbled it all up, stuffingfoodintohermouthlikearavenousdog.Susan did not come

again and Rose figuredthatshemusthavebeenintrouble for bringing thefood. She ate bread andlard and the bit ofnoontimecheese,with thegratefulmemoryofSusan’smeal, until the end of theweek.At the endof theweek,when it came evening,Rose put down thebellows. “I’ve been here a

week,Mr.Maas,”shesaid,“and I’m going to leavenow. You owe me sevendollars.”It took all the courage

shehadtostanduptothatdour, bad-tempered manand ask for her money.Theonly reason shecoulddo it was because therefrain“Adollaradaywilltakeus toNewYork”hadbecomesofirmlylodgedin

herbrainthatitsangitselfevenwhileshewasaskingforherpay.“Seven dollars!” Peter

Maas gave a short laughthat sounded more like aterrier’sbarkthanaman’slaugh.“Sevendollars!Boy,I pay twenty-five cents aday.That’swhatItoldyouwhenyoucome.”Rose turned cold with

anger. “You said if I

worked hard you’d givemeadollaraday.”“As I recall.…” Peter

drewthewordsoutslowly,his face lighting with theonlyhumorRosehadseenin him all week. “As Irecall,Isaidifyouworkedreal hard I might see myway clear to giving you adollar.Ididn’tsayadollara day.” He chuckled,pulled a small roll of bills

out of his pocket, andslowly took one off thetop.Rage blew up in Roselike a Roman candle,straight up and burstingwithheatandspeed.Withnothoughtinherheadbuthow she hated that uglysmile,shereachedoutandsnatched the roll of billsfromhishandandran.She heard horses’

hoovesbehindher,butshedidn’t stop. She heardPeterMaasbellow,“Thief!Thief! Stop him!” Sheheard shouts and thesound of feet poundingafter her on the road. Sheran, her lungs nearlybursting,herlegspumpingfuriously; straight throughthevillagesheran,downaside road, up a farmer’slane,overabridge,offup

aslopeanddowntheotherside, where she stopped.Spent, she clung, like aburr to a blanket, to thesideoftheslope,ahuntedanimal gasping with longshuddering breaths. Sheheard the feet poundingafterher,thesoundhollowover the little bridge.Then, miraculously, sheheard them continue onalongthelane.

Her breath graduallyslowed down. The soundof feet came back—andboys’ voices, loud andlaughing, followed by thesoundofhorses’hooves.“Wouldn’t I give a good

kick to have seen oldMaas’s face when thatfeller stole his money!”saidone.“IjustwishIhadashare

of it,” said another. “Only

feller in the history ofDorland to get anythingoutofoldMaas.”Their voices faded as

they disappeared in thedirectionofthevillage.After a time, Rose

peered out from behindher slope and there,standing perfectly still,wasahorseandrider.Shejumped back, lookingfrantically for a place to

runto.Before she could gather

herselfforflight,sheheardafamiliarvoicesay,“Uponmyword,Ibelieveit’s thelittle Canadian boy underallthatpitch.”Rose came out from

behind the hill. The largedapple-gray horse washappily munching theleavesofawildappletreethatgrewbesidethelane.

“Hello, Hermes,” shesaid.Thehorselookedup,whinnied, and went backtohismeal.“You’rea fine lad,” saidthe man, “a fine lad. Iknew it the second I laideyesonyou.ByJove,yesIdid.” And he began tolaugh that amazing laughthat Rose rememberedfrom their brief encounteroutside Albany. Chortling,

cackling, bellowing,hooting, absurd laughterthat no one listening tocould keep from laughingback at. So, rubbingblacksoot from the corner ofone eye, aching and sore,Roselaughedback.“Heard the wholeexchange, upon my word,hearditall,”saidtheman.“Splendid boy, how muchdid you lift?” And off he

went into gales andwhoops of laughter,slapping his thigh androckinginhissaddle—andall the while Hermes,unconcerned, ate away attheappletree.Roselookeddownatthe

crumpled money she stillhad clutched in her hand.Shesmoothedoutthebillsandcountedthem—elevenone-dollarbills.

“He only owed meseven,”shesaid.“Don’t give it a

thought,” said the man,“not the smallest particleof a thought. Quiteobviously the man is askinflint, a welsher whodoesn’t pay up what heowes. Therefore it wasrightandproperforyoutotakewhatwasyours.And,if you got a dollar or two

more into the bargain,whysomuchthebetterforyou.” And off he wentagain into peals oflaughter.Rose had a momentary

strugglewithherself,knewsuddenly that Susanwouldn’t keep the extramoney, and thrust fourdollars into the man’shand. “Please give itback,”shesaid.

For a moment the manwasspeechless.“Pluckylittlefellow,”hesaid at last, “plucky littlefellow, now what do youpropose to do? Wouldn’tgobacktothatvillagejustnow. Be a foolish move,very foolishmove. Get onwith the excursion if Iwereyou.”“Excursion?”“Indeed.Thepilgrimage,

themarch you’re engagedon, the mission you’veundertaken. Whatever itwas that took you fromyour frozennorthlandandbrought you to our fairlands.”“I can’t,” she said. “Mysister’sbackthere.”“Well,myyoung friend,Idon’tknowhowlongit’sbeen since I’ve had suchamusement. I’ve half a

mind to hire you to keepmeentertained,butsinceIdon’t imagine for amoment that you’d agreeto it, and furthermore Itravel too much toaccommodate you, I’llpolish off the evening infine style for us both, ingratitudeforthediversion.I’llfindyoursisterandbuyyou a dinner into thebargain. All you have to

do is foldupyour fortuneand put it safely away inyour pocket—I supposeyou have a pocketsomewhere under that tar—and I shall take care oftherest.”Bemused,Rosesatdown

besidethehillandwaited,rejoicing in her good luckand at the same time notquite trusting it.Howwasthe man going to find

Susan? He had gone offwithout ever asking whatshe looked like. But nottwenty minutes later, sheheardthebeatofahorse’shooves and then Hermesappearedwith two figureson his back. Susan had alargebundle.The man leaped down

fromhishorseandhandedSusandownwiththegraceof an old-time courtier.

Before either Rose orSusan had a chance tospeak, he bowed to themeach in turn and said,“Thereyouare,myyoungfriends, delivered out ofthe lions’ den. As I havefar to go, and oldHermescannot manage threehuman beings, howeversmallthethird,andasyouare no doubt accustomedto the ways of the road,

pleaseaccept this cash forthemealIpromised.ThenI must be off. I wish, Itruly wish I could availmyself of your company awhile longer as I suspectyour tale is an interestingone—brother and sisteryoumostassuredlyarenot—but alas, I have notime.” With a flourish, hehanded Rose a five-dollarbill. “Now dine in style,

my young friends,” hesaid, “dine in style.AugustusDelfinneyatyourservice.”Doffing his hat,Augustus Delfinney rodeback up the land towardthe village and into thedarkeninghills.“Susan,didyoueverseeanyonelikethatmaninallyourlife?”“No, I ain’t, Rose.”

Susan was not at themoment interested inAugustusDelfinney.“Rose,whathappened?Iseenyourunningandall themboyschasingandIseenthatMr.Delfinney come after. Iwassomescared.Iwenttothe missus where I wasworkingand IgotmypayandsomeotherthingsandI hiked along the way Iseenyou run.Then I seen

theboyscomebackanditwasn’t long before hecomes along on his horseandhesaid,‘Yes,Ibelieveyou’re the young lady I’mlooking for. Come alongup here.’ I started to runand he laughed and comeup close and whisperedthat he knew where mybrother was and heseemed a nice man and IcomeandhereIam.What

didyoudo?”“Have you got anything

to eat in there?” Roseasked faintly, pointing tothebundle.Susan had. She had

bread and cheese, meat,tomatoes, two coldpotatoes,andtwopiecesofpie. She also had a bar ofsoap,a shirtandapairofbritchesandboots,allwellwornbutstillserviceable.

“I asked for ’em insteadof some of the money,”saidSusan.“Itook’emforyou.”Therewasawarmthinthewayshesaidit,anda kind of shyness, thatmade Rose lookquestioningly at her.Without another wordbeing spoken, Roseunderstoodthateverythingwas all right againbetweenthem.Shesighed.

Susan started to laugh.“Oh,my,butyoudolookasight!”shesaid.“Nevermind,”saidRose.“Giveme thedinner.”Shesatdownandateandonlyafterward did she tellSusanwhat had happenedattheblacksmithshop.Three nights later,refreshed, washed, neatlyclothed,wellfed,andwithmoney in their pockets,

thegirlssatonthetrainasitpulledintothestationinNewYorkCity.Rose could not talk for

the excitement that hadcome over her. Therewasa lump in her throat thatfeltasbigasarubberball.Her heart was poundingand she broke outalternatelyinhotandcoldsweats. This was the endof the journey. After New

York everything would beeasy. Nothing bad couldhappen anymore. NewYork was her homeground.Asthetrainjerkedto a stop and theconductor bawled out,“NewYorkCentralStation!Everybody change! NewYork Central Station!Everybody out!” shebeamed at Susan, grabbedher hand, and pulled her

tothefrontofthelineandoutintothestation.The station was bigger,

brighter, the crowd wasthicker and there wasmore noise, but it wasotherwise exactly like theones atOswego, Syracuse,Albany, and Poughkeepsiewheretheyhadgotonthatafternoon.Overtheshoutsof the hawkers, a manwith a megaphone was

calling, “This way to thehorse cars! Come along,ladiesandgentlemen!Thisway to the downtowndepot. Connections toPhiladelphia, Baltimore,andWashington.Thiswaytothehorsecars!”Rose stood absolutely

stillastherealizationsunkin. This wasn’t GrandCentral Station, not theGrand Central Station she

knew, with theinformation desk in thecenter, the big electricsigns at one endand—shelooked up—the star-coveredceiling.Thiswasanotherstationinanothertime,inSusan’stime, inMrs. Jerue’s time,in Peter Maas’s time. Itwasn’t the New York sheknew.She looked around

wildly, refusing to believewhat she saw. She beganto shake and grew dizzyand cold, her knees gaveout,therewasaroaringinherears.Then—blackness.

A

NewYork

s if from far away,voicescameatherlike

soundsinawhirlingwind,rushing near and fadingagain, saying nothingintelligible. Then Susan’s

voice,anxious,closetoherear.“Rose,Rose.”For a second, Rosethought she was back inthe orchard at HawthornBay. She opened her eyesslowly. “Poor youngster,”someone was saying, “Isuppose it’s the heat.Children shouldn’t be outon their own at night likethis.Prettylittleboy,ain’the?”

Thenanarmthrustitselfthrough the crowd and aquiet, authoritative voicesaid, “Drink this.” It waswaterinatincup.Rosesatup and drank it. Shesmiled self-consciously atSusan, who was grippingher hand as though shedarenotletgo.“I’m all right.” She

wished they would all goaway. “Really, I’m all

right.” She stood upcarefully.“Have you had anysupper?”Itwasthewomanwhose arm had profferedthe water, a tall womandressed ingraywithabigredfaceandkindeyes.“I think so. I don’tremember.” Sheremembered leaving theshelter they had foundafter running away from

thevillageofDorland, thetrain ride, the excitementabout coming to NewYork, and the hideousshock of finding out thatNew York Central StationwasnottheGrandCentralStation she had beenexpecting.Ignoring the kind

woman, who was offeringto buy them supper, shesaid urgently to Susan,

“Wecan’tstayhere.”“I know,” Susan agreed.

“Wegot to find thatplaceyou said would hold ourgrip and our money andgetgoing.”Rose looked at her

blankly.“We got to get our

things and our moneyfrom that place you saidkeeps things that gets lefton the train,” Susan

repeatedpatiently.The crowd around haddispersed except for thetall woman, whointervened once more toaskwhattheproblemwas.As briefly as possible,Susan recounted theirmisadventureonthetrain.“Poorchildren,”saidthewoman.“Youshouldn’tbetraveling alone like this. Idoubtverymuchifanyone

has turned in either yourgriporyourmoneybut, ifyou’llwaithere,I’llgoandinquireforyou.”She was back in a few

minutes, during whichtimeRosesatasoneundera spell. Her mind refusedtowork.Susansatbyher,peering anxiously into herface.“I’mafraidno suchgrip

has been turned in,” said

thewoman,“andofcoursenomoney.Ihaven’tmuch,butIcangiveyouenoughforyoureveningmeal.”“We got money,” Susan

assuredher.“You’ll be all right

then.” The womansoundedmuch relieved. “Ihave to catcha train, so Ican’t stay with you anylonger.You’llbefinenow,child. God bless you and

bring you home safely.”With a smile and a nod,she was off, a tall serenepresence amid the noiseand confusion of thestation.“Rose,” Susan was

saying desperately, “ourgrip is gone. It’s like thatJoe Haggerty said. Wewasn’t likely to find itnorour money. All the same,wegotthisfarandwegot

some money and youknow the way from here,so, like you always says,whatwehavetodonowisgetgoing.”RosefollowedSusanlike

a robot through thestation.Theyfoundalittlehorse-drawnbus that tookthem to the downtowndepot at Chambers Streetwheretheyexpectedtogetthe midnight train for

Washington. There theylearned that the train leftfrom Jersey City on theother side of the HudsonRiver.Theywouldhavetotake another bus and aferrytogetthere.Rosewould not go. She

sat down on the nearestbench. “We’ll be inWashington first thing inthe morning, if we go onnow,” Susan urged. But

Rosewouldn’tbudge.“Ifyouwon’tgotonight,then we’d better get us abiteofsupper,”saidSusan.“Yougo.”“It’s because of themthingsyou lost in thebag,ain’t it? That’s what’swrong.”Rose had completelyforgotten her treasures—her book and her musicbox.Shedidn’t careabout

them.Theywere treasuresfrom a world thatsuddenly seemed very faraway. There was nocomfort even in theirmemory.Susan sat down beside

her and tried to coax hertocomeandeat,butRosestill would not move.Susanwouldnotleaveher,so they stayedwhere theywere. Before long Susan’s

head was nodding; sheslumped down on thebenchandslept.Rose sat straight and

unblinking.Theshockhadpassed, leaving her filledwith dark, unreasoningterror. Her entire sense ofwhat was real and whatwas not had been shaken.The feeling of being in adream, which had startedon the schooner on Lake

Ontario, had made eventheworstofthethingsthathad happened bearable.But it had fled the instantshe had set eyes on theinsideofNewYorkCentralStation. Why she hadexpected to see GrandCentral Station—familiar,twentieth-century GrandCentral Station—she didnot know, but she had.And now the world was

shifting and changingaround her and there wasnothing to hold on to. Animage flashed inhermindfrom a science-fictionmovie she had seen, theimage of a man hurledfromhisspaceshipoutintothe black void. And therehe would be rolling andtumbling through blackspace for all eternity. Sheshuddered.

After awhileher sensesbegan to settle, and astheydidtheworldbecamereal toheras ithadneverseemedrealbefore.Colorswerebrighter.Smellswerestronger. Sounds weresharper. She lookedaround. Shewas sitting inthe Chambers Streetrailroad depot in NewYorkCityinAugust,1865.It was oak-paneled, with

benchesinrowsforpeopleto sit on, windows and abigclockatoneend.Therewere not many peoplethere—a young motherwith a crankybaby at theend of the bench, threenuns in long black habitspacing up and down theroom,anoldmansleeping,and two young soldierssittingacrossfromthem.They looked very

ordinary and, like all thepeopleRosehadeverseenor even known, they hadnothing to do with her.That special sense ofbelonging she had hadwhen she had first comeup through the root cellarinto Susan’s world wasgone as completely as thefeeling of being in adream. Shewas just Rose,as ill-fitting in this world

as shewas in the one shehadgrownupin.She stared down at herfeet and they looked likesomeoneelse’s feet. In theboots Susan had got inDorlandtheywerethefeetofDavid, theboy shehadtold everyone she was.And the britcheswere nothers. And shewasn’t RoseLarkin but this otherperson, this made-up

brother of Susan’s. Realitywavered again. Who wasshe now? She began totremble. Then, suddenly,Sam’sfaceflashedintohermind, round and earnestand kind as it had beenthat day in Oswego whenthey had sat on the walltalking. It was goneimmediately,but it settledher again and she wasoncemore solidly back in

the station. Fear did notleave her entirely, but itdwindled to that muchmore ordinary fear ofbeing in a strange place,knowingtherewasnoonebutherself to relyon.Shewas scared and hungryand she wanted to gohome. And home was notNew York. It was AuntNan’s and Uncle Bob’shome at Hawthorn Bay.

She was sad she wouldnever be able to tell AuntNan that she was sorryabout the accident or talkto Sam or play with thetwins. She saw Sam’s faceagain,thistimewithgreatclarity. He was sitting atthe kitchen table,concentrating on playinghis mouth organ. Thetwinswereacrossthetablelistening. Sam looked up,

directly at Rose, and theimagefaded.She sprang to her feet.“There’s got to be somewaybesidestherootcellarto get home!” she almostcried aloud. “If I went toouroldapartmentonEast68thStreet,maybeIcoulddoit.Maybeyoucanshiftinplaceswhereyoulive?”ShelookeddownatSusan.In her sleep, Susan had

slumped over into acrumpled heap of dustyclothes, disheveled hair,andapalefaceallstreakedwith coal dust and dirt.Rose sat down. “It wasbecause of me we camehere,” she told herself.“SusancamebecauseIsaidwehadto.ShethinksIcantake care of everything.”She pushed her hair backfrom her face. In the two

weeks they had been onthe road it had grown sothat it was hot over herforehead.Sheputher facedown in her hands. Sheknew that even if it waspossible to find her wayback to the twentiethcentury by finding East68th Street, she was notgoing to do it. Shehad togo with Susan toWashington, to find Will,

and what was more, shehadtodoitwithoutlettingSusan know how scaredshewas.All night long she satand thought. She thoughtof Will, who had becomein her imaginings like allthesoldiers sheandSusanhad seen. She couldpicturehimalltoovividly,maybewithoutanarmor,worse,his legs.Sheforced

hermind away fromWill,emptying it of thoseterriblepictures,andAuntNan moved in, ill in bed,thebabyhavingdied. Shecould not stand that, soshe thought of hergrandmother, trying toremember how strict andcold and distant she hadbeen, and all she couldremember was how theyhad played checkers

together,andinaburstoflonging she missed hergrandmother sharply.Every thought she turnedfrom led to another morepainful. She got up andpaced around and aroundthe room until dawnfinally came through thehighdustywindows.Susan woke up. They

found that, for ten cents,they could have a wash

basinanda toilet, so theysqueezed themselves intoone small booth andhelpedeachotherwashoffthe dirt from the daybefore. Then they wentlookingforbreakfast.“Two dollars and fiftycents is a terrible price,”the woman behind thecounter of the buffetapologized. “I don’t thinkit’s right, but with butter

fiftycentsthepound.…”“We can’t pay no twodollars and fifty cents forbreakfast,”saidSusan,andRose, as anxious as Susanto make their money last,looked hungrily at thesizzlingeggsandbeefandbaconbutdidnotargue.They foundout that thetrain for Washington leftthe Jersey City station ateighto’clockandthatthey

could take the six forty-five ferry from theLibertyStreet dock. There was ahorsecar,buttheydecidedto save the money andwalk. They had a quickcup of coffee and a bun,which they bought at astand near the entrance.Rose turned to Susan andannounced firmly. “So thething to do, Susan, is toget going.” And Susan

said,“That’sso,Rose,”andtheysetout.

I

ToFindaBrother

t had rained in thenight, and the morning

sun shined up the cobblesonthestreetandmadetheiron knobs of the hitchingposts that stood in a row

in front of the depot looklike polished ebony sticks.Themingledodorsoffreshrain, horses, coffee, andcooking from the foodstalls was strong and notunpleasant.Sparrowsweretwittering and hoppingalong the street after thehorses; pigeons strutted,one eye always on thelookout for crumbs.Already at six-thirty

hawkers were shoutingtheir wares and beggarsclinkedtheirtincups.Rose looked around her

apprehensively. The fearthathadoverwhelmedherin the night stillthreatened. She wantedand she didn’t want toknow what the city waslike.Astheyhurriedalongthestreets,shetriednottoremember the Chambers

andGreenwichandLibertystreetssheknew,thatwerelike dark tunnels smellingof garbage and exhaustfumes from the cars andhuge trucks that werealwayssqueezingpasteachother. She concentratedinsteadonthewagonsandcarts and carriages thatrumbled past the officebuildings, stores, hotels,and private homes—none

of them over six storieshigh. She did not letherself think about East68th Street. When theyreached the ferry docks,bells were clanging, thewhistle was tooting, thehuge paddle wheels werechurning up the water.There was nothing toremind her of the docksand the boats she knew;outon the river, thegreat

sailing vessels, the barges,and the steamboats wereso different from anythingshecouldrememberthatitseemed like a differentharbor. When they haddocked and made theirway to the big, dingyrailroad depot in JerseyCity she was relieved,because she had neverbeentherebefore,sotherewas nothing in her

memorytocompareitto.By this time the girlswere seasoned travelers.They bought their tickets,two sandwiches, and asquare of gingerbread fortheir lunches, and foundtheir train in short order.With the trauma of NewYork behind her, thoughtsof Will came rushing inagain. They were nearingtheir journey’s end and

fears assaulted her, fearsthat could be kept remotewhile there were stillmanymiles to travel, andthe traveling itself couldoccupyall thought.Wouldthey find him? Would hebe terribly changed?Would he be wounded?Sick? What if they couldnot find him? She couldnot bring herself even inherownmind to formthe

question: Would he bedead? She looked over atSusansittingsilentlyintheseat beside her, her eyesclosed, and wondered ifshetoowasafraid.Shedidnotwanttoask.It was not long before

exhaustionhad takenoverand Rose put her headagainstthewindowsillandslept.When she woke thetrainwas pulling out of a

station and Susan wasnudgingheranxiously.“I ain’t sure where we

are.”Rose rubbed her eyes

and, sittingup, sawa rowoftidyhouseswithpaintedshutters and polishedwhite steps, then a long,open vegetable market. Inthedistancewasatallbelltower. “What did theconductorsayitwas?”

“He said something thatsoundedlikeFilaleldelf.”“Philadelphia?”“Yes.”“Well, if he didn’t say

Washington Iguess it isn’ttimetogetoff.”“Rose, you know I

couldn’t ever have donethis without you.” Susansmiled at her warmly. “Ithink you’re wonderfulbrave.”

“No,I’mnot.Really,I’mnot,” Rose answered,surprised.“Yes, you are. You was

brave to come and youwas brave to stick whenthings got bad. I expectyou couldhavegonebackto wherever you comefromanytimeyouwanted,and you didn’t. Youworked for that awfulblacksmith and then, in

NewYork, you never saidnothing about losing allyourthings.”AllRosecouldthinkwashow she had spent theirlast twenty cents inAlbany, how she hadwanted to leave in theChambers Street depot,howmeanshehadbeen.“Iwish I hadn’t spent themoney,”shesaid.“IwishIhadn’thaveleft

the grip with your thingsinitonthetrain.”“Idon’tcareaboutthem

anymore.Youlostallyourmoney.Susan,areyoustillangrywithme?”“Oh, Rose, after all you

done!”“Butareyou?”“No,Iain’t.”“Then I’m glad about

everything else.” Rosesmiled and fell asleep

again.Susan woke her at the

outskirts of Washington.The landwas lowand flatand they could see theCapitol dome rising abovethe church spires in thedistance. As theyapproached the city, theypassed several acres oftents. The conductor toldthem they were armyhospitals.

“Last year there weretent cities almost clearback to Baltimore,” hesaid. “There are a fewregiments still herebecause of the Presidentbeing shot, but most aregone. Even the hospitalsaredwindlingfast.Soonasa feller canwalk, he goeshome—unless, of course,heshipsofftoArlington.”“Arlington?”

“Robert E. Lee’s oldestate, the newgovernment cemetery,miss.”The conductor moved

on, leaving the ominoussentence hanging in theair.It was early evening

when they reached thedepot. “I ain’t sleeping onno train station benchtonight,” declared Susan.

“Andwhat’smore, I wantawashup.Wegotenoughmoneyforaroomifitain’ttoo dear.” They asked theticket agent where theymightfindaplace.“Well,youturnouttobe

a pair of luckyyoungsters,”he told them.“Itjustsohappensthatmysister, a good Christianwoman fromMassachusetts, runs a

boarding house over onSeventhStreet.ThewidowFiske. Her house is rightbehind Brown’s IndianQueenHotelovernearthestageandsteamboatoffice.Youcan’tmiss it.” In casethey could, he repeatedthe directions three timesand finished by saying,“Tell her Harold said youshouldcome.”They had about half a

mile to walk to Mrs.Fiske’s boarding house.Washington wasunbearably hot, even inthe evening, and it wasdampand full of flies andmosquitoes. Washingtondid not frighten Rose thewayNewYorkhad,but itfelt strange—alien. Thetrees had all been cutdown, and the dirt streetswerecrowdedwithpeople,

dogs,cats,cows,chickens,goats, and pigs. The dustflew up in all directionswith every passingcarriageandcart.“At least it ain’t thatawful black coal dust,”saidSusan,wipingherfacewithafilthycloththathadbeen a clean whitehandkerchief only a dayearlier.“Whatdifferencedoes it

make?” asked Rose. “Ididn’tknowapersoncouldget so hot and dirty andstill be alive. There’s coaldust and dirt in my teethstill.There’s coaldustanddirt in my hair. I betthere’s coal dust and dirtin my belly button, and Iknowthere’scoaldustanddirt right throughmyskinandinmyveins.Ican’ttellanymore if I’m a white

personorablackperson.”“Shsh! Rose! They’ll

hearyou!There’ssomanyof’em.Ithoughttherewasa lot when we was inSyracuse, but here there’shundreds.”“Hundredsofwhat?”“Shsh! Black people.

Where did they all comefrom?”“From the south, I

suppose. They were

probably slaves and theycameheretobefreewhenAbraham Lincoln gave hisEmancipationProclamation. Why don’tyouask?”“Rose!” Susan wasshocked. She grabbedRose’sarmandhurriedheron.By this time they wereturning into PennsylvaniaAvenue. TheWhite House

with its deep lawns wasawaytothesouth.Astheyturned north to go up thehill, the Capitol buildingwas in front of them, itsdomegleaming in the latesunlight.Roserememberedher one visit toWashington with hergrandmother, a fuzzymemory of vast whitebuildings, wide tree-linedstreets, parks, and the

huge statue of AbrahamLincoln. This Washington,with its dirt streets,animalsroaminguntendedalong them, and raw uglytree stumps along theavenue, was like a dreamturned inside out. Sheshivered and felt againthatedgeofdarkfear.“It’s nice,” Susan was

saying, not realizing howRosefelt.“Thempalacesis

beautiful, but the restlooksasightmorehomelythan New York. But thereain’tbeensomanysoldiersanyotherplace.”So many soldiers—soldiers everywhere theylooked. Like Susan, Rosepeered anxiously intoevery face,hoping thatbysome lucky chance onemightturnouttobeWill’s.The soldiers, so many of

them disfigured, withoutan arm or leg, made hershudder. In their wearyeyesshesawthepainandhardship of the war theyhadjustfought.They did not find Will,but they did find Mrs.Fiske’s boarding house.Mrs. Fiskeherself came tothe door, a tall womanwith black hair done in atight knob on the top of

herhead.Sharpblackeyesstareddownalongnoseatthem.Hermouthlookedtobe permanently pursed indisapproval. She wore ablack dress with a whiteapron over it, and whenshe talked she jingled thekeys that hung from achainpinnedtoherapron.They told her they hadcome to look for theirbrotherWill.

“Well, don’t standthere.”Hervoicewasshrillandabitnasal.“IfHaroldsays I should take you in,then I’ll takeyou.Lordbepraised, I’m not a one toshirk my Christian duty.Followme!”Sheturnedabriskback,

and Rose and Susanfollowed it down a longdark hall that smelled ofold cabbage and

something they found outlaterwas okra. Theywereled out through a backdoor into a yard wheretwo black people weremixingdoughandhuskingcorn.“You, Sally, and you,John,” said Mrs. Fiske.“Fetchupwaterforabathand laundry.” At herwords,theyputdowntheirworkandwentswiftlyinto

thehouse.Mrs. Fiske turned toRoseandSusan.“TheLorddon’t likedirt.You’llhaveto scrub and scrub good.Youbrotherandsister?”“Yes,”saidRose.“Thenyou canhave thesame tub. When you’redone, you wash up themdirty clothes. I’ll get youclean ones to use whiletheydry.Thencometome

in the kitchen. You canleastwaysmakeyourselvesuseful.Charitycanonlygosofar.”“We ain’t charity,” said

Susanstiffly.“We’re orphans,”

interrupted Rose. “We’renotusedtocharity,butwethankyouverymuch.”Mrs. Fiske’s glance

barely softened as shelookedatRose.“Youseem

toknowhowtobegratefulfor the Lord’s bounty,son,”shesaid.“Nowscrubup smartly.” She turnedand went back into thehouse.“Why’dyouhave to say

that?” whispered Susanfiercely as soon as Mrs.Fiskewasoutofsight.Herfacehadturnedbrightredandshelookedveryangry.“We ain’t charity. We got

money.”“We don’t have that

muchmoney, Susan. She’shorrible,butshe’sgoingtolet us have a bath andclean clothes and a placeto sleep.” Rose knew howtoreachSusan.“Andwhatif, when we find Will, hehasn’tgotanymoney?”“That’s so,” said Susan,

and they sat down on thegrassandwaited.

In a very few minutes,JohnandSallycameoutofthe house carrying a hugeboilerbetweenthem.“Y’all come along herewith us.” John nodded inthe direction of a littlewoodenhutatthebackofthe yard. Inside was alarge wooden tub in themiddle of the floor, and abench along one side.After Sally and John had

pouredthesteamingwaterinto the tub and enoughcold water from the wellout in the yard so thatthey would not scaldthemselves, Sally gavethem a large chunk ofsoap.“There, now,” she saidwith a big smile. “Y’alltakeoffthemfilthyclothesand give ’em to me. I’llscrub ’emup for you, and

Mrs. Fiske ain’t nevergonnaknowwhodoneit.”They thanked her, andafter Sally and John hadgone outside they peeledoff their clothes. “Blackpeopleisnice,”saidSusan,and they got into the tub,gaspingattheshockofthehot water. It smelled ofsteamandwetcedarwoodandstronglye.Whentheywerebothsittingdown,all

squinched up together,their weight pushed thewater so high only theirheadsstuckupaboveit.Rosesighed.“Ithinkthisis the most blissful thingI’veeverdoneinmywholelife,” she murmured. “If Idie right here in this oldtub full of hot water, Iwon’tcare.”They washed theirbodies and their hair and

emerged from theblackened water like twonew pink babies. Theydried themselves on thelarge cloth Sally had leftand put on the cleanclothes they found in apileoutsidethedoor.For Rose there was apair of worn, slightly too-smallbritchesveryliketheones she had taken off,only made of washed-out

gray cotton, and a whiteshirt, much patched, alittlebigandstill smellingof the iron. For Susantherewasadress,madeofthe samedullgraycotton,but neat with a smallround white collar, andunderdrawers. They foundno stockings, so they puton their shoes without.There was no comb orbrush, so they smoothed

out theirhair asbest theycouldwiththeirhandsandwent to look for Mrs.Fiske.The kitchen smelled ofroasting chicken. In thecenter there was a largetable covered withvegetables in variousstagesofpreparation.Mrs.Fiskelookedthegirlsoverbriefly, praised God fortheir new-found

cleanliness, and handedthemeach apile of plateswith instructions to putthem at either end of thebig table in the diningroom—andbesmartaboutit. For half an hour theycarried plates of food tothe twelve non-charityboarders,whileMrs. Fiskecarved meager portionsfromtwochickens.When the boarders had

finished, Mrs. Fiske satRose and Susan down atthe kitchen table, handedthemeachasmallplateofvegetables, and recited along blessing over them.“Now you be quick abouteating as there’s washingup to do.” She left thekitchen.Assoonasshehadgone,Rose jumpedupandwentover towhere theremains

oftheroastchickensstoodon a small side table and,without saying a word,pickedoverthemuntilshehad a handful of bits andpiecesforthetwoofthem.After supper theywashed the dishes for thetwelve boarders. (Mrs.Fiske came in once to putaway the remains of thechicken, looked at themvery suspiciously, and put

it in a cupboard with alockonit.)It was after midnight

when they finally got tobed in a little hot darkroomoverthekitchen.Butthey were up before thefirst sunlight and out ofthehouse.Theycouldhearhummingfromthekitchenand found Sally theregetting the day started.She and John, it turned

out, did not live there.They came everymorningatfivetostartwork.“Where y’all goin’,honey?” she asked, andthey told her about Will.Sally got out two extralargechunksofcornbreadand found some cheese.“Now you hush up aboutthis,” she warned. Thenshe told them asmuch asshe knew about the

hospitals in Washingtonandsetthemontheirwaywith good wishes andprayersfortheirsuccess.TheytrampedthelengthandbreadthofWashingtonthat day. First they wentouttoEighthStreettothehospital that Mrs.Heilbrunner on theOswego train had toldRoseabout.Theytalkedtothe adjutant there. No, he

didn’t know of any boysfromthe81stregiment.“Not too many leavehere except to go to thecemetery,” he told them,echoing the trainconductor’s words. “I’msorry to have to say that,butitwouldn’tdoyouanygoodformetolie.Perhapsyou’d better check atArlingtonbeforeyouwearyourselves out looking in

hospitals.”“Iain’tgoing to.”Susanwas adamant. “I ain’tlooking first in nograveyard.”The adjutant passedthem on to the matronwho told them they couldsearch through thehospital because therewere soldiers there whosememorieshadgone,whosenamesnooneknew.

They walked up anddown the rows of cotslookingintosuffering,sick,and dying faces, bearingthe smell of medicine,rottingflesh,andbadfoodaslongastheycould.Willwas not there.When theyleft, Rose vomited behindthebuilding.Atthehospitaltheyhad

learned the addresses ofothers.Theywenttoallof

them.NooneknewWillorSteve, though they askedwherever they could,walked through longhospital wards, forcingthemselves to look intoeach face. No Will, noSteve. By the time theyhadbeenthroughthethirdhospital, Rose longed tostop, longednever to lookagain into those faces,nevertosetfootinsideone

of those places of misery.Nothing that hadhappened to her, nothingshehadeverimaginedwaslike this kind of suffering.She was on the verge oftelling Susan that shecouldnotbearitanymore,but one look at Susan’swhite face, the grimdetermination in her jaw,and Rose swallowed backthe words, took Susan’s

hand,andwenton.The heat was

overpowering.Outside,theflies and mosquitoes werethick as the dust. Awayfrom the stench of thehospitals, the air stank ofsewage and catalpa trees.The heat shimmered onthe roads. They stoppedonce to buy “ice-coldwater” from a streetvendor—but itwas not, it

was warm as bath water.Rose developed a largeblister on the heel of onefootbutshesaidnothing—about that or anythingelse.Theywere silent andresolutethewholeday.Theytookahorsecartogo out to the tenthospitals, four in a row,and no word of Will orSteve there either. Oneman from upstate New

York was delirious andraving about mayflowers.Susanleanedoverhimandbrushedthehairbackfromhis forehead. “Itmight beWill,”shesaidquietly.“Itisn’tWill.”“It’ssomeone’sWill.”They took the car backinto town. When theyreached Mrs. Fiske’s, shealready had dinner on thetable. She fed them bread

and thin soup in thekitchen.“TheLord’sgreatbounty

hastobeworkedfor,”shetold them severely andprayed over them for halfanhourwhilethesoupgotcold, that they might beforgiven their selfishnesswhentheLord’sworkwaswaiting to be done. Theysaid nothing to her,washed the dishes, and

wenttobed.Earlythenextmorning they found thatSally had left their ownclothesonabenchintheirroom.Theychanged,creptdown to the kitchen,helped themselves to twolarge corn muffins, andsneakedoutthefrontdoor.“Idon’tmindthework,”said Susan grimly, “but Ican’t abide a coldChristian. That ain’t what

thegoodLordmeantustobe.”That day was very likethe one before. Eachhospital they went to,someone knew of at leastone more they might try.Many nurses weresympathetic, and manyconvalescent soldierswanted them to stop andtalk,butallofthem,somegently, some rudely, told

themtheyoughttolookinthe Arlington cemeterybefore they wasted anymore time looking inhospitals.Worn out anddiscouraged, they sleptthat night in the frontroomofalittlehospitalinabuildingthathadbeenabank. Susanwould not gobacktoMrs.Fiske’s.Inthemorning she helped the

nurses.Rosecouldnotfacedressingwounds.Shewentintothekitchen.“I’mverygood at washing dishes,”shesaid.“How are you atcarryingtrays?”askedonebright-eyed girl, thrustinga tray of porridge andtoastandcoffeeintoRose’ssurprised hands. Shecarried the trays to thesoldiers in theirbedsuntil

the job was done, thenstarted collecting themagain.“You reminds me of a

youngsoldierwehadhereawhileback,”saidagray-haired man leaning backagainst his pillow, smilingwanlyatRose.“Youwalkswith the same do-or-dieattitudewhathehad—youand your sister there.”Heinclined his head toward

the next bedwhere Susanwas dressing a bandage.“Come to think of it, hetalked like her, not likeyou.Hecomeherewithacomrade and he nursedthat boy as loving as amother until the boy diedand thepoor fellerwas sostruck by his dying henever went home. Heneversaidmuchtonoone.He just stayed on helping

outandgrowingmoreandmore miserable and thin,till it looked like he’d dietoo.”Susan looked up.“Where’s that feller now,mister?” she asked in aquiet,tensevoice.“I dunno, miss. Seemst’meIheardtellhe’dgoneon to another hospital.There was a nurse herewas powerful good to

them boys and she lefthere. I believe he wentwithher.”“Wherewould thatbe?”

Susanpersisted.“I dunno, miss. Maybe

Matronknows.”When she had finished

herwork,Susanwentintothe little front room thatservedasanoffice for thematron and asked herwhat she knew about the

young soldier who hadstayed to work and goneon to another hospital.Rosestoodinthedoorway,listening.“I did hear somethingabout that,” said thematron. “It was before Icame here. A youngfellow, just a boy, soshattered by the death ofhis friend that he lost hismemoryorsomething.”

“Where might he benow,ma’am?”“You think hemight bethe boy you’re lookingfor?”“Mightbe.”“I see. Well, girl, youmight go over toGeorgetownand try there.Thereareacoupleofsmallhospitalsthere,andIthinkone of the nurses fromherewenttoGeorgetown.”

The matron gave Susandirections and they leftquickly.Theysaidnothingto each other during thehalf-hour trip toGeorgetown in the horsecar, or walking the shortdistancetothehospital.At the hospital, they

found a tired-lookingelderly woman. In a lowvoice, Susan asked aboutWill and Steve and told

herthestorythathadbeentoldthemthatmorning.“Just a minute,” the

woman said, “wait here.”And she went off insidethehospital.When she came back

moments later, she said,“I’m not sure. I’m not aregular nurse at thishospital. I’m here onlybecause my niece camedown with typhoid fever.

I’ve just come thismorning. I don’t have thenames of any of thepatients, and I can’t evenaskasthemenhereareallinaverybadstate.There’sonly one other nurse herenow and she’s sleeping.But there’s certainly noboy like the one youdescribe. I really can’t tellyouanymorethanthat.”Susanturnedawayfrom

the door and said, staringstraight in front of her, “Iguesswe got to go out tothe graveyard.” Her facewasexpressionless.Mutely Rose nodded.She asked directions andwithina fewminutes theywere on the road toArlington.Itwasonlyamileandahalf across the PotomacRiver and up a long hill.

They did not speak andthey did not look at eachother. They stopped for amoment at the foot of thehill. They could see theArlington cemetery abovethem.Asolitaryfigurewascoming through the gate.They walked slowly,quietly, up the hill,watching him cometoward them. As he drewlevel, they saw he was a

soldier. Suddenly Susanstopped. She drew in herbreathsharply.“Hello, Susan,” said the

soldier.“Oh, Will,” said Susan,

“yougotsothin.”

S

RichmondIsaHardRoadtoTravel

usan and Will stoodstaring at each other

stupidly. Will movedforward a step. “Steve’s

dead,”hesaid.“Iknow.”The nextmoment Susanhad her arms aroundWillandhewassobbing.Rose stood backwatching, not knowingwhat else to do. She wasbewilderedbyfindingWilllike this and by thestrangeness of him.Althoughshehadseenhimthedayhehadgoneoffto

war, her memory of himwas as he had been thatday they had spenttogether in the boat andthe orchard, a day thatnow seemed like threeyearspast,notonlyinWilland Susan’s lives but inhers. This Will was notonlytall,oversixfeet,buthisruddyfacehadbecomepale as parchment and hewasthinandhelookedso

old. An old man, andSusan had her armsaround him and he wassobbing.Afteratime,SusantookWillbythehandasthoughhewere a small child andled him to the bench bythe cemetery gate wheretheysatdown.Hesatverystill, holding tightly toSusan’s hand. He lookedup.

“Hello, Rose,” he said.“Thereyouare.”“Yes,it’sme.”“Whatyousaidwastrue

about where you comefrom.”“Yes.”“You ain’t got any

older.”“No.”“I guess it don’t matter

none.”Will turned back to

Susan.“Youwasright,”hesaid. “You was right, itwasn’tnogood.”Hebegantalking in a low, tiredvoice. “I never once tooksick,butSteve,hegotshotup at Cold Harbor rightsoon after we joined upand then, when he tooksick after Petersburg, hewas weakened and henever got shut of thesickness.”Willpausedand

looked down at theground. “He was a yearyoungerthanme.”“I know,” said Susan, “Iknow. You want to tellwhathappened,Will?”Quietly Rose went overandcurledupundera tallyew tree that stood at alittle distance from thebench where Will andSusansat.Willbeganagaininthat

same low, tired voice,almost as though hewerereciting a story he hadlearned by heart and didnotwanttotellbutfelthehad to. “We joined up inOswegoandwewasplentyscared, but we was prettybucked up about it, too.‘We’llgettoRichmondandshow them Johnny Rebswhocanleavethiscountryand who can’t!’ That’s

what Steve said. Irememberhimsayingitaswe marched down thestreet toward therecruiting office on WestBridge Street. Theywasn’ttoo particular about howold we was as they wasgetting pretty desperateformenby that time.Thesergeantatthedeskwasabig-shouldered feller, withbristly black hair and

beard, the kind that lookslike a logger no matterwhathedoes,andhe saidwe was fine fellers andhow glad Uncle Sam wasgoing to be to have usfighting for him. We wasso proud and excited wewas likely tobust. I said IknewthefifeasIfigureditcouldn’t be so differentfrom the flute, and Stevesaid he knew the drum.

Steve, he always figuredhe could do anything hesethismindto—andmostalways he could, too. Thesergeant said we was tojoin the81st Infantry,andhegiveusmoneyandtrainticketsanduniforms.“I remember the day

was grand. You mind itwas early May and thetreeswas in bud. The skywas blue as a bluebird’s

wing that day and thereweren’tnocloudsatall.Itwas warm—awful warmforthemuniforms—butwedidn’tcare.Weput’emonstraightawayandmarchedus down to the trainstation with the sweatpouring down inside, andRobert E. Lee himselfcouldn’t have made ustake off them coats. Youknow, Stevewas almost a

foot shorter than me, butthem quartermasterscouldn’t really see nodifference. The uniformswas the same size, amitesmall for me and a goodbitbigforSteve.Wedidn’tevenmindthat,andwhenwe got down to camp inVirginny we made tradeswith fellers that had oursize.“Wetook the train from

Oswego to WashingtonandthenwewentbyboattoWestPoint inVirginny.Itwasprettyswell.Peoplewasalwayscheeringusonand giving us grub andsmiling and waving. Wefelt pretty near on top ofthe world. At West Pointwewastogetourtraining.Theydidn’tneednofifers,nor no drummers neither,so we was made just

ordinary soldiers and,what’s more, we wasn’tthere much more than aweek before we wasneeded so bad in theregimentwewas declaredtrained. Stevewaswild toget started.As soonaswegot to Virginny we foundoutthatthe81sthadbeenfighting at Proctor’s Creekand Drewry’s Bluff andthat themplaceswasonly

a few miles fromRichmond.“ ‘They’ll get there

before we ever even getgoing,’ he kept saying.Ever since he’d read thatstory about putting thefirstAmericanflagupoverBennington Hill in therevolution in 1776, he’ddreamedofbeingasoldierandraisingtheflagforthecountry. And all the way

down on the train he’dsay, ‘We’re going to putthat flag up overRichmond,Will.Iknowit!I know it! We’re going toputthatOldGloryupoverthatcity,andI’mgoingtobe the boy that does it!’And he was scared, reallyscared the army’d getthere before he got to beinit.Buttheydidn’t.Theydidn’t.”

Will fell silent. Hiswords hung in the stillafternoonair likedropsofwater in a spider’s web,fragile. His voice was soquiet, they barely heardhimwhenhebeganagain.“It wasn’t more than

three days before we wasin battle at Cold Harbor.Cold Harbor wassomething I never evenhad nightmares about

beforehandtogivemeanykindof an ideaofwhat itcouldbelike.Eventheoldveterans said it was theworst battle they’d everseen—worse thanManassas, worse thanChancellorsville, somesaid. Itwas hot as a bakeovenandtheduststucktoyour sweat like plaster,and it was so thick youcouldn’t see who was

friendandwhowasfoe.“And the Rebs waswaitingforusonthefield,all dug in their trenchesnice and cozy, and theyshotusdownaswemovedinlikewe’dbeenaflockofpigeons. On the first dayour regimental colors wastaken.CaptainBallardandCaptain Martin was killedand I think it was fiveother captains wounded

from our regiment. Somesaid more than half themenandboyswhostartedout that morning was leftdeadordyingonthe fieldthat night—not just fromourregimentbut fromthewhole Eighteenth Corps.Therewasafifernotmorethan nine years old lyingdeadnearus.“And it went on fortwelve days. Twelve days!

And in the nights, whenwewas franticallydiggingus trenches with anythingwe could get to hand,them mortars was flyingover with their fuses likeangry little red shootingstars through theblackness, and us neverknowing where they wasgoing to land. And thesoundofbattleneveroncelet up—like some devil’s

music, the screaming bitsof shell, the bullets andbars, the bugles blaring,the drums pounding, thehorses and the menscreaming.“And the men dying.

When they die, you knowhow theydie?They jump.Theyshout.Theycry.Andthey fall. You go into arage and you want to getthemdevilswho’sshooting

atyou.That’sallyouthinkabout. Then the battle’sover for the day. Thesmoke and the dust startsto settle. The vultures—them big ugly turkeyvultures—starts to wheeland circle around in thesky, looking for theirdinners, and the smell ofthe dead is somethingawful. You look aroundandtherageisgoneoutof

you and you don’t hardlyknow yourself or yourcomradesneither.“There’s dead andwounded men lying allover the field, moaningandgroaning,andthoseofus who wasn’t hurt wastryingtogetthembacktosafety, and sometimes wecouldandsometimesthemSecesh devils keptshooting and never once

lettingusnear.“Twelvedaysitwaslike

that in them swamps andfieldsandbriarpatches. Itwas on towards the endSteve got shot. He wassome fighter. Idon’t thinkhe figured he could die.While the rest of us spentas much time crouchingdown in the trench like abunch of scaredgroundhogs, Steve’d just

puthisheadandhis armsupand let flywithroundsof shot. We stayedtogether all the time so Iwasrightbesidehimwhenit come, and he was somad he was set to runright up out of the trenchandget thatblack-heartedrebelwhodone it. Ineverstopped to think itthrough. I just hauled offandsockedhiminthejaw

and put him out cold. Iexpect hewould have gotkilled right there if Ihadn’t, and many’s thetime since I wished I’dhave let him. But I guesswhat was at the back ofmymindwasthatIwasn’tgoing to go through thewholethingwithouthim.“Hegot shot in thearmright up close to theshoulder. Nobody thought

too much about it,excepting to dress it, onaccount of there was somany so much worse off.Captain Raulston said hewas a fine lad, and at theendofthemtwelvedaysinhellwewasmarchedofftoPetersburg, just south ofRichmond. There was sofew of us left after ColdHarbor—notathirdoftheregiment—there was only

enough to make fourcompanies. We hadn’t thetime to mourn, we wasneeded so bad, and threedays later we was atPetersburg where theSecesh had their suppliesdefended.“That General Grant he

figured if we could crossthe Chickahominy Riverand get to Petersburg Wecould knock down those

defensesandstarveouttheRebs. Then we’d be inRichmond in no time. Hejust kept us going andgoingandgoing.Wehadabattle.Welostit.SoGrantsettled us all down in thetrenchestoseeifwecouldstarve them out. But wecouldn’t, and after a fewweeksofthatwewasbackin the Bermuda Hundredwhere the regiment had

started from. I figure itwas about that time Stevetook the fever, but henever let on—not even tome.”Will stopped again.Susan said nothing but,even from where she satunder the yew tree, Rosecould feel the comfort ofSusan,patientandloving.And there was comfortin the quiet afternoon, in

the dappled shade of talloak trees and the thickershade of yew and cedar.Up beyond the gate,beyondthegraveyard,wasa white pillared mansion.It looked old and settled,almost as though itmighthave stood there forever.Down below the hill, thePotomac River flowedgentlytowardthesea,andbeyond it was the golden

dome of the Capitolbuilding.Itwouldbenightbefore Will had finishedhisstory.“And after a while”—

Willpickeduphistale—“itwasasthoughtherehadn’tnever been nothing butdust and filth, and badsowbelly and beans andmush—and dying men.Steve took to it right off.He figured it was a good

life, evenafterhehad thewound. I could never seehow come he did, but Iguess Steve was like that.Even when we was littlehewas alwayswanting towalk on the edge of cliffsor climb to the top oftrees,orrunintofieldsjusttoscarethebulls.Notme.I used to admire him anawful lot for being brave,but I thought some of

them things was foolish.All the same, when Stevewas around doing thosecrazy things, everythingseemedexciting,andwhenhe talked about going towar, I felt the excitement,too. I was so full of gloryandhallelujahIhadtogo.But I never took to it likehe did. All I could thinkwas, we had to win. Ifiguredwehadtosavethe

country, but many’s thelongnightIlayawakeandjust prayed for it to beover.AndInevertooksickand I never once gotwounded—just tired ofmarching.“Of course it wasn’t allhorrible. In the eveningswe’dplaycribandeuchre.Somebody’dmadea fiddleout of a cigar box andanotherfellerhadamouth

organ and we’d sing.Sometimes we’d go onforagingpartiesandswipechickens—things we’dnever dream of doing athome—only of coursethere wasn’t much left toswipe in Virginny, mostlyjust berries to pick alongthewaywheretheywasn’tburnedout.“Wenevergotoutofourdirty clothes from one

month to the next, andafter a time we wascrawlingwithlice.“It felt like we’d beenmarching back and forthfrom one hot, dusty,burned-out spot inVirginny to anotherforever before I found outaboutSteve’s sickness.Wewassittingbytheroadsidefinishing off a ration ofhardtackandcampcoffee,

and itwashotter thantheflamesofhellandtheonlybreeze for miles aroundcame from Tim Arepywhistling ‘Rock of Ages’through his teeth. Iremember Billy Nassetsitting down the way apiece, polishing off hiscoffee, getting up,stretching and belching,and saying inhisbig loudvoice, ‘Well, so much for

the steak and potatoes.Where’s the cake and icecream?’ and I looked overto Steve to say somethingandtherehewas,thecolorofputtyandshakinglikeabalm of Gilead tree in ahighwind.And I realized,all of a sudden, that he’dbeensickforquiteawhile.You know how it issometimes when you findsomething out and you

knowyou’ve reallyknownabout it fora longtime?Istared, and before I couldsayanythingheturnedhishead and saw me lookingat him, and he knew Iknewhewassick.“‘Youain’ttotell,Will,’hesaid.‘Iain’tgoingtonohospital. I’m going toRichmondandputupthatflag.’Andhelookedatmeinthatkindofwayhehad

thathadalwaysgot tomeand always made me dothingsforhimorwithhimI hadn’t thought right orproper, or hadn’t muchwanted to do. So, beingthekindofcowardIam,Ipromised. And we wenton. Sometimes Steve wasbad and sometimes heseemed okay, but as thesummerwentonheleanedon me more and more

while we marched andmany’sthetimewearguedabout taking him tohospital, but he alwayswon. ‘Youpromised,Will,’he’dsay,andI’d justhaveto give in. I’d have to goalong, though now I don’tknow why. He wanted itso fierce. And when wewas sent up to New YorkinNovember,tohelpkeepthepeaceincasetherewas

riots during the election,he was scared out of hismind that he wouldn’tmakeitbackintimetogetto Richmond when shefell.Andallthatwinterhegot sicker and sicker—much sicker than I knewbecause he kept himselfgoing, God knows how.He’d just made up hismindhewasn’tgoingtobetoo sick to fight, and

somehowhestayedonhisfeet—most of the timeanyways.But all the samehewas changing. The fireinhimwasgone.Hedidn’ttalk much or make jokesanymore, and in someways he was like a littlechild. He’d say, ‘Don’t goon without me, Will,’ or‘Youwon’tleaveme,Will?Don’t go—stay here—waitfor me—where are you

going?’ Itwas likehewasusing my energy to keephim going, and he wasafraid to letmeoutofhissight.AndIbegantowishto God I could be shut ofhim for fiveminutes—justfiveminutes.“ThenonedayIcouldn’tstand it. We’d comethroughthewinter. ItwasMarch. Spring comes toVirginny in March like it

comes in May up home,only the birds and theplants ain’t all exactly thesame.Thismorning itwasfine, as fine amorning asI’d ever seen in my life.Thecardinalswasscoldingin the holly bushes andthembigmagnoliaflowerswas in bloom, in a treeover by an abandonedfarmhouse. I’d stood up,justtogetmyselfastretch

andsnifftheair,andStevecried out straight away,‘Where are you going,Will?’ and I just foundmyself shouting at him,‘Home. That’s where I’mgoing, home,’ and I runoff. I hadno ideawhere Iwasgoing,Ijustwent.“I ran and I ran until Icome to a bit of a woodsand a pasture beyondwhere there was a fence.

Mostofthefencehadbeentaken away, but back bythisbitofwoodstherewasjust a piece of it left, allgrownoverwithawildivyvine like them vines thatgrows around Bothers’fence up by the swamp.And there wasn’t nobodythere but me, and I wascome over sudden withsuch homesickness that Ithrewup.

“When Iwasdone I gotupand I stoodholdingontoanoldoaktreewithmyarms tightaround it and Ibawled until I couldn’tbawlnomore.“WhenI’dsettledmyself

a little I thought abouthow awful it was, howmeanofmetohaverunofflike that and say I wasgoinghome.Iwasn’tgoinghome.Iletgothetreeand

headed back towardscamp. Then I heard arustling in the underbrushand in two seconds I wasface to face with adesperate-looking fellerandhehadaknife.“Iwasn’tnevermuchofa boy to fight, you mind,eveningamesbackhome,though by this time I’ddone plenty of it. I didn’twanttofight,butthisboy

had a knife. He wasshorterthanmebyquiteagood deal but wider andhe looked strong. He hadstraightblackhair,blackerthan Steve’s, and it washanging around his dead-white face. His eyes waslike black coals and theylooked as though they’dkillmeiftheycould.“Wetookthemeasureofeach other and I reached

outquickandgrabbedhimby the arm that had theknife.Hewasquickandhemade a pass at my facewith that arm, eventhoughIhadaholdofit.Iducked away and tried tograbholdoftheotherarm,but he was too quick andhe got a hold of my hairandhepulled.Ikickedoutand tripped him up, andover the fence we went,

the both of us rolling inthe nettles and gruntingand panting and rollingover and over and over.And something inme thathadbeenburningletlooseon this black-eyedmurderer,andIkickedandgrabbed and punched andheld on to that arm thatkept coming up to myeyes,mythroat,myribs,itmust have been a dozen

times.“Oncehegrabbedmebythe throat with the otherhandandIthinkhewouldhave won, but we rolleddowna little hill and intoa creek. It surprised thebothofussomuchhelosthis grip for a minute andheletgoofmythroatandthe knife both at once.Nowhewasstronger thanmethoughhewassmaller,

but I didn’t want to die,andwhen I got the upperhand I let him have it. Ipunched him in the gutand I blacked his eyes,both of ’em, and punchedhis nose until it pouredblood over both of us.Then I pounded his headuntil he cried out. Then Isat on him andwe glaredateachother,himwithhiseyesblackerbytheminute

andmewith themarks ofhisthumbonmyneck.“‘Ify’allmeant’killme,Yankee, get doin’ it,’ hesaid, and I looked himright in his black rebeleyes and I could see theywasn’t but ordinary eyes,scared but brave too, andhe wasn’t but a boy,probablyyoungerthanme.I reached over into thecreekwhere theknifewas

layingandIpickeditup.IlookedatitandIlookedathim. I couldn’t kill himlike that, like slaughteringachickenorapig.“I got up off him. ‘Getup,’Itoldhimandhedid.I knewhewasa rebel, hetalked like one. But hedidn’thavenouniformon.He had on a pair ofbritches might have beenmadeforagiant,andthey

was tied on him with astring.“ ‘You skedaddling?’ Iaskedhim.“Hedidn’tsaynothing.“‘Whereyoufrom?’“‘Tennessee.’“ ‘Is that where you’regoing?’“‘Idunno.’“ ‘Wherever you’regoing,youbettergetthereandfast.’

“He ran. I listened tohim crashing through thewoods and I nevermoveduntilnotonlythesoundofhimwasgonebutthebirdsand the squirrels hadstopped scolding andscreamingaboutit.ThenIdoused my head good inthe creek. I kept his knife—stillhaveit—andIwentback to camp feelingbetterabouteverything.

“Itwasn’tlongafterthatwe moved into Richmondandthewarwasover.Ourregimentwasfirstintothecity, just like Steve hadsaid right along it wasgoing to be. It was thethird of April, a Monday,not a day I’m likely toforget. We was campedoutside the city the nightbefore, and all that nightthe city burned. The rebs

hadfiredherup,litupthearsenal, and the wholecity’d caught fire. Whenwe marched in at eight oclockinthemorningtherewasn’t nothing but ruinsright up to the capitolbuilding.“Like I said, ourregimentwasthefirstintothecity,anditwasusthatputupthefirstflag,butitwasn’tourcompanyandit

wasn’t Steve, though bythat time he didn’t muchcare. He was just glad tosee it go up.Wemarchedin right behind thecompany of coloreds thatwas first in. We marchedstraight to the prisonwhere the Union soldierswas kept. We opened thedoors and let them out;then we pulled down therebelflag.

“Up went the Stars andStripesandthefiferplayed‘GloryHallelujah,’andourboys was cheering andshoutingsoloudyoucouldbarelyhearthemusic.AndIlookedatSteve’sface.Hewasstandingthere,sortofleaning against me,looking at that flag andglowing like he’d seen anangel.“And there was others

thesame,butnotme.”Will stopped.He lookedat Susan and, for the firsttime during that whole,long recital, his voicebroke. “Susan,” he said,“you was right. I stoodthere in Richmond. Therebs had gone. The townwas all but burned rightout. The war was almostdone. I looked up at theflag going up over the

LibbyPrison,anditwasn’tmy flag. I listened to allthemshoutsandlookedatallthemjoyfulfaces,andIknew that what you saidback in the orchard athomebeforeItookoffwastrue. It wasn’t my war,Susan. It just wasn’t mywar.”Will put his face downinto his hands, and therewas such an air of utter

despair about him thatRose, listening under hertree,wantedtogetupandput her arms around him.But the story he had toldhadbeenforSusanandthedespairhewaswrappedincould only be broken byher. Instinctively Roseknew that and stayedwhereshewas.After a few moments,

Willsigheddeeplyandsat

upstraight.“That night old Abe

come in to Richmond toseehow thingswas and, Iexpect, tocheeruson.Hewas a strange-lookingman, like a couple ofscarecrows set above oneanothertomakeoneawfultall thin man with a highsilkhatontop,buthisfacewas something wonderfuland,youknow,Susan,the

preacherwouldlikelysayIwas blaspheming but Ithought tomyself that if IcouldpaintapictureofthefaceofGod,that’showI’dmakeit.“Hewalkedrightbyme,not just when we wasstanding on parade butafterwards, when I wasstanding guard by thecapitol building, and Icouldn’t stop myself—I

reached out and touchedhis arm.He never noticedbutIfeltagladnessinme.And then, not two weekslater, on Good Friday, hewasshotinthattheaterbythatcrazyBooth.Andyouknow,Susan,Ifeltasifthesun had got turned off. Inever feltexactly like thateven when my own padied, and Pa was a goodman.”

Willturnedhisworncapslowly around in hishands. “There’s not muchmoretotellafterthat,”hesaid. “We stayed inRichmond about a week,guarding the miserableruins,tryingtomakesomekindoforderofthem,andall the while we werethere Steve got sicker andsicker.Itwaslikehe’djustgivenuponcetheflagwas

up over Richmond. Wewasn’t camped with ourowncompany,Godknowswhy.ThingswasjustsomemixedupandIdon’tknowwhen our boys left thecity. To tell the truth, thehearthadgoneoutofme.All I could think was I’dgone through all that helland it hadn’t ever hadnothingtodowithmeandworse, oh so much worse

than that, if it hadn’t ofbeen for me Stevewouldn’t have gone, notallbyhimselfhewouldn’t,andIwassosickatheartIwas like to die. So Iclearedusout. Igotusona boat going down theriver. There’s a song weused to sing that saysRichmond is a hard roadto travel, and all the waydowntheJamesRiverand

upalong thebayand intoWashington,sittingonthatdeckwithStevelyingwithhisheadonmyknees,allIcould thinkwas,maybe itis, but it ain’t so easycomingbackeither.“We’d passed throughWashington on our waydown from New York inNovember, and Irememberwhatoneoftheboyssaidwhenheseenthe

White House. He said, ‘Itsuredon’tlookmuchlikeahouse I’d live in. I’d surelike to tradewitholdAbea few days.’ We’d alllaughed and had a goodtime. But when we comeback,Steveandme,itwasadifferentkindof feeling.Hewassomewhereelse inhisheadprettynearallthetime by then, and I justlived every day with this

lumpoffearatthebottomof my stomach. A captainfrom the New York 125thtook us in charge and gotus to the hospital. Stevenevergotnobetter.Therewas times he’d know meandsitup,hiseyessortofwild, and say over andover, ‘Promise me, Will,you promise me you’ll letme stay and get us intoRichmond.’ Other times

he’d be back playing ballin Oswego or calling outfor Aunt Min. Once, justonce, he sat straight upandlookedatmeasifhe’dknown right along whatwasgoingon,andhesaid,‘Will,youain’tgoingtoletme die?’ and he grabbedmebythehandsohardallI could think to say was,‘No, Steve, I ain’t,’ but ofcourse there wasn’t

nothingIcoulddoaboutitand he died a week afterthat and the last thing hesaidwas, ‘Don’t leaveme,Will. Promise!’ I don’tknow how long we wasthere and I don’t knowhow long it’s been sincethen. We buried him outhereatArlingtonand,likeIpromised,Iain’tlefthimalone. I stayed for a timeat that hospital where he

died. Then there was thiskind nurse that tookherself over to the littleplace in Georgetownwhereallthedyingfellowswas and I figured Imightaswellgoalong.SoIdid.”Will stoppedat last.His

face lookedgrimandveryold. In the silence thatfollowed his story, Roserealized that withouthaving been aware of it

she had been crying.Shakily, she wiped thetearsfromherface.Butallshe said was, “Let’s gohome.”

S

I’mNotComingHome

usan stood up, pullingWill with her. “That’s

whatwehavetodonow,”she said decisively. “Wehave to go home. Will,

your ma’s going to besomegladtoseeyou.”“Susan, I ain’t goingwithyou.”“What?”“Iain’tgoingwithyou.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“I promised. I promisedSteveI’dstaybyhim.”“Will,Steve’sdead.”“And if I hadn’t havebeensostupidhewouldn’tbe.”

“Stupid? You meanbecauseyoupromisedyouwouldn’t take him to thehospital?”“I should have taken

him no matter what hesaid.”“But that don’t mean

because you promisedsomething and it turnedoutwrongyougottokeepanother promise—especially when the

person’sdead.”“Yes, itdoes.That’s justwhat it does. Don’t yousee,Iwaskindofinchargeof Steve. He was youngerthanme, so I had to takecareofhim.AndI lethimdie. The only thing I candonowforhimis tokeepmywordtohim.”“Will, ain’t you hadenough of the dead anddying? It ain’t like you.

You was always a one tolove the living things.Rememberhowitwasyouwho found the firsttrilliums in the woods inspring? And knew wherethe lady’s slippers grewand wouldn’t tell no onebut me for fear someonewould spoil ’em?Andyouwas the one to help yourpa with the lambing evenwhen you was real small.

It’s themliving thingsyoubelong to, Will. Steve’sgone, and it’s terrible sad,butthereain’tnothingyoucan do to bring him backthoughyousitheretillyoudieattheageofahundredor more. You’ll go crazylikeyourma.”“Iain’tcomingwithyou,

Susan.”“Will,youhavetocome.

Susan’s right about when

people are dead. They’rejustdead,andyoucan’tdoanything about that. Iknow,”Rosesaid.WillstaredfromRosetoSusan and back again. Hestuffed his hands into hispants’ pockets and pacedback and forth, swearingtohimself.Thenhestarteddownthehill.“I don’t want to talkaboutit,”hesaidharshly.

“Come on, we don’tneedtostayhereallday.”In single file they

walked toward the road.Out on the hillside therewere fields of corn andpastures where cows andhorsesweregrazing.Inthedistance the late sunlightmade a fairytale palace ofthe gold dome of theCapitol building. It wasquiet and beautiful, but

none of them noticed. Allthree were thinking theirown thoughts. Theyreached the road and, insilence, continued ontoward the river, onebehind the other likechildren playing follow-the-leader.Rosethoughtofthe time she had toldSusan about spending themoneyandSusanwouldn’twalkwith her. In front of

her, she heard a muffledsob. She quickened herstep and caught up withSusan.Susan’s head was down

and tears were runningdownhercheeksandchin,and making little muddyrivers down the front ofherdress.“Have you been crying

all this time?” whisperedRose. Susan nodded. The

tearswentonfalling.“IsitbecauseWillwon’t

come?TothinkIworkedawhole week for thathideousoldgargoylePeterMaas just sowe could gethere! I’m not giving upnow! We’ll find a wayyet.” Rose quickened herstep and moved ahead tokeep up with Will’s long,marchingstride.“Susan’smiserable,” she

said.Will said nothing. Rose

put her hand on his arm.Heshookitoff.“She’s crying,” Rose

repeated. “We came allthis way to get you. Youcan’t just say, ‘I ain’tcoming,’ and let us go allthewaybacktoHawthornBay,Canada,withoutyou.We had a very hard timegettinghere.”

Noresponse.“Will Morrissay, I thinkyou must be the moststubborn person in all theworld—”Shestopped.Willwas looking down at her,and behind his tired eyesRosecouldseethepainofwhere he had been andwhat he had seen. It wasalmost like a physicalblow.Herfirstinstinctwasto shield herself from it.

Thenshewanted toshieldWill. She grabbed hishand. She wanted to crytheway Susanwas cryingforWill, for Steve and allthoseothers,forthehorrorof war, which she didn’tunderstand but felt thedeep sadness of. Shetrembled from the griefthat welled up inside her.But she did not cry. Shecould not, because of the

terror in thegripWillhadon her hand. Sheunderstood about terrorand she held on to him,willing herself to be asstrong as he thought shewas.After a while Will

realized he was holdingRose’s hand in a crushinggrip, and he let go andwalkedonmoreeasily.Byand by Susan moved up

beside him and theywalked along the riverroad, and through thestreets to the hospital,threeabreast, inunspokencompanionship.“Iseeyoufoundhim.”It

wasthesamewomanwhohad opened the door tothem earlier in the day.“I’llgetMatronforyou.”Theywentinsideand,in

a moment, a round,

motherly-looking womanappeared. When she sawRoseandSusanwithWill,herfacelitup.“So,” she said, “you’ve

come to take my boyhome.”“He won’t come,” said

Susan.Matron looked at Will,

who stared stubbornlybackather.“I see,” she said, and

nothing more except, “Iexpect you’re ready foryoursuppers.”Tiredly they ate cold

beefandpotatoesandcornin the kitchen. Will slept,aswas his habit, on a cotjust inside thedoorof theroom where the sick andneedy patients were.MatronfoundcotsforRoseandSusanandputtheminan upstairs room. The

roomhadlongwindowsinthe front that looked outon the street and a highceiling with plastermolding around it carvedintheshapesofgrapesandstrawberries and melonsandleaves.“Ibetitwasawonderful

room when it had all itsfurnitureanddrapes,”saidRose.“I guess so,” Susan said

and, apart fromwhispering prayers toherself, she said nothingelse. She curled herselfinto a tight ball like akitten, and after a timeRose heard her breathingdeeply.Rose lay watching theshadow of the housemaking arrows and anglesinthemoonlightacrossthefootofhercot.Theimages

Will had put in her headwere still fresh and sharp,andstrongerevenwas thelook she had seen in hiseyes as they had walkedtogether on the road fromArlington. She thoughtabout Will, so weary andgrieved, and the way hehad been that day in theboat, so eager and full ofdelight. She rememberedthatshehadthoughtabout

marryingWill.Shethoughtabout Susan, who wantedonly one thing, to haveWill home, and about herown self not reallyknowingwhat shewantedorevenwhoshewas.“Being a person’s too

hard,” she thought. “It’sjusttoohard.”She got up. Sheput her

clothes on and wentdownstairs, through the

hall, through the longhospital ward where themen snored and groaned,and into the smallerwardbehind itwhereWill sleptjustinsidethedoor.She leaned over and

shookhisarm.He sat up, looking

around him with quick,jerking movements, andreached for somethingbeside his bed thatwasn’t

there.“Will, it’s me, Rose. Iwanttotalktoyou.”He swerved around andfocused on her.He sighedinobviousrelief.“Okay.” His voice wastired,fullofresignation.“I’llwaitforyououtsideintheback,bythekitchendoor.”“Okay.”The door out of the

kitchenledtoasmallyardvery like the one at Mrs.Fiske’s. Rose sat down onthe doorstep. The moonwas high above thebranches of the catalpatreethatstoodatthebackof the yard, and by itslightRosewatcheda thin,mangygraycatwalkalongthe topof theboard fencethat separated the yardfromtheonenextdoor.

Will came out and satdown beside her. He hadtwo cups of tea in hishands.“Thanks,” said Rose.

“Will,youhavetogivemesomemoney.”“Somemoney?”“Haveyougotsome?”“Yes,some.”“I want to go home.

Susanwon’tcomewithoutyou.She’llstayhere.”

“No,shewon’t.”“Will Morrissay,” saidRose, “you’re a lot olderthanIamnow,andyou’rea soldier, and terriblethings have happened toyou, so I shouldn’t say it,butyou’rebeingdumb.Oryoujustdon’tknowSusanat all. Shewon’t go homewithout you. She’ll stayhere forever if that’swhatyou mean to do. But I

don’twantto.Iwanttogohome. I don’t want to bestuckbackintime.I’msickof being a twelve-year-oldboy. I want to be myself,ordinary Rose with anordinaryAuntNanandanordinary Uncle Bob andordinary cousins. I don’tbelong here. I thought Ididbut I don’t—anymorethan you belong in theUnitedStates.Iwanttogo

home to Hawthorn Bay.You know, I’ve justremembered something. Afunny man on the roadfrom Albany asked mewhere I came from. I saidCanada, and I do now.Same as you. And I don’tsee any way of gettingthere except to take thetrain and the boat, and Idon’t have any money. Iwant you to give me

some.”Will said nothing for a

fewminutes.Hesippedhistea and watched the catsharpen its claws againstthefence.“Would you give me

somemoney?”Will reached into his

pocket and took out somebills. Rose took them andstuffed them into herpocket. “Thanks. Oh, and

this belongs to you.” Shepulled out the tiny clothpacket she had beencarrying in her pocketsinceSusanhadgivenittoher in exchange for hersilverroseinthegardenatHawthorn Bay. “It’s yoursong.”“Mysong?”“The song you wroteaboutthebirdthedayyouand Susan and I were in

theorchard.”Hefrowned,tookitfromher, andopened it slowly.Hestaredatitasthoughitweretheghostofsomeonelongdeadandforgotten.“My song,” he saidwonderingly,“mysong.”Rosebegantohumitasshe had somany times toherself and to Susan. “Iwish you had your flute,”she said when she had

finished.“Flute,” said Will, in

that same bewilderedvoice. He was looking attheworn,creasedpieceofpaper. “Flute,” he saidagain. His hands wereshaking.“I lostmyflute. Ilost it at Cold Harbor. Ididn’t care. I didn’t wanttoplay itanyway. Ididn’tthink there’d ever be anymusic in the world again

except tramp-tramp-trampandthedeadmarch.AfterthatIforgot.Iforgot.“But I remember now. I

rememberthatdayImadethe song. Iwanted so badto write it so I wouldn’tforget. I went to see oldMr. Lestrie down inSoames,whousedtoteachmusicthere.Iaskedhimifhe could showmehow towriteitandhedid.Andhe

said he’d teach me a lotmore if I wanted, but Ineverwentagain.IguessIwas scared. I was a littlefeller. I thought you werewonderful.” He looked ather shyly. “And all themthings you talked about. Ithoughtalotaboutallthatafter you disappeared andI couldn’t figure it out.Then one day I seen you,must have been a year or

more after you’d gone. Iseenyououtbytheroad.Iwasgoingtogoandtalktoyou,butbeforeIcouldyouwas gone. You was gonethewayadropofwaterona hot pan goes—just driesup and ain’t no more. Itgave me the shivers, butthen I done some morethinkingandIfiguredthatwhat you said was true,everyword.”

“ButIdidn’tstaygone,”said Rose and she felthappy. “I came back. AndWill, remember what yousaid about belonging, thatday in the orchard? Doyou remember? You said,‘It doesn’t matter whereyoucome from.’You said,‘I guess what matters iswhereyoubelong.’Well, Iknownow.IbelonginthatothertimeandIhavetogo

backthere.“I have to tell yousomething.”RoselookedatWill out of the corner ofhereyeandquicklylookedaway.“Ithoughtyouwerewonderful,too.IdecidedIwasgoingtomarryyou.”“What!”“I was. I was going tomarry you. But I knownow that it was sillybecause I’m not the one

whoisgoingtomarryyou,and anyway I belong inanothertime,andIhavetogo back even if I go bymyself. I’m going to godown to the train stationandgohome.”“Goback tobed,Rose,”saidWill,“andwe’llallgotogetherbyandby.”Rosedidnotlethimseehersmileofsatisfaction.

I

TheStorm

t seemed as though shehad barely fallen asleep

although it was an hourlater when Rose woke tofindSusanstandingbyhercot. When she saw that

Rose was awake, Susandropped to her knees andput her arms tightlyaroundher.“You done it,” shewhispered. “You done it.LikeWill told you all thatlong time ago, you wasgood luck, the best luck abody ever had. Will toldmewhatyoutalkedaboutin the night. I love you,Rose.”

Embarrassedbyherownshow of emotion, Susanstood up. “Matron’s giveWill some money shefigures he’s got coming tohimforworkinghere,”shesaid, “so with what I got,and what Will give you,we got enough for all ourfares and one gooddinner.”“What about

lemonade?”

Theybothlaughed.“WillandI,webeenouttothegraveyardtosayourprayersoverSteve,”Susanwenton,“andMatronsaysthemorningtraingoesoutof Washington at eighto’clock. So Rose,whatwegot to do is go get on thetrain.”“That’s so,Susan.”Theygrinned at each other.Roseleapedoutofbedand

got dressed hastily. Theyate aquickbreakfast, saidgoodbye to Matron, whosaid “God bless you” tothem all but took Will inher arms as though shewere his mother, adding“You have a good angel,you’ll be all right now,”and off they went. RosewonderedifMatronmeantSusanor theotherkindofangel.

When the train stoppedat Philadelphia, Rosebought Will a harmonicafor tencents.Heplayed ithardly at all at first, butafter an hour or two heplayed it softly all thetime, trying out notes,remembering notes,completely losing himselfinthemusic.Roseknewnowthatshe

wanted to go home to

Aunt Nan and Uncle Boband the boys, but whenshe thought about leavingWill and Susan, especiallySusan, she felt sad. “Youwon’t forget me, Susan?”shepleaded.“Iain’tlikelyto.”Neitherofthemsaidanymore about it, butthoughts of partinghovered over themthroughout the journey.

They traveled all day, allnight, and arrived inOswegojustafternoonthenext day.Will stepped offthetrainbehindSusanandlooked around him slowlyinalldirections.Hesniffedtheair.“Looks like a storm’s

brewing to the west,” hesaid. Otherwise, none ofthemsaidanythingall thewaytoMrs.Jerue’shouse.

Will knocked at thedoor.Theystoodthreeinarow and watched throughthe screen as Mrs. Jeruecame toward them alongthe hall, her wide,floweredskirtbumpingthewalls. They saw herquestioninglookbecomealook of surprise, hersurprise become a smile,and the smile fade as sherealized that the tall

soldier with Susan andRose was Will and thatSteve was not with them.She opened the door.“Come on along in, Will.ThanksbetoGodforyoursafe home-coming.” Then,though the tears began toflow down her face, sheput her arms around Willand they hugged eachothertightly.The children had come

running at the sound ofvoices, and at first therewasahushedandhorrifiedsilence. But Mrs. Jeruetookthemintohergriefasgenerously as she hadtakenthemintoherhouse.She listened, with thechildren,toWilltellstoriesabout Steve in the army,somefunny,somesad,andthen they all told storiesabout him, remembering

all the thingshehaddonein his life. They laughedand cried together, andMrs. Jerue made a hugemealforthem,afterwhichsheinsistedonhearingthetale of Rose’s and Susan’sjourneysouth.Shescoldedbothforrunningoff.“If you could have seen

me.” She sighed. “Youknow I’m not as slim as Ionce was and I had some

terrible time. WhenCharlieherecomerunningto tellme you’d run off, Ifigured pretty fast (mybrain’s not run to fat, yousee)whereyou’dgoneandwe hightailed it down tothe station just in time toseethetrainpullout.”“Wesawyou,”confessedRose.“Why, you youngscallywags!” Mrs. Jerue

chuckled. “You sure gaveme a runaround, but IsupposeIwouldn’thaveitany other way now. Itmight have been we’dnoneofus everhave seenourWillagainneither,ifithadn’tbeenforyou.”Theyspentanightanda

morning at the Jerues’.ThefirstnighttheybathedandMrs. Jerue took awayall their clothes. Early the

next morning she cameinto the little roomwhereRose and Susan slept. Shegave Susan a pretty pink-and-white flowered dressof Jenny’s, and whenSusan had put it on, Mrs.Jerue said, “Now run onalong, girl, and get yourbreakfast.” Then she satdown on Rose’s bed andfixed her with a steadygaze.

“You come here withSusan and you spun usquite a yarn. Then yousneaked off. Where’d youcomefrom,youngster?”Rose squirmed inside

Charlie’s nightshirt thatMrs. Jerue had given hertosleepin.“Idon’tmuchlikebeing

liedto,”saidMrs.Jerue.“I’msorry.”Rose’svoice

wasverysmall.

Mrs.Jeruefrowned.Sheleaned over and inspectedRose closely, the way shemight have inspectedcabbagesforholesorbugs.“What’s more, you ain’t aboy,”shedeclared.Rose felt very

uncomfortable for amoment; then, suddenly,shefeltasthoughaburdenhad been lifted from her.“I’m Rose Larkin,” she

said. But how to tell Mrs.Jeruewhereshehadreallycome from? She didn’twant to lie. So she said,“I’m a friend of Susan’s. Ididn’twanthertohavetogofindWillbyherself.Sowe thought it would beusefulifIdressedasaboy.And I guess it was, too.ButI’msorrywemadeyourunafterustotherailroadstation.”

“That’s all right, Rose,it’s all in a lifetime, as Ialwayssay.Now,youstayput for a minute.” Mrs.Jeruelefttheroom.In aminute or two, she

wasbackwithadressoverher arm and a pair ofboots inherhand.“There,this ought to do just finefor you. Louisa’s grownout of it. It’ll be dandywithyourredhair.”

The dress was whitewithgrass-greenstripes. Ithadmutton-chopsleeves,ahigh collar, and an ankle-lengthfullskirt,notasfullas the skirts Mrs. Jerueherself wore—there wasno hoop—but fuller thanany Rose had ever worn.Togowith it, therewasagreen velvet ribbon. “Totie up your hair, as it’ssomegrownout sinceyou

was here before.” Mrs.Jerue smiled, her tiredeyes red from weeping.Holdingtheclothestightlytoher,Rosesmiledback.She was left alone tofigure out theunderdrawers and thepetticoat and to contortherself into impossibleshapes as she struggledwith the buttons at thebackofthedress.Shetied

the ribbon around herhead and smoothed thedress down carefully. “Ilike it,” she whispered toherselfasshelookeddownat the edge of lace thatrevealed the petticoatpeeping out from beneaththe skirt, and the high,buttonedbootsonherfeet,which were only thetiniestbittoolarge.She went downstairs to

whereWill andSusanandthe Jerue children werehaving breakfast. Will’seyebrows went up but hesaidnothing.The childrenstood and poked eachother and whispered butsaid nothing either—except for Charlie. Hismouthhungopenandthenhe said, “You mean youworked for that meanblacksmith and everything

andyou’reagirl?”Susan smiled at herapprovingly. Rose satdown and ate herbreakfast.Right after breakfast,Will went down to thewharves.Hewasbackverysoon. “The weather’sgrowing more chancy bythe hour,” he told them,“but Jake Pierson’s goingout in about an hour and

he’ll takeusifwewanttogo.”“If I was you, I’d waitout the storm right here,”saidMrs.Jerue.Rosesaid,“No.Wecan’t.”Shehadasudden fear. Now, whenshe had discovered howmuch she wanted to getback, she was afraidsomething would happento keep her from gettingthere, that the storm

would keep them away.She could not bear todelay.“Jake’s a pretty sound

man.” It was almost asthough Will had read hermind.“And you’re pretty

anxious to get on home.”Mrs.JeruesighedandtookWill’shand.Sheofferednofurtherarguments.Sheputon her bonnet, gathered

her children, and set outdownthestreet.The streets they walkedwere the same ones theyhadcomealongonlythreeweeks earlier, but therewasanipintheaironthismorning, although it wasonly September. Thewomen wore shawls, andwhere they had ambledandsaunteredbefore,theybustledandhustledalong.

The Sarah Maud hadbeen unloading barley allnightandwasbeingmadereadytoturnrightaroundand head back toHawthornBay.“Jake Pierson’s place isrightuptotheheadofourbay,” Susan explained toRose, “so we’re mightyluckytofindhimhere.”The wind was growingstrong. Captain Pierson

greeted Susan briefly,nodded at Rose, andshowed them where theycould berth. It was asmaller schooner than theone they had come overon, a two-master, with asmaller cabin for sleepingandcooking,andacrewoftwo.“Frank March and Jim

Bedell,” Susan told Rose,“andthatJim’ssuchalazy

one, Jake’ll be right gladtohaveWillaboard.”Mrs. Jerue hugged Will

longwhen itwas time forgood-byes. “You be myboy, now, too,” she said.ThenshegaveSusanabighuganda“Godblessyou,child,” but when sheturned to Rose, she shookher head. “You’re a funnyone,” she said. “There’smoretoyouthanyoutold

me,I’mcertainsure.Butifyou ever come back thisway, you remember MinJerue.There’llalwaysbeaplacehereforyou.”Impulsively, Rose threwher arms around Mrs.Jerue. Then she shookhands with all thechildren.“I’m sorry,Charlie,” shesaidwhen shegot tohim.“I didn’t mean to spoil

thingsforyou.”“Do youwant to bemygirlfriend?” asked Charlie.Rose was so taken bysurprise she nearlylaughed, but she didn’t.“I’d like to, Charlie,” shesaid,“butIcan’tbecauseIlive too far away.” Thenshe rememberedsomething she had heardsomeone say in a movieandshetoldhimsolemnly,

“I’m really much too oldforyou,Charlie.ButIwillalways hold your love inmyheart,”andshe turnedand went away withoutwaiting to seewhat effecther words had had onCharlie.“Cast off,” the captain

shouted, andWill and theother two young men letloose the linesand,pulledbythetug,theyweresoon

outintheopenlake,theirsailsset.“The wind’s from the

south,”WillcalledtoRosehappily, “so we won’t beno time at all gettinghome.” And it looked asthoughtheywouldnotbe.The sky was gray but theheavy clouds werescudding across with thewind, likebanners leadingtheway.Withinsixhours,

they were within sight ofthe island shore. But thenthewindshifteda little tothe west, the cloudsthickened and turnedblack, and the rainbegan.At first it was just anordinaryrain,butbeforeaquarter of an hour wasover itwaspouringoutofthe sky like water over afall.Thewindheightened.It churned up the lake in

twelve-foot-highwaves. Inshrieks and drawn-outwails it blew with suchforce across the deck ofthe schooner that no onecouldstandupright.Rosecreptintothecabinwhere Susan was alreadycrouched in a far cornermurmuring prayers. Rosecould not reach herbecause the ship pitchedand yawed so furiously.

She clung to the inside ofthe door jamb, watchingterrifiedasthemenmovedaboutthedeck,clingingtothe ropes, the wheel, thebulkhead, anything thatwould keep them frombeing injured or blownoverboard. She couldheartheir shouts, but thewindwas sowildand shrill shecould not hear anythingthey said. OnceWillwent

past thedoor,crawlingonall fours, and she heardhim call out to someone,“… says ‘reef themainsail’!”Seconds later the shippitchedintoadeeptroughand the floor of the cabinstoodalmoststraightupinthe air. Rose, Susan, andanything that was notnailed down were hurledagainst the far wall. All

Rose could see, lookingstraight out through theporthole, was water. Theschooner hung suspendedfor what seemed likehours; then it righteditself. In amomentary lullinthetempest,Roseheardthecaptainshout,“Letoutthe sail!” Then the windhowled and the shipheeledoveragain.“Susan,” Rose cried,

though Susan could nothear her, “did we go allthatwayandfindWilljustso we could die whenwe’re almost home? AuntNan!Will! Idon’twant todie!” Then she stoppedthinking about dyingbecause, as the schoonerrighted itself once more,she was violently sick toher stomach. Three moretimes the ship pitched,

untilitnearlyflippedover.Three more times itrighted itself. Then, assuddenly as it had blownup,thegalewasover.Thewind veered straightaround to the west andsteadied.Buttherainwenton. In sheets and torrentsit poured over them. Willcame in and lit the coalstove that had gone outduring the gale. Susan

made coffee. Rose tookbuckets and washedherselfandthefloorwhereshe had been sick. Whileone man took the watchandanotherthewheel,thecaptain came into thecabin to warm himself bythe stove.He saidquietly,“Well, I think we mightbetter offer up a smallprayer. Itwas just aweekago today the Laurie Jack

and all hands went downwithin amile of the dockatSoames.”It was not more than

fifteenminutes laterwhenJim Bedell, who was onwatch, shouted, “I see alight,” and Will said,barely containing theexcitementandreliefinhisvoice,“That’dbeSoames.”Itwasn’ttenmoreminutesbefore he said, in those

same tones, “I expect thatlight’s Am Colliver’splace.” Captain Piersonshouted“Harddown!Harddown!” and the schoonerheaded into the bay. Itsailed past Heaton’s dockwhereRoseandSusanhadembarkedforOswegoonlyweeks earlier, past theirown house and docked attheheadofthebay.“You might better stay

the night with us,” JakePiersonsaidtoWill.Itwasstill raining hard and thewind, while it was nolonger a gale, waspowerful.Nighthad fallenwhile they had wrestledoutonthelake.Rose peered anxiouslyintothedarkandtherain.She was more afraid thanever that something wasabouttogowrong.

“Please, Will,” she said,“let’sgonow. It’sall rightfor you and Susan. You’rehome.But it isn’t all rightforme.Please.”Willtookonelookather

frightened face. “Okay.We’ll go. It’s only a mileand a quarter. Susan, youstay here. I’ll go up theroadwithRose.Youcomealonginthemorningwhentherainain’tsofierce.”

“I’m coming,” saidSusan. “Rose come alongwithme every step of thewaytofindyouandIaimtocomealongwithRose.”RosesmiledgratefullyatSusan, but Jake Piersonshook his head warninglyatthem.“Bad night,” he said.“Black as the inside of acatandwetasNiagara.”Jake Pierson was right.

It was black. There wereno shapes of houses orbarns toguide them.WithWill in the lead they puttheir heads down againstthe onrushing wind andthe stinging rain andmarched along as fast astheycould,theirbootsfullof water, their clothesheavyandclinging.I wish I had my jeans,thought Rose. She pulled

the long skirt away fromher legs, rolled it uparoundherwaist,andhelditthere.“Ihearthecreek.”Will’svoice was raised againstthe wind, but it soundedrelieved. “I know wherewe are now, just about toourbridge.”Theywentonabout twenty paces whenRose heard a thrashingaround as if someone had

fallen.Willswore,thenheshouted, “Stop! Don’tcome on, the bridge’swashed out!” Susangrabbedherhandandtheystopped.“You all right, Will?”criedSusan.“Yep,”cameWill’svoiceas he suddenly loomedover them. “But I don’tknow how we’re going toget across that water

withoutwecanevensee.Idon’t remember the creekever flooding like this.There’s no sign of thebridgeatall,notonestick.She’sgoneandthewater’slike a millrace. It’s uphigher thanmywaist andrushingsofastitpulledmerightover.Standinginit,Icouldn’t tell which waywas east nor which waswest. It’s only by your

voicesIknewtocomethisway. We’re going to haveto goback.There ain’t noother way we can get tothe house and the rootcellar except over thecreek—and that’s toodangerous.”“I’m not going back.”Rose was desperate. “Yougo. I’m not going. I canswim.I’llgetacross.Ihaveto!”

“We ain’t leaving you,”saidSusan.“Wait here then,” saidWill.“I’lltryagain.”“Letmecome.”“Nope.”Rose waited. Over thesoundsofthewindandtherain she heard Willsplashing. In a fewmoments,hewasback.“It’d be up over yourheadandyoucouldn’tever

swim. If you climb onmyback and hang on tight, IthinkIcangetyouacross.”Will squatted down and

Rose hitched up her wetskirts again and climbeduptositonhisback.“Hang on tight,” he

shouted. Will slipped andstumbled across the rockycreek bed, the wind andrain pushing against him.Rose clung desperately

around his neck. Oncethey nearly fell, but hisfeet found the other sideand he knelt down to letRoseofftoclamberuptheslippery bank while hewentbacktogetSusan.It seemed to Rose thatshe was waiting forever.When they reached herside, she took their handsand together they foughtthe wind. It was a walk

that would have takenthree minutes on a calmday.Ittookthemtwenty—anagonyoftimeforRose.She couldn’t tell whentheyhadreachedthefrontyard of the Morrissays’house.ButWillcould.“Hereweare,” he said. There wasquiet jubilation in hisvoice.They turned into the

yardandinchedtheirwayaroundtotheback,feelingfor the back porch, thestone walk, and the rootcellar.“I think I found the

creek,” said Will. “Myfoot’s struck water.” Hestumbled and let go ofRose’s and Susan’s handstorighthimself.“No, it ain’t. Thishere’s

the creek.” Susan was

down on her hands andknees. “I can feel the oldhawthorn treeand Iknowthe creek goes in thisdirectionfromit.”“So what’ve I got myfoot in?” demanded Willirritably.“It’s the root cellar,”cried Rose. “It’s the rootcellar, and it’s full ofwater.” And she grabbedWill’s hand, put her foot

forward,nearlyfell,pulledback,putherfootforwardmore cautiously, and feltaround until she found astep.“It is the root cellar!”she gasped. Withoutanother word, withoutreallythinkingaboutwhatshe was doing, her feetgroped for the slipperysteps. She held her noseand pushed herself down

under the muddy water,grabbing at vines andweeds with her hands,until her feet found thefloor. She stood there foras long as she could holdherbreath,graspingattheedge of the steps forsomething to cling to.Then she rose to thesurface. “Oh, please,” shethoughtdesperately,“letithappen.”

It was still dark, stillpouringrain,thewindwasstill howling. It hadn’tworked. She was nothome.Her disappointmentwasso intense she nearlyfainted. She climbed upfrom the last step andreached out for Will orSusanforsupport.“Will?” she said faintly.“Susan?”

“Is that you, Rose?” Itwas Sam’s voice. “Whereare you? You shouldn’tstay out in a storm likethis.It’sawful.”“It is an awful storm,

Sam,” said Rose shakily.“ButI’mallrightnow.”

R

Home

ose stood in front ofthe fire, her teeth

chattering, her heartthumping, streams ofmuddy water dripping

fromLouisa Jerue’s green-and-whitestripeddress.Samstaredather.“Howcome you’ve got on thatfunny dress? And you’repurplewithcold.”“I don’t think you’dbelievemeifItoldyou.”“Imight.”“Doyouwanttohear?”“Sure. Do you wantsometeaorsomething?”“Yes! And a grilled

cheese sandwich and abath.Whattimeisit?”“Eighto’clock.”“Is it today Aunt Nan

hadtheaccident?”“Yes, today.” Sam’s

eyebrowswentup.“Today!” The word

soundedlikeasighasRosetrailed upstairs in herdripping clothes. Twentyminutes later, warm anddry in her pajamas and

bathrobe, she sat at thekitchen table drinking teaand eating sandwicheswhileGrimalkin purred inher lap. She told Sam allthat had happened. “AndSam,” she finished, “whileI was in that station inNew York I saw you. Youwere in the kitchenplayingWill’ssong.”“But I did that!” Samwas incredulous. “I did

that a little while agobefore the twins went tobed. They were grizzlingso I sat them down and Iplayed that song, and Ihate to say it because itmakesit lookas if Ireallybelieve your story, but inmy mind I saw your faceand youwere scared, so Iwassortofplayingforyoutohear.”“Iwasglad.”

“I don’t know.” Samscratched his head. “Itsounds crazy but you lookdifferent. You really lookasifyou’vebeenoutinthesun for weeks and”—hegrinned—“you don’t lookasmuchasifyou’dliketothrowthingsateverybody.You’redifferent.”“I am,” said Rose. “I

knowIam.Sam,doesyourmotherhateme?”

“Hateyou?”“Becauseoftheaccidentand because I was somean.”“Idon’tthinkmymothereverhatespeople.Shegetsmad. She says a lot ofthings but it doesn’t lastlong. It’s not like hatingpeople.”“CanIgoseeher?”“Whynot?”NervouslyRoseknocked

on the open door of AuntNan’sbedroom.UncleBobwas reading aloud from anovel. He looked up,obviously relieved to beinterrupted.“Come in, come in.”He

putdownhisbook.“I’llgomake some tea and leaveyou two to gab.” He lefttheroomquietly.Rose did not want him

togo.Shedidnotwantto

be left alone with AuntNan. She felt so differentfrom the angry little girlwhohadwrittentheletterto Aunt Millicent. Shecouldn’t think of anythingto say. And for once, itseemed, Aunt Nan hadnothingtosayeither.FinallyRoseblurtedout,

“I am sorry about theaccidentandtheletter.”“I don’t think it was

altogether your fault.”Aunt Nan smiled ruefully.“IthinkIhadsomethingtodowithittoo,Rose.Iwasfoolishandunkind.”“Ishouldn’thavewritten

theletter.”“I shouldn’t have made

youfeelsounwelcome.”“Butyoudidn’t!”“It’s all right, Rose.”

Aunt Nan put out herhand. Rose went over to

the bed and shook theoutstretched hand. AuntNan held it tightly for amoment. She smiled. “Ihope now we’re going totake time to get to knoweachother.”“Yes,please.”Theysaidgoodnightand

Rosewentupstairstobed,and to sleep at once. Shewaswakened in the nightby a loud crash. Everyone

except Aunt Nan—whokept calling, “Whathappened? Whathappened?”—ran to thewindows to see what itwas. George got theflashlight andwent out tothebackporch.“Wow!”heyelled, running back intothehouse.“There’sahugetreedown,backthere,andthe rain has turned to iceand it’s really amazing!

Youknow,ifthelengthofthat tree is any indicationof—”“Notnow,George,” saidSam.“ThankGoditdidn’thitthe house,” said UncleBob.“Hi, Rose. Where didyougo?”askedthetwins.“Out,” said Rose. Shetook their hands and ledthemupstairstobed.

The storm had stoppedby morning. The frontyard was littered withbranches that had comedown in the night. At thebackthecreekwasroaringand the trees weresheathed in ice, glitteringinthebrightsun,creakingintheslightbreeze.Rose looked down from

her window. The big oldmaplehad fallen from the

other side of the creekacrosstheglade,comingtorest not two feet from theback of the house. In itspath ithadknockeddownbushes and uprootedseveralsmalltrees.Amongthem was the little thorntree. The root cellar wascompletely washed out. Itwasjustalargeholefilledwith dirty, icy water. Itsdoors had been smashed

by the falling tree. Rosestared down at thedevastation in stunnedsilence. Then she raceddownstairs and outside inherpajamasandbarefeet.She slipped and slid andcrawled over the huge icytrunk of the old maple toreach the little thorn tree.She knelt down beside it,and tenderly, as though ithad been a person, she

tried to lift it. It wasimpossible. It was lyingwith its branches acrosswhat had been the cellar,its roots sticking out in atangleinalldirectionslikethehairofsomegiantwildman. She felt as though apart of herself had beenwrenchedfromher.“I can’t ever go back,”

shewhispered.Sam’s voice behind her

asked,“Isthatyourtree?”“Yes.”Roseclenchedher

fists so tightly that hernailsmadedeepredmarksin her palms. “I didn’teven say good-bye,” shesaid dully. “I didn’t sayanything.Ijustwent.”Sam didn’t speak, but

they went back into thehouse together.RosewenttowashLouisa’sdress—asmuch with tears as with

water.“IneverthoughtI’dneverseethemagain,”shemourned, but even as thewords formed she knewthatshehadknown.Attheback of hermind she hadknown all the way homefrom Washington. “I wishI’d said good-bye,” shewhisperedsadly.That day Uncle Bob

organized the house andRose had no time for

grieving. He rearrangedthe pots and pans in thekitchen. He started amaster grocery list so thathe would not have tofigureoutanewoneeverytimehewent to the store.He made a work list sothateveryonewouldknowexactlywhat his, or her—he lookedmeaningfully atRose—job was withoutbeing told. As Sam said

sometime later in theday,“He’dorganizeourdreamsif he could find out whatthey were.” And all thetime Uncle Bob wasmakinglistsatthekitchentable, Aunt Nan wasshouting orders from thebedroom. Finally, UncleBob rebelled. “Your job,”he pronounced, “is to liestill and sleep and rest.The house is outside your

jurisdictionfromnowuntilthe baby’s born.Understand?”“Yes,” said Aunt Nan

meekly.But in the following

week, everyone wassurprised to discover thatAunt Nan, despite herapparent disorder, hadbeen running things in aregulated fashion, andthere was a good deal of

argument and confusiondespiteUncleBob’slists.Rose stayed out of the

arguments. She went toschool. She did the thingsbeside her name on thelists.Shetoldstoriestothetwins and she triedvaliantlytospendherdaysin the present whiledreams of the past filledhernights.Shedreamedofcoal dust and trains, of

tramping the roads, ofPeter Maas and AugustusDelfinney.Shedreamedofpale soldiers and rows ofhospital beds. ShedreamedofWillandSusan—always of Susan. Shemissed her sorely. Shecould not bring herself tomakefriendsatschool,notyet.Oneafternoonshegotapencilandpaperandwent

into Aunt Nan’s bedroom.“Would you like me towrite down your book foryou?”Aunt Nan’s face brokeout in a broad smile. ShetoldRosewheretofindthechaptersandnotes.Atfirstthey were both self-conscious about thework,but as the afternoonprogressed they began toget used to each other.

Aunt Nan didmost of thetalking—aboutthebookatfirst, but afterward aboutthe baby to come, aboutthe boys and Uncle Bob,and about Christmas,whichwasonlytwoweeksaway.“How I hate being in

bed with Christmascoming.” She sighedimpatiently.“Dr.Best saysI’m to be allowed in a

wheelchair for Christmasdinner, but I can’t do athing to get it all ready.And the kitchen in thishouse is such a perfectChristmas kitchen. I loveChristmas. Well, this yearwe’re having a baby forChristmas even if it isn’tdue until January. Andgettingthisbookdoneisawonderful present. I haveto thank you for that,

Rose.”Privately Rose thoughtthestory,whichwascalledPolly Learns to Ride, wassilly, and sometimes,unbeknownsttoAuntNan,shechangedafewlines.Oneafternoon,whensheread out what they hadwritten the day before,AuntNan said, “I like theway that scene goes. Idon’t even remember

writingit.”“Iputthatin.”“You did what!” Aunt

Nan nearly jumped out ofbed. “Don’t you darerewritemystory!”Rosewentwhite. “Well,

it’s better. You said soyourself.”They glared at each

other angrily. Then, toRose’s consternation,AuntNan’s eyes filled with

tears.Rose was stunned. “I’m

sorry,”shemumbled.“It’s just that you’re so

like your father.” AuntNanshookherhead.“Howangryheusedtomakeme!I’dmakesomething,andifit wasn’t just the way hethought it should be, he’dchangeit. ‘Well, it’sbetterthis way, Nan,’ he’d say.Hewasjustaspricklyand

difficultasyouare.”And as you, Rosethought to herself, andalmost laughed out loudwith sudden delight. Shedid not tell Aunt Nan shehad once thought she hadcome from anotherworld,without having had amother or father, but shethoughtaboutitalotoverthe next few days. Andabout what Will had said

in the orchard aboutbelonging. The words “aspricklyanddifficultasyouare”hadsomehowbroughtherintoAuntNan’sfamily.“Andit’sChristmas,”sheremembered. “They loveChristmas here. I wish Icouldfindsomethingtrulyamazing to do forChristmas.”

O

TheChristmasKitchen

ne afternoon, about aweek before

Christmas,Rosewasalonein the kitchen. She wassitting in the old rocking-

chair by the windowthinking that Aunt Nanwas right: with its lowceiling, its wooden walls,and its old fireplace, thekitchen looked like apicture on a Christmascard. She was wonderingidlyhowmanypeoplehadcooked their Christmasdinners in the fireplace,when an eddy of windcame down the chimney

and curled itself aroundthe charred ends of woodinthegrate.Itstirredupatinyflame.Theflametookon a shadow whichbecame a bigger flameand, inseconds, therewasa roaring fire from twosteadily burning logs. Ahuge black pot hung overthem and out of the potsteamwas rising, carryingthe most delicious spicy

odorsoutintotheroom.Littleby little,as if inamagic show, the roomchanged. Along the backwall,insteadofAuntNan’smodern range, there wasan old-fashioned blackwood stove. Pots werehangingfromhooksonthewalls, and onions anddriedapplesandchunksofbacon were suspendedfrom the ceiling. A tall

Welsh dresser, with blueand white plates arrayedonitsshelves,stoodbesidethe front door, and therewas a long, scrubbedwooden table in themiddle of the room. ThenSusan appeared, hummingtoherselfassherolledoutdough with a large,woodenrolling-pin.Rose sprang from her

chair.Thescenefadedand

she was alone again, thelittleeddyofwindstirringtheashesinthecoldgrate.Sheslumpedbackintoherchair.“Susan,” she whispered,

“it’strue.Beingapersonisveryhard.”Andsheheard,like an echo in her head,“That’s so, Rose,” andcouldnothelpsmiling.With a sigh, she went

overandmadeafireinthe

fireplace and then begantoset the table, the imageof Susan bright in hermind. An idea wasforming.Atdinnersheannouncedthat she was going tomake an old-fashionedChristmas dinner, as herpresent to the wholefamily.“Can you cook?” thetwinsasked.

“Of course,” she said.She knew how to cooksausages,mashedpotatoes,French toast, and cabbagesalad. On the rareoccasions when hergrandmother and she hadbeenintheirapartmentinNew York, if hergrandmotherhadgoneouton the maid’s night out,Rose had been allowed tomake dinner for herself.

She had learned how tomake the meals she likedbest. She didn’t thinkcookinganythingcouldbeall that difficult. After all,she reasoned, I learned tobe a blacksmith andnothingintheworldcouldbeharderthanthat.George was outraged,

Uncle Bob was dubious,AuntNanthoughtitwasafineidea.

“Whydon’tyougodownand talk to old TomBother? I’ll bet he canremember old-fashionedChristmases. And ask himto come and share itwithus.”Rose did not think Old

Tom’s memory would goback far enough for whatshe needed. So she askedhim if he had a cookbookfromhismother.

Old Tom climbed up tohis attic, rummagedaround, and came downwith two—his mother’sandhisgrandmother’s.Rose immediately

picked up hisgrandmother’sbook,dated1857. “That’s what Iwant!” Shewas delighted.She invited Old Tom forChristmasdinnerand tookthecookbookhome.

To her dismay, most oftheChristmasrecipeswerefor game birds with richsauces concocted fromingredients measured inscant teacups, and pats ofbutterthesizeofanacornorathumb.Thereweresixrecipes for chestnut soup,three for calves’ foot jelly,and fourteen for oysterdishes.Rosetookthebookback to Old Tom and

together they chose amenu of things that didnot appear too difficult tomake and that the bookassured them “all the besthouseholds” wouldinclude.Old Tom said he wouldbuy the goose as hispresent for the family.Rosewas going to get thepotatoes,tomatoes,onions,and cranberries, and the

things Old Tom calledtrimmings. As the booksaid mincemeat took amonth to “ripen,” shedecided to buy that, butshewas determined to dothe rest of the bakingherself.Uncle Bob remade his

lists so that Rose’s namewas beside dinner everynight.“Needthepractice,”hetoldher.Afterfourdays

George rebelled. “Lastnightwehadsausagesandmashed potatoes andcabbage salad.” Hepounded his fist on thetable.“Thatmeanstonightwe’re having French toastand bacon and cabbagesalad. Tomorrow we’regoingtohavesausagesandmashed potatoes and thenext night French toast. Iknowwhatwe’re going to

have for Christmas, and Idon’t want sausages andmashed potatoes andcabbage salad forChristmasdinner.”“You’ll see,” was all

Rose said. But the bakingwas not goingwell. Everynight after dinner Rosesent everyone from thekitchen so that her piesandcakeswouldcomeasasurprise. She measured

and mixed everythingcarefully, but pie dough(for the boughtmincemeat) was not aseasy to roll as Susan hadmade it appear. Nor wasshortbreadassimpleastherecipe suggested. It wasstickyandwent intoholesand lumps faster than therollingpincouldsmoothitout. The expensiveingredients for plum

pudding were stucktogether into a thing thatlooked like a ball ofcementwithpebbles in it.Rose hoped fervently thatUncle Bob’s brandy saucewouldsoftenitup.The day before

Christmas, Uncle Bob andthe boys went out to thewoods and brought homea spruce tree smelling offresh snow and winter. It

fitted perfectly into thecorner of the kitchen bythefireplace.Roseandtheboys decorated it with St.Nicholasbells,brightballs,and little shining figuresthat came out of the oldwoodenboxfromtheattic.RosehadnevertrimmedaChristmas treebefore.Hergrandmotherhadonlyhadasmall,artificialsilveroneforthetable.

“Here.” Sam handedRose two china cherubs.“Mom said they belongedon our great-grandmother’s tree, sothat’s your great-grandmother,too.Youputthemon.”Rosehungthemcarefully on the ends ofthe branches where theycouldbeeasilyseen.After lunch theneighbors came in—Mrs.

Yardley from across thebay with candies, Mrs.Heaton from down theroad with a big red andwhite cake, three Colliverchildren with cookies.They had all heard thatAunt Nan was sick. Theirwarm generosity madeRosethinkofMinJerue.On Christmas Eve Roseput the presents she hadboughtunder the tree.On

Christmas morning shewas up even before thetwins. She had a book onfishing for Uncle Bob,kaleidoscopes for thetwins, a deck of cards forGeorge. She had found awooden recorder in anantiqueshopinSoamesforSam.Herpresent forAuntNanwastobethekitchenalldecoratedforChristmasand, of course, the old-

fashioned dinner. Therewas no light outside,although the blackness ofnighthadsoftenedandthestars had become dim. Asliver of moon stood overthe old maple trees, andthere was in the air thatsense of quiet expectationthatliesoverthelandjustbefore dawn and thatalways seems so muchstronger in midwinter.

Rose sat down in therocking-chair with herhands inher lap.Shekepta stillness inside her,feeling that expectation,feeling—before she couldseeit—thedawnedgeoverthe horizon, then reachacross the earth towardthewindowwhereshesat.She felt happy and athome.The twins got up and

Christmas began. Theytook their stockings downfrom over the fireplaceand crowed delightedlyover every treasure theybrought forth. Then theywent to wake Sam andGeorgeandeveryonewentinto Aunt Nan and UncleBob’sroom.InRose’sstocking,alongwith an assortment ofsmall treats and the apple

and orange and nutseveryonehad, therewasaminiaturetoycar.Someofthepainthadwornoffandit looked old. When RoselookedupandcaughtAuntNan’s anxious expression,she knew it must havebelongedtoherfather,andsheputitcarefullyintothepocketofherbathrobeandkept her hand tightlyaroundit.

Then everyone openedtheirpresents.GeorgehadboughtRosea trickbarofsoap that squirted water,the twins hadmade her ascrapbook with pages forher to write down theirfavorite stories in, AuntNan and Uncle Bob hadgiven her awarm sweaterand an apron withChristmas wreaths andbells printed on it, and

Sam had found an oldcopyofThe SecretGarden.Rose smiled tremulouslywhen she said thank youto Sam, but she washappierstillwhenshesawhowhelikedtherecorder.HeplayedWill’ssong,andalthough itmade her sad,shefeltrightaboutit.They went to church inthemorning.Afterasmalllunch, Rose shooed them

alloutof thekitchen.Sheput on Louisa Jerue’scarefully washed andironed, green and whitestriped dress, and over ithernewChristmasapron.Then she decorated the

kitchen. Uncle Bob hadsaved some small sprucebranches for her, and sheputtheminaglassdishinthe center of the table onAunt Nan’s printed, holly-

wreathtablecloth.Sheputout the big Christmaspaper napkins, the goodwineglassesanddishes. Itfeltlikeawonderfulgame,and she was full ofexcitement.Thegreenofthespruce,

the bright cloth, thetwinklinglightsofthetree,and the glow from thefireplace made the roomlook something like the

old-fashioned Christmaspictures she wanted toconjureup.“So what I have to donowisgetthedinner,”shetold Grimalkin, who wasprowling and sniffingaround the edges of hissuddenly unfamiliarkitchen.As she said it shebecame aware thatpossiblyeveryonewhohad

everlivedinthehousewasmaking Christmas dinner.Pots clattered, dishesrattled.Therewastalkandlaughter in cloud-likelayers that movedtogether, separated, piledup, dispersed again. Andthere were odors, rich,inviting odors from howmany years of how manyChristmases!With a blissful sense of

being a part of all thoseother festivities, Rosepeeled potatoes and gotthem ready, sweet onesand white, according tothe recipe in HomeCookery. The tomatoeswere in a can and onlyneeded a few spices tomake them right. Sheskinned the onions andmade a cream sauce. “Alittlelumpy”—shetastedit

—“but not bad. I knew Icould do this!” She tookthe goose out of therefrigerator and openedAunt Nan’s cookbook.Because she was using amodern oven, Old Tomhad suggested a moderncookbookforthegoose.“Roast goose,” said the

book, “twenty to twenty-five minutes to thepound.” She read no

farther.Itwasfouro’clock.The goose weighed tenpounds.“I never thought about

the time!” Rose gulped.“Well, I’ll have to cook ithotterthanitsays.Thenitwillgofaster.”Shestuffeditwith apples and onions,turned the oventemperature as high as itwould go, and shoved inthegoose.

Within five minutes,Rose’s goose was asaromatic as all theChristmas dinners in allthose other times. Withinthreemoreminutes it hadstarted to burn. Sheyankedopentheovendoorand pulled it out. It wasblackontop.“Rose,Rose,howlongisit to dinner?” The twinsbreathed through the

keyhole.“Not yet,” Rose’s voicequavered.“Goaway.Allofyou,”shecalled.“I know.” She sighedwith relief. “You have toheat the oven first.” Shesatdownandwaiteduntilthe temperature said 500degrees, then shot thegoosebackintheoven.This time it was almostfifteen minutes before the

smellofburninggoosewasstrong. Rose jerked theroasting pan out of theoven with such force thatshe sat down on the floorwith it in her lap. Therewas a great red burn onherarmandgreaseonherChristmas apron and herdress.“It isn’t going to cook,”she said in a low hoarsevoice. “And the potatoes

andthingsarealmostcold.It’s ruined.” After all thatshehadbeenthroughwithWill and Susan, a ruineddinner might not haveseemed very important.ButallRose’slongingtobea part of the family hadcenteredonit,andshewassickwithdisappointment.Old Tom arrived at thefrontdoor.“Rose, shall I get Aunt

Nan settled in thewheelchair?”“No!No!Givemefifteenminutes.”Shepickedthecatawayfrom the goose. “No,Grimalkin.”Sheswallowedhard. “That’s Boxing Daydinner. Todaywe’re goingto have sausages andmashed potatoes andcabbage salad.” Sheimagined George’s face as

he saw what was forChristmasdinner.“You can get ready,now,” she called. She feltmuch as she had the timeshehadmadeuphermindto work for Peter Maas.She went about her workwith that same fatalisticcalm. She put on a cleanapron.Shewrappedupthegoose and put it back inthe refrigerator. She put

sausages on to cook andmashedthepotatoes.Sherantothecupboardand took down the cansfull of rock-hard cookiesandskimmedthemouttheback door like flat stonesintoalake.“Merry Christmas,rabbits and squirrels andchickadees,” shewhispered.She piled the sausages

on the big turkey platter,with the mashed potatoesbeside them. “They’regoingtohatemeforthis,”shemurmured.Shewalkedslowly toward the door,opened it, slid through,andstoodwithherbacktoit as though she wereprotectingahiddenspy.Everyone clustered

around her, Uncle Bobpushing Aunt Nan in the

wheelchair.“Rose, you look like aChristmas picture!” criedAuntNan.“Wheredidyougetthatwonderfuldress?”Rose did not answer.She looked at Aunt Nanwith pleading eyes.Resolutelyshesmiled.“Well now,” said OldTom, “this promises to bequite a surprise.” HewinkedatRose.

“Yes, it does.” She bither lip. “Well, merryChristmaseverybody.”Shethrew open the kitchendoor.

Foratleastaminutetherewas not a sound. In thesoft glow of the firelightandcandlestheastonishedgathering saw a room sobedecked and garlandedwith cedar and pine it

looked like a fairytaleforest.Onthemantelpiece,branches of green weretwisted around a pair ofcreamy white candles intall candlesticks that Rosehadnever seenbefore.Onthe table in front of thewindow were lighted oillamps. The dinner tablewas covered with a softwhite linen clothembroidered with wreaths

in rose and green silk. Atevery place there werelinen napkins thatmatched, andwhiteplateswith thin, green and roseflowered rims. The wineglasses were cranberrycolored. In the center ofthetablecandlesinpewtercandlesticks were circledbyawreathofcedar.A large platter stood at

the serving end of thetable,andonitwasaroastgoose, brown and glossy.And there were coveredservingdishesandrelishesand pickles and hot breadandjellies.Old Tom broke thesilence. “Youmean to tellme that littlegirldoneallthis?” Then everyonebegan to talk at once andtheirwordswerea jumble

and abuzz inRose’s headall through dinner. Sheate, got up, cleared awaythe plates and broughtover the candies and thedessert,aplumpChristmaspudding which had beensitting on a trivet by thehearth. Only then did shebegin to think.Had Susanbrought it all? Had shemade it all? Or had shespent the day swiping it

from a hundred and fiftyyears of other people’sChristmases?Had she hadto eat sausages andmashed potatoes forChristmasdinner?UncleBob stoodupanddinged his glass with hisspoon. “Ladies andgentlemen,” he said. “Inthe forces, at formaldinners,therearetoaststodistinguished members of

the company. On thisoccasion I feel sure therecan be no argument thatmy niece, Rose Larkin, isthe most distinguishedmember of this company.I’dliketoproposethefirsttoast to Rose, a youngwoman who performsmiracles and understandsChristmas.ToRose.”UncleBobliftedhisglass.“To Rose.” Aunt Nan

smiledather.“And God bless,” saidOld Tom. Selfconsciouslytheboysfollowedsuit.Rose looked at Sam,then at Aunt Nan. “Itwasn’t me,” she said. “Itwas Susan. That one Imade was awful. Thegoose burned and I madesausages.”“I told you I smelledsausages,” George

interrupted.Rosecontinued.“I thinkI’d better tell you aboutit.” Once again she toldherstory.Thenshegotupandtooktheburnedgooseoutoftherefrigerator.No one said a word,Uncle Bob cleared histhroatafewtimes.George,to Rose’s great delight,looked flabbergasted.Finally the twins said,

“Tell again about the girlin our room.” Aunt Nansaid thoughtfully, “There’sSam’sghost,”andsubsidedinto silence. Sam took hisrecorderoutofhispocket.He leaned over to Roseand said softly, “I think Iwould have liked Will.”And Rose said, “Oh, Sam,youwouldhave.”Old Tom,who had said

very little all evening,

nodded his head. “Youremember, youngster, Itold you about old SusanMorrissay living in thishouse and how hernephew used to comesummers. I never saw noghosts here, but there’sbeentalkaboutthisplace.Heatons used to try tokeep hired men here, butthere wasn’t none who’dstay.”

“I’d like some morecoffee.” Uncle Bob heldouthiscup.Whenitcamehe lifted it to his lips andquickly put it down, theexpression on his facesayingplainly thathehadsuddenly realizedwhere itmight have come from.Everyone laughed and thespell was broken. UncleBob decided that nomatter what they said,

Rose and Old Tom hadcooked up the story withthe dinner, and Georgeagreedwithhim.AuntNanwas quiet andRose knew,fromhavingspentsomanyafternoons with her, thatshe was figuring out howto make the story intochapters.When the last crumb of

the maple sugar candieshad disappeared, Rose

announced, “They’re myghosts. My friends. I’mgoingtodothedishes.”Uncle Bob argued, butRose was determined.Once more she closed thekitchen door after them.Quietly and carefully shewashed theoldplates andglasses, folded up thenapkins and the cloth.Whenshewasfinishedshestoodinfrontofthedying

fire. “Susan, where will Iput them so that you cangetthemagain?”Itwasn’tfrominfrontofthe fire but from the oldrocking-chair by thewindow that the voicecame, and it wasn’tSusan’s, it was Mrs.Morrissay’s. “Just leavethemonthetable.”Rose turned and facedher.“Itwasyourpresent!I

thought it was Susan’s. Ireally thought.…” As shesaid it she could hearOldTom’s words in her head,words she hadn’t reallyheard when he had saidthem. “Old SusanMorrissay.”“Susan?” said Rosedoubtfully.“That’s so,” said Susan.Rose walked slowly overto where she sat in the

chair, old and white-haired, her eyes as brightandblackastheyhadbeenatfourteen.“But this isn’t—I meanwasn’t—yourhouse.ItwasWill’smother’s.”“Rose,didn’tyoufigure?Will and me got married.After his ma died it wasour house, Will’s andmine. I always loved thishouse.” She stroked the

old wood of the windowsill.“Then,afterWilldied,Ilivedherealoneforalotofyears.”“DidWill die soon?Did

hediesoonafterwecameback?”“Oh,mercyno!Helived

to be a good sixty years.He never did take tofarming.” Susan laughed.“But we always made outall right.Will stayed with

the flute and he took tofiddling.Heused to fiddlefor all the danceshereabouts. He swore thisplacewasn’tgoingtobesoglumafterhismotherdiedand it never was. It wasfull of music. We neverhad no children—nonethat lived.Wehad a littlegirl.” Susan reached outfor Rose’s hand. “Wecalled her Rose, but she

onlylivedafewweeks.Weneverhadanother.Butwealways had childrenaround. We had a goodlife.I’malmostninetynowand it seems a long timeago.”“Butyoudon’tforget?”“Mercy, no! I don’tforget them good yearsandIdon’tforgetthetimeswe had together, you andme.” Susan smiled, and in

the smile Rose saw herSusan, and they weresetting out again in theearlymorning to get on aschooner to take themacrossLakeOntariotofindWill.“I won’t forget either,

Susan.” Rose sat down onthe floor beside therocking-chair.“I got your silver rose

yet.”Susanreachedupand

slowly undid the chainfromaroundherneck.“It’sbeen good luck to me. Iguessit’stimenowtogiveitback.”Rose fastened the chainoncemorearoundherownneck. They fell silent,smilingateachother.Rosegot up and leaned overand kissed Susan’s old,wrinkled cheek. A feelingof peace came over her.

Susan smiled again. Thenshedisappeared.Roselookeddownatthechair where Susan hadbeen sitting. Then she satdown in it and began torock, thinking,remembering.“I loved this house,”Susanhad said. “Sodo I,”whispered Rose, and inthose words were apromise.Shewould see to

itthatthehousewasmaderight.Shewouldbullyandcajole the rest of thefamily into repairing andpainting. Shewouldmakethegardenbeautifulinthespring and get Uncle Bobtoplantanorchardwherethere had been one in1865whenWillMorrissayhadgoneofftowar.She knew in her heart

that she would never see

Susanagain, norWill. Butin the years that followedRose thought she sawshadows,andoftenshefelttheir presence—especiallyin the spring when thelilacs and the appleswereinblossom.

AuthorInterview

JanetLunninconversationwithLouise

Dennys,hereditorandpublisher.

LOUISE DENNYS: Whatwas the start of the novelfor you when you satdown to write The RootCellar? Where did it allcome from in the verybeginning?

JANET LUNN: My house.Itallcamefrommyhouseon the shore of LakeOntario in Prince EdwardCounty, where I lived for

thirty-one years. Moreprecisely,itcamefromthekitchen.Youknow,Louise,that the house is about180 years old, and youknow itswonderful,warmkitchen with the bigfireplace and the bakeoven. I loved thatkitchen.It was Christmas—Iremember IwasdoingmyChristmas baking—thefirstwinterwespentthere.

Iamnotapersonwhoseesghosts,butIreallydidfeelthe presence of all thosewomen who had cookedChristmas dinners in thatkitchen. So the bookstarted out as a Christmasstory.

LD:Inasense,waswritingthe novel a means offinding your way to thatend, to what lay behind

thatwarmChristmassceneinthefarmhousekitchen?

JL: I suppose so. Once Istarted writing a wholebook rather than a shortstory, I knew Iwould endwith that Christmaskitchen.Ialwaysknowtheend of my stories. It’sgetting there that’s theadventure.

LD: When I first visitedyouinthathouse,Iwassodelighted to find that itwas identical to thehouseinTheRootCellar.

JL: The only thing that’sdifferent is the sad factthat its root cellar is longgone.

LD: But there would havebeen one at one time,

wouldtherenot?

JL: Oh, yes, of course. Arootcellarwasessentialtoall those nineteenth-century Canadianfarmhouses.Theywereforstoringtherootvegetablesduring thewintermonths.Norefrigeratorsbackthen.

LD: Well, let’s put it thisway: youwere never able

to find the root cellar.Perhaps someone elsewilldiscover it one day. Andmany people go to visit itnow—you’ve made thatpiece of land in PrinceEdward County famous. Ithas become a literarylandscape.

JL: I don’t know aboutfamous, but I did havebusloads of schoolchildren

comingtoseethehouse. Imoved to the city a fewyearsago,sotheydon’tgothere any more. Someoneelse is now the custodianof that wonderful oldhouse.

LD: And does the houseindeed sit right on theshoreofHawthornBay?

JL:It’sactuallyonPleasant

Bay. I gave it the nameHawthornBay inTheRootCellar because the wholepoint of land betweenPleasant Bay and the nextbaytothesouthusedtobecalled Hawthorn Point. Itwas filled with hawthorntrees. The trees were allwinter-killed some yearsback, except for two thatwe had on our property(they happily lasted about

another fifteen years). Ilike “Hawthorn” better.PleasantBayseemssuchaboring name. I wish the“they” who name thingswouldrenamethatbay.

LD: They should, inhonour of the book. TheRoot Cellar is now part ofour Canadian storytellingheritage. Three of yournovels, in fact, have a

connection to thatplace—thatis,TheRootCellar,TheHollowTreeandShadowinHawthornBay.Iknowtheyare sometimes called atrilogy because of thatconnection of place, andalso because they arelinked through familygenerations. Though thethree books are set indifferent historical times,several of the same

families reappear becausethey all live on that pointoflandbesidethebay.

JL:Yes,butIcan’tthinkofthe books as a trilogybecause they aren’t acontinuing story with thesame characters in them.But they are about thesame families in the samelocale in different periodsofhistory. In fact,Shadow

in Hawthorn Bay and TheHollow Tree grew out ofThe Root Cellar, althoughboth take place in earlierhistorical periods. I’vebegun calling these threebooks “the Hawthorn Baybooks.”

LD: Is the idea of familyvery important to you?What I loved in theChristmassceneattheend

ofTheRootCellarwas thesense of warmth andcommunity in that oldkitchen. It’s thekitchenofourdreams,inaway—theheartofthehousehold,foreveryone.

JL: Ihaveanabiding lovefor, and belief in, theimportanceoffamily.

LD:Whydoyou think it’s

soimportant?

JL: To start with, I lovebeingpartofafamilybut,as well, I believe thatfamily is the basis of allsociety: family,neighbourhood,community. People learnwhat’s important aboutcommunity inside afamily. InThe Root Cellar,Rose has no family before

shegoestoHawthornBay.She has all that to learn.She has to learn aboutfamily, and she has tolearnaboutfriendship.

LD: She discoversfriendship evenbefore shediscoversfamily.

JL: That’s true. When shecomes back from her firstvisit to the past and goes

to Oswego, stowed awayin the car, she starts tolearn a little bit aboutboth. When she and Samsit on the stonewall withWill’s song, both of themare making overtures—however small—towardsfriendship, towards beingafamily.

In one sense or another, Iwas writing about the

community where I wasliving when I wrote TheRoot Cellar. While thenovel is set partly in the1860s, the Prince EdwardCounty community I waswriting about wasestablished in 1783 at theend of the AmericanRevolutionary War, whenthe United EmpireLoyalists (thoseAmericanswho had supported the

English) came north asrefugees.My interest in theLoyalists was sparkedwhen my husband,Richard, and I wrote ahistory of Prince EdwardCounty for the 1967centennialyear. Igrewupin the U.S. thinking thatall the people who foughtfortherevolutionwerethe

heroes and the Loyalistswere the villains. When Iwrotethecountyhistory,Ihad to see that war fromthe point of view of therefugees. It was quite ashock!

LD: You found yourselfliving in a communitymade up of thedescendants of Loyalistrefugees?

JL: Absolutely. When Iread the two-hundred-year-old records of thelandgrantedbytheCrownto those refugees, I foundthat the names on themwerethesameastheoneson the mailboxes up anddownmyownroad.IfeltIknew all those refugees. Iwasgoingtowriteanovelbased on those families,butthenwediscoveredwe

had a ghost in our house,and that was much toowonderful for me toignore. SoThe Root Cellarbecame the first of theHawthorn Bay books, andThe Hollow Tree—theLoyalist story—was thelast.

LD: And that house is asmuch a character in thebookasanyof thehuman

characters. Ithasavividlyclear, tangible quality; wefeel the walls dissolvingwhen Mrs. Morrissay“shifts”throughthewallofthe twins’ bedroom,muchto Rose’s shock. When Iwas in your farmhouse Iremember you saying,“This is the exact spotwhere my husband,Richard, saw the ghostcomingthroughthewall.”

JL: He saw it in the oldparlour, the roomwe hadfor our bedroom. It wasamazing!

LD:Didyoueverseeit?

JL: I did sometimes hearfootsteps, but I neveractually saw a ghost. Ithink some people aresensitive to ghosts andothers are not. We all

laughedwhenRichardsawher, because my husbandwasaverypragmaticman,a journalist dedicated tosorting out three-dimensional reality. Hevery definitely didn’tbelieve that there weresuchthingsasghosts.Untilhesawthatone.

LD:Interestingthatit’stheskeptics who often see

ghosts.Now tell us about yourown coming to Canada:twentieth-century Rosecomes to Canada as anorphan from New YorkCity;PhoebeOlcott inTheHollowTreefleestoBritishCanada from NewHampshirein1777;andin1815 Mary Urquhart setsoff across the ocean from

Scotland and ends upbesideHawthornBay.Youtoo came toCanada as animmigrant.Soyoudidloseyour friends, if not yourfamily,likeRosedoes.Youleft your friends behind,andyouhad in somewayto remake yourself in anewplace.

JL:WemovedalotwhenIwas a child. I spent my

young childhood in afarmhouse outside avillage in Vermont. Then,whenIwas tenwemovedto Rye, a town inWestchester County, NewYork, about thirty milesoutsideNewYorkCity,onLong Island Sound. Later,when I was fifteen, wemoved to Montclair, NewJersey,alittleclosertothecity, across the Hudson

River.IcametoCanadaasa university student,marriedafellowstudent,aCanadian, and I stayedhere,eventuallylandinginPrince Edward County,where Richard had grownup.Whenwemovedtothecounty, not only was Icomfortable in farmcountry, I discovered thatsome of my neighbours’ancestors had come from

Vermont. I felt aconnection between thosetwo places. When I wroteThe Hollow Tree, I wentback to my village inVermont for the start ofthe story—I suppose, in away, to bring my oldneighbours to my newhome.

LD: Even though youdidn’t write the books

chronologically, you’veranged over threecenturies of history in thebooks, two of themexploring the relationshipbetween Canada and theUnited States, or theexperiences of the peoplewho came here from theU.S.

JL:Yes.ButIdidn’trealizeat first that it was that

which interestedme. Igotto that realizationunexpectedly. And youmay remember this,Louise, because you’re theonewhoallbutshovedmeinto it. You mustremember that originallyRose was an orphancoming to Ontario fromVancouver. You asked mewhy, since I had comefrom the United States, I

didn’t give Rose thatbackground. I couldn’tanswer your question, butI went home that dayangrily kicking pebbles—metaphorically, anyway.Whatyou’daskedmetodowas to deal withsomething I very badlyhadn’t wanted to dealwith.Youhadaskedmetothink, really think, abouthow it felt to be a two-

country person. So thatbook turned out to be ananswer to your question,and a very important onefor me, because in thecourseofwritingthebookIhadtofindout,notonlyfor Rose and Will, wherethey belonged—becausethat’s what their story isabout—but where Ibelonged,aswell.

LD: What does belongingmeantoyounow?

JL: I havehad to come toterms with the fact that Idon’tbelonganywherethewaymy own children do.It’s not geography we’retalkingabout,notphysicallandscape—it’s cultural. Ibelong to Canada nowmore than to any otherplace. But I’ll never be

trulyrootedinthewaymyown children are, becauseI don’t share my earliestmemories with those whowere born here. But Ireally don’t belong in theU.S.anymore.

LD: So how would youdescribe that differencebetweenbeingaCanadianand/oranAmerican?

JL: Hmmm.… It wouldtakealongtimeandquitea few illustrations toexplain that one! BeingCanadian is different frombeing American; we allfeel it but it’s hard toexplain to people whohaven’t experienced beingboth. Our history inCanadahasbeenmoreoneof caution than rebellion.Living in Loyalist country

all those years made thisvery clear to me. Therefugees who had to fleetheir homes to create anew country here werebound to approach lifedifferentlyfromthosewhowon their war. Thewinners were thoseAmerican farm boys, the“rabbleinarms”whobeattheregularBritishsoldiers,andtheywereprettycocky

about it. The refugeescame here under theprotection of the Crown,and their legacy to thiswholecountrywasrespectfor government. TheAmericans pursued anaggressive individualismfrom the start.Butdespitesome very importantdifferences,thesimilaritiesbetween these two NorthAmerican countries,

largely populated byimmigrants from the restof the world, are reallygreater than thedifferences.

LD: The idea of belongingcomesup again andagaininTheRootCellar,forRoseasitdoesforWill.HowdoRose and Will, in theirown different ways, cometo understand what is

meant by belonging? Or,why is it important tothem?

JL:Rose feels thatshehasnever belonged anywhere.She has been traipsedaround the world by hergrandmother, and hergrandmother neverallowed her to havefriends.Soshehashadnoanchor but her

grandmother—a womanwhoprobably caredabouther but was soundemonstrative as toseem unloving. Rosedesperately needs to feelnot only loved, but thatshebelongs somewhere.Atthe start of the story, shecertainly doesn’t feel thatshe belongs with theHawthorn Bay family, butshehas begun to feel that

by the end. I rememberwhat an importantmoment it was forme, inthe writing of the book,when, on Christmas Day,Aunt Nan gives Rose aminiaturetoycarthatoncebelonged to her brother,Rose’s father. In thatmoment Rose suddenlyfeels that her father wasnot just a daydream—heonce lived, he was Aunt

Nan’s brother, hisconnection to her ownworld is real. She doesbelong to the HawthornBay family. I felt thatshared moment sostrongly.

LD:Whilewritingit?

JL: Yes. Those sudden,intense shared momentsare so pivotal in life, as

they are in stories. Theytie us together in a waythat years of sharedexperiences can’t alwaysdo. Looking back on thestory after I wrote it, Icould see that theconnection Rose makeswith Aunt Nan throughthat toy car, theconnectionshemakeswithSam sitting on the stonewall in Oswego while he

plays Will’s song, theconnectionshemakeswithWill when she buys himthe 10-cent harmonica—they pull the bits andpiecesofher life together.I didn’t see that while Iwas writing, though.Often,while I’mwriting, Idon’t consciously realizetheunderlyingmeaningofwhatIamsaying.

D:Doyouthinkthat’strueformostwriters?

JL: I think it’s true in thebooks I like best. When abook is full of deliberatesymbolism, it can be veryinteresting, but it’s apt tobe completely cerebral. Itnevertouchestheheart.SoI don’t strive forsymbolism or for figuringtheunderlyingmeaningof

my stories too carefully. Itrust my subconscious todothatjob.

LD: Do you feel that youhave to allow a story totell itself to a certainextent?

JL:Yes, Ido.But,atsomepoint,youhavetotakethestory that has told itselfand give it shape. You

know,asaneditor,thatanimportantpartofyourjobis toget thewriterwithastory that has all but tolditself to organize it into acohesive narrative. Whenhopeful young writers askmehowIworkoutastory,this is what I tell them: Iplot my story carefully.Then, when I start towrite, characters, dialogueand even events I haven’t

planned leap onto thepage.Thencomesthehardpart: I have to decidewhether to stick to thecarefullyplottedoutlineorgo with what’s appearedunbidden.Ifyoustickwiththe outline, you end upwith a dead story. If youfolloweverystraythought,your story won’t holdtogether. Somehow youhave to merge these two

strands. This is whatmakeswritinganart,notascience.

LD: Let’s look, for amoment, at some of those“unconscious” ideas now.In The Root Cellar, youcircle around ideas ofbeinggone, asmuchasofbelonging. Rose is gone—separatedfromherselfandher world, as well as

shiftingthroughtime.Willis gone—he runs off towar. Mrs. Morrissay isthereoneminuteandgonethenext.Andwhatmakesthestorysomovingformeis that Rose has to learnhow to find herself aboveall. All the way throughthenovel, in the languageand the images, I feel youare circling back to thatidea. Even in the

importance that you giveto music and song. Lostand found; music andsilence; sorrow and joy;darkness and light. Howconscious were you ofthesepowerfulideaswhenwritingthebook?

JL: I never thought aboutany of those themes, notconsciously. Nor did Irealize when I set out to

write this story that Iwasgoing to war with it. I’msure that what washappening here inCanadapoliticallyplayedapartinhow I was feeling. TheseparatistsinQuebecwerebeing quite noisy—I can’tthink of a betterword forit—and I rememberthinking,“OhLord,arewegoing to have a civil warinthiscountry?”Igrewup

in the shadow of theAmericanCivilWar.Itwasstill very alive in nationalmemory when I was achild. There were stillveterans from that warmarching in theMemorialDay parades. They wereold, old men, probably asold as the oldest of theSecond World Warveterans now. OurVermont village had sent

soldiers to that war. Thestoriesmyneighbourstoldabout that war had beentold to them by peoplewho’dlivedthroughit.Mygreat-grandmotherremembered seeingAbrahamLincolnwhenshewas a child.We still sangCivilWarsongsinschool.Iwas born only sixty-sevenyearsafter theendof thatwar, and I am now

seventy-two years old. Itwasn’tsoverylongago.

LD: As a new Canadian,didyouhave to takeonadifferent perspective onthe American Civil WarthanyoumighthavedoneifyouhadstilllivedintheU.S.?

JL: I didn’t. Historically,the pre-Confederation

Canadian governmentssupported the AmericanSouth because the Britishdid; the North Englandcotton mills got theircotton from the AmericanSouth. In fact, JeffersonDavis, who was thePresident of the SouthernConfederacy, sent his sonto Bishop’s College Schoolin Lennoxville, in theEastern Townships of

Quebec.ButprobablymostCanadians supported theNorth, as slavery wasoutlawed in all provinceshere.Agreatmanypeoplealongthebordersupportedthe Underground RailroadthathelpedescapedslavesfindtheirwaytoCanada.

LD: Strange to think thatyour birth was closer tothat war than you are to

your own birth today!When you moved toCanadaandfoundyourselfin a community of UnitedEmpire Loyalists who hadfled as refugees from theStates, did you find thatyour new community hadheldontoitsstories inthesamewaythattheyhadintheStates?

JL:Yes,andtheystilldo!

LD: Was that one of thereasonsyoucametowritethe book? To tell thosepeople’s stories? I doremember you saying,when you began TheRootCellar, that you weredeeply concerned thatwe,in Canada, didn’t have astrong tradition ofwritingdown the stories aboutourselvesandourpastandour country. You became

one of the first significantwriters in children’sliterature to do that. Is itstillimportanttoyou?

JL: Oh yes, I think it’sterribly important. I thinka community onlydevelops a sense of itselfthrough its stories. Wedon’t know who we arewithout our stories.Families don’t know, a

community doesn’t know,a nation doesn’t know.Story is the heart of apeople—storyinsculpture,in painting, in music, inwriting. At every familygathering, sooner or later,someone says, “Do youremember the time …?”Everyone else will nod,remembering, and thestories begin. At nationalholidays, radio and

television programs fulfillthat function. Storiesreminduswhoweareandbindustogether.

LD: What are the novelsthat, foryou,dotell thoseCanadianstories?

JL: When we’re talkingnovels for adults, I’d sayMargaret Laurence’s,Alistair MacLeod’s, W. O.

Mitchell’s—really, thereare quite a number. And,although they’re shortstories,AliceMunro’s.Among the books foryoung people, I supposeLucyMaudMontgomeryisthe quintessentialCanadian writer, eventhough she belongs to atime long past. Her proseis pretty flowery, but it

stillconveysthatdown-to-earth quality thatcharacterizes so muchCanadian fiction—evenour fantasy. Itcharacterizes our nationalpsyche. Among thecontemporary writers,while there are certainlyothers, Jean Little, KitPearson, Kevin Major,BrianDoyle,arethenamesthatleapintomyhead.

LD:Doyoufeelwecangeta truer senseofourhopesand traditions, our past,our country, throughfiction than out of historytextbooks?

JL: I thinkyouneedboth.Youcangetthefacts(oratleast an approximation ofthe facts) from thehistorybooks,buttheonlywaytoget inside history is

throughfiction.ButIdon’tlike fictional biography. Iam really bothered by theidea of taking someone’slife and turning it insideoutorembroideringfictionall over it. I respecthistoricalrealitytoomuch.You can never know theabsolute truth about thepast, but you can comecloser to how it mighthavebeenbyexaminingit

through the hearts andminds of fictionalcharacters.Youcan takeaperiod of time, readeverything you can findabout the people wholivedduringthattime,andcreate characters whomight have lived then—butyouhavetobecarefulnot toassignyour twenty-first-century sensibility tothem. Writing The Root

Cellar was an intriguingexercise because I had atwentieth-century heroinemoving back in time tobefriend two nineteenth-centurykids.

LD: Who therefore had toexplainthemselvestoeachother.

JL: They had a hard timeunderstanding how each

other thought.Therewerequite a fewmisunderstandings. But Iwastellingtheirstorywiththe firm belief that,underneath those surfacedifferences that growingup in different timeperiodswouldcreate,theywould all be the same. Iam quite sure that if wecouldgoback in timeonehundred, two hundred,

two thousand years, oncewe’d gotten over thestartling differences inclothing, language andcultural attitude, gettingalong would be not sodifferent from theencounterswepeoplefromso many cultures haveevery day. Despite thesometimes very greatdifferences, once they’reovercome we always find

that while we may thinkdifferently, we don’t feeldifferently. We all hurtwhenwestubourtoes.

LD: Is that why storiesabout travelling throughtimefascinateyou?

JL: Partly, I suppose.Partly it’s because I reallywant toknowwhat itwaslike to live during those

periods I write about.Partly it’s the pureromance of the idea; Iwould love to go back intime.

LD: I know from workingwith you that yourresearch is always verythorough.

JL: As thorough as I canpossiblymakeit.

LD:Eventhelanguageandconversation.Forexample,Joe Haggerty, the soldier,speaks inaparticularwaythat you researchedcarefully.

JL:Igothisdialoguefroma Civil War diary. I canstill remember sitting inthe Library of Congress inWashington, D.C., readingthat diary. (What a

wonderful library that is.The huge, round readingroom is so beautiful!) Thediary was so engrossingthat I felt, when I hadfinished reading it, asthough I really knew thispoor foot soldier whosewife had left him becausehehadn’tbeenpaidandhecouldn’t send her anymoney. I felt I justhad togivehimevenasmallpart

in my story. Finding adiary like that is likestrikinggold.Tobeabletoactually read whatsomebody felt and wrote,at the time and in theactual situation you’rewriting about, makes youfeel as though you’veheardhisvoicespeakingtoyou.

LD: Language has its own

characteristicsofplaceandtime; itgrowsandevolvesjust like people, withrecognizable traits. It’s aspecial joy of the novelthat you reproduce howpeople spoke in differentplacesanddifferenttimes.

JL: I thinktheaccuracyofdialogue is terriblyimportant. Without theecho of real speech, it’s

very hard for a reader tomakehisorherwayintoastory. Rose is a twentieth-century, middle-class NewYorker;WillandSusanarefarm kids in ruralOntarioin the 1860s. Theycouldn’t possibly speak inthe same way. I won’thave it exactly right, ofcourse. It’s very hard toget right. When I waswriting Shadow in

HawthornBayaboutMary,whose native language isScots Gaelic, I had toreally puzzle out how togive her voice. I didn’twant to write dialect; Idon’t like dialect, and it’shard to read. I settled forthe cadence of Gaelic-influenced English. That’smore or less what I didwith Will and Susan’snineteenth-century speech.

I don’t think speechpatterns changed all thatmuch between the 1960s,whenRichardandthekidsandIwenttoliveinPrinceEdward County, and the1930s,whenRichardgrewupthere.AndIdon’tthinkthere were great changesin a specific localitybetweenthe1930sandthe1860s, either. There usedto be more significant

differences between townsas close as fifty or sixtykilometres, but those arenow largely erasedbecause of television andradio.

LD: When you beganwritingTheRootCellar,didyou imagine it would bethe first of three booksthat would draw on thatlandscape of your farm

and Prince EdwardCounty? That the story ofthe Morrissays wouldspreadout from there likethe spokes of a wheel,encompassing Scotlandand Vermont and NewHampshire?

JL: Oh, no. I was onlythinking about thatparticular story. When Iwriteastory,Iamtherein

that story. I live in it. Inever think about what Iwill write next. Do youremember how it waswhen I was writing TheRoot Cellar? I was soinvolved. I remembercoming to your office atyour publishing house ofLester&OrpenDennysonCharles Street onemorning,andIreadtoyouthescenewhereSusanand

Rose find Will after thewar.Wesatthere,thetwoofus—

LD: —with the tearspouringdownourfaces!

JL: I never do read thatpart out loud when I amreading the story. I don’twant to cry in front of anaudience!

LD:Oneof the things thatis, of course, somarvellous, sogreataboutyourwriting,isthequalityof the storytelling. Thestorytellingisembeddedinworldsthatarehistoricallyfascinating, and are filledwith historical detail andthe language of the time,buttheheartofitallistherichnessofthestorytelling.

JL:StoryiswhyIwriteforyounger people. Story—inthe way that Aristotledefined it, as a conflictrising to a climax leadingto a denouement—isn’timportanttocontemporaryfictionforadults.Somanyadult novels today aremore like beautifullywrittencasehistories.

LD: Of events, as well as

characters?

JL: Oh, sure. And theevents are interesting, thecharacters are oftenstrong; the narratives are,in fact, most oftencharacter-driven. I like alotofcontemporarynovelsbecause of the goodwritingandbecauseIcarealotaboutcharacter.ButIdolovestory.

LD:Andwhydoyouthinkit’s necessary, during thewritingofanovel,foryouto keep going back overand over a story untilyou’ve got it right? Hasthatalwaysbeenapartofyourwriting?Doyouthinkit important to goodwriting?

JL: I really can’t say foreverybody’s writing. As

you know, I’ve worked asaneditor,andIhavefoundthat the stories of writerswho are unwilling torewrite often fall short oftheir potential. I think Iprobably have to rewritemore than some peoplehave to, but if I feelsomething iswrong, I feelcompelledtoworkthroughas many as six, seven oreight drafts. I’ve rewritten

somechaptersinmybooksfifteentimes.

LD: Working with youeditorially, I have seenhow you move from onedraft to another in greatimaginativeleaps.

JL:My husband once toldme, somewhat crossly,“You always think outloud.”

LD: I think it’s more thanthat.Youhaveaverygoodearforhearingorlisteningto a story, as well asgauging the effect of astory on your readers oraudience. You write thestory,andthenyouwaittohear that story or theresponse to it, and thenyou release it a wholejump ahead. When wework together, we work

first in large, generalterms, and thensubsequently line by line.In the first stage, youabsorb all the generalcomments that deal withthe flow and logic of thestory, and truth ofsituation and characters;you may move newcharacters in, or evencompletely change thestoryintermsofdirection.

You take great leaps—youareenormously responsiveto ideasandsuggestions. Iamalwaysamazedathowyoutakesuchgreatstridesin the story, using meeditorially almost as asounding board as youmovealong.

JL: I do think in layers.And Ineed to take time. Ithink I understand things

slowly. Maybe somepeopleneedtowritefewerdraftsbecausetheyseethewhole in the beginning. Idon’t. Ihavetocometoitslowly, layer by layer. IguessIdiscoveritasIgo.

LD: Our editorialrelationship in that firststage is verymuch one ofme as Reader, a lover ofstories, saying, “I want

more of this!” or “I didn’tunderstandthispart,”or“Iam lost,” or “Can I knowwhat is going to happennext,please?”

JL: Which is so valuable!This is what I’ve said tootherpeopleaboutediting.If you don’t listen to youreditor’s questions, you’renot serving your storywell, because those

questions are what areader wants the answersto.It’sespeciallyimportantfor a kids’ writer to havean editor who loves astory. Good editorialquestions are rare, andthey’resoimportant.

LD: Rose’s Aunt Nan isherself a writer of storiesfor children. Youngreaders are always asking

whether Aunt Nan’scharacterisbasedonyou.

JL: Only in that she’s achildren’s writer. Also, Ihave one daughter andfour sons, so giving AuntNan all those boys is areflection of my own life.Otherwisewe aren’t at allthesame.

LD: How many

grandchildren do youhave?

JL: Ten altogether, plusthree great-grandchildren.Andanotherontheway!

LD:Loveisalsosomethingthat threads its waythrough all of yourwriting. The Hollow Treeand The Shadow inHawthornBay are, both of

them, love stories. In TheRootCellar,RoseatleastisthinkingofmarryingWill!

JL: Well, Rose is youngerthan the heroines of theother two books, and sothere is actually only thesuggestion of a love storybetween Rose and Will.Roseherselfdiscoversthatthe love story is reallybetweenWillandSusan.It

isn’tabigproblemforher.In The Root Cellar,friendship between thetwo girls is really moreimportant—or the survivalof friendship (often astricky or trickier than thesurvivalofromantic love).Inallthreeofthesebooks,friendship is tested, andsometimesfoundwanting.

LD:Youare someonewho

isapacifistbypoliticsandbynature,butwar,infact,figures very strongly inyournovels.

JL: I want to showsomethingofthepointless-nessandthehorrorofwar.But also, to be perfectlyhonest, so much isrevealed about humannature in wartime. If myboyshadbeenyoungmen

at the time of the SecondWorld War, they wouldhave all gone—andwouldlikely have wanted to go.The idea of war is soexciting to youngmen, soglorious. My husband leftschool to go to war in1943. Boys have usuallyhadgreat leaders inbattlefor theirheroes. Isn’tKingArthur, at least in theEnglishworld,theultimate

hero?

LD: I think I loved thesadness of his story mostofall.

JL: I think that’s so for alot of girls—and girls fallin love with Arthur. Iremember being so angryat Lancelot, who I didn’tlikeatall.

LD: The girls in yournovels have a differentattitudetowar.

JL:Veryfewgirlsdreamofthe glory of saving theircountry by going off tofight in a war. They’remore apt to dream ofnursing the woundedsoldiers. Idoremember inmyownteenageyearsthatI longed to be old enough

tobeanurse in thenavy,but I have to say that itwas as much because Ifancied myself in theuniform they wore as forany of the actual work;beinganursewasneveradream of mine. Rose is achildofalatergeneration;she isn’t as likely to havesuchdreams.AndtheCivilWar,forher,isjustabitofhistory with no emotional

pull. As for Susan, shedoesn’t have Will’sconnection tohismother’sfamilyacrossthelake,andso has no reason to befilled with patrioticfervour.Willdoesn’treallyhavethateither.Hehasn’tspent a lot of timedreaming of the glory ofwar.Hegoesbecauseheisso strongly influenced byhiscousinSteve.

LD:Willisagentleperson,aloverofsongandmusic.

JL: But he’s unhappy athome; with his mother’sdepression, it’s a prettydispiriting place. Steve isthe one who is chafing atthe bit for the adventureand the glory of it all.Hetalks Will into going withhim.

LD: We readers, too, arefascinated by war andconflict in fiction. Do youthink that might bebecause it is to somedegreeamacrocosmofourdailylives—theconflictsinour daily lives—writlarge?

JL: Isn’t every humanbeingfascinatedbydeath?Andwar is a clear life-or-

death experience. A storywriteralwayswritesaboutconflict,andtheclosertoalife-or-death moment theconflict gets, the moreeagerlythereaderclingstothe story. Survival is thequintessential conflict.Butthere are others just aspowerful. In The RootCellar,whenRoseandWillandSusanareontheirwayhome, there is a huge

stormonthelake—andthethreat of death is rightthere, as it is again whenthey are crossing theflooded creek in the dark,fightingthewildwindandrain.

LD: And they are not sodifferentfromtheconflictsthat we have every sooften at home or in theschoolyard, whether

physical conflict orsurvivinganargument.Wearealwaysbeing testedoraretestingourselves.

JL:Youmightnotactuallybeindangerofyourlifeinthe schoolyard, but whenyou’re very young youdon’t always know that;there is always the fearthat you might be killedwhen someone is

physically attacking you.But stories wherepsychological death is atstake can be equallypowerful.Aswellasbeingin physical danger, Rose,during her adventure in1865, is in psychologicaldanger. She’s lost, shedoesn’t know who she is,and if she can’t find outshewillspendalifetimeasalostsoul.

I’ve learned fromreadersthatitisRosemostpeople identify with. Formany reasons, I suppose,but maybe especiallybecausetheyarecaughtupin her fight forpsychological survival. AsinThe Hollow Tree, wherePhoebeisbeingtested,thiskindof survival is crucial,as it is, too, for Mary inShadow in Hawthorn Bay.

AndasitisforRoseinTheRoot Cellar. In a way, thefight for survival is whatthegreatjourneysofmythandfairytaleareallabout.

JL: The Hollow Tree isn’treally about the trekthrough the wilderness,although it certainly playsits part. It’s about conflictamong thehumanson thetrek, about trust, about

friendship,aboutloyalty.

LD:InTheRootCellar,youhad to get Rose down totheCivilWarasquicklyaspossible.

JL: I wasn’t thinking likethatwhenIwroteit,notatall. When I began writingthe story, I didn’t evenhavetheCivilWar.

LD: No, I know! It was amajor change. At whatpoint did you decide tobuild the Civil War intothestory?

JL: I can’t remember. Ionly remember thatsuddenly I knew that warwaspart of the story. Thewhole novel is really avoyage of discovery; thewar is almost only a

catalyst to make thatpossible.Doyourememberthat, in the beginning,Roseisconvincedthatsheisn’t a real person andthat,intheend,sheknowsthatsheis?

LD: And the element ofdiscoveryaswe journey isimportant to you inmanyof your books, even inyour early retelling of the

fairy story The TwelveDancing Princesses,illustratedbyLaszloGal.

JL: Yes: discovery,surprise, a touch ofwonder. Do you Iremember what fun youandIhadworkingonthatbook? I do love taking anoldstorylikethatoneandfindingnewmeaninginit.

LD:Inaway,itisthesamemeaning we discover inThe Root Cellar, which isthe importance of findingout who we are, andwhereandwithwhomwebelong.

JL:Twoworlds.Wealllivein twoworlds.We live inthis external world wherewearesittingheretalking,andwe live in theworlds

that go on inside ourheads. For us storytellers,that second world isalways forming itself intoastory.

LD: Do you always tellyourselfstories?

JL: Yes, I’ve told myselfstories all my life, longbefore I could read orwrite, even. How else

wouldIgettosleep?

LD: Did you tell yourchildrenstories?

JL:Iwasmoreapttoreadto them because I wantedthemtoknowthestoriesIloved somuch as a child,and I wanted us to findnewonestogether.

LD: What are your

favourite children’sstories?

JL: The Secret Garden,which I gave to Rose asher favourite story, so shecould have it too. That’smy lifelong favorite. I stillread it about once a year.When I was little, I lovedbooks about dolls, and Iespecially liked RachelField’sbookHitty:HerFirst

Hundred Years, the oneabout the little woodendoll. I was passionateabout E. Nesbitt’s stories.If I could go back to thelibrary in Rye, New York,wherewe lived right afterwemovedfromVermont,Icould find with my eyesclosed the Nesbitts on theshelves, provided theyhadn’tbeenmoved.IlovedHeidi too. I’ve found, alas,

that it doesn’t bear re-reading the way most ofmy other childhoodfavourites do, but I sureloveditwhenIwasten.Itwas those Alps! And Iloved all of Louisa MayAlcott’sbooks.

LD:TheNesbittstoriesalsotake us on strangejourneys, with the sameexcitement in adventure

andmagic.

JL: “Theveil between thisworld and the other”—that’s how Nesbittdescribed what liesbetweenourworldandtheworldoffaerie.

LD:AndMrs.Morrissay isa part of that thin veilbetween this world andthe other. Do you think

thereisathinveilbetweenthis world and the other?Do you have a sense ofanotherworldbeyond?

JL:Yes, Ido,but I think Iam too prosaic to getthere,soIhavetodoitformyself in stories. I thinksomepeopledo slipeasilyfrom one to the other.Then there are ghosts. Idon’t see them either,

whatevertheyare,butasIsaidearlier,Iknowpeoplewhodo.

LD:Whatdoyoufindmostsatisfying in being awriter?

JL:Writing. I find the actof writing enormouslysatisfying. I even likerewriting. During the lastrewriteofTheHollowTree,

I got up to make tea onemorning and I wassuddenly overcome withfeeling. I stood in themiddle of the living roomand the words just camerushing out ofmymouth:“I lovewhat Ido!” It isn’tthatIthinkthatanythingIwrite is awork of genius,it is just that I love doingit.

APRIL2001

B

ALSOBYJANETLUNN

ShadowinHawthornBayWINNEROFTHECLACHILDREN’S

BOOKOFTHEYEAR

and

THECANADIANYOUNGADULTBOOK

AWARD

orn in the same weekin the Highlands of

Scotland, Mary Urquhartand her cousin Duncanhadalwaysbeenunitedbyawildjoyforthelandandfor each other. MaryknowsthatDuncan’sheartis always with her, evenafterhehaslefttoseekhisfortune in the rawwilderness of UpperCanada. Four years afterhe has left, Mary hearsDuncan’s cry for help

across the great distancethat separates them. Now,equippedwith her strangegift of “second sight,”Maryknowsthatshemustleave behind all that isdearandsafeandcrosstheoceanalonetofindhim.

SEALBOOKS/ISBN:0-7704-2886-x