She did not ponder it or try to understand it further. She asked him to walk with her, and he did. They talked to each other, without either of them at first making very much sense of what the other said, understanding only that they needed each other’s company.

After Leon had admitted the truth of being Roman’s father, he said, “Now surely you see that it, to say the least, embarrasses me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said.

“The people are laughing. They think it’s your ignorance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then leave him alone!”

“No. I won’t do that.”

“Why?”

Deborah took her into her office one morning and said, “My dear Sarah, it isn’t suitable. I’m sorry you had to find out about all that, but he was a boy, and there was no more to it than a foolish mistake, a summer misfortune. You do see that you must let him alone now?”

Sarah shook her head stubbornly.

It was the first time Deborah had not found her submissive. She narrowed her eyes and stared at the girl, who met her look evenly; and she wondered if it might be a good thing in the long run, this unexpected strength that allowed her to say no to all of them.

Roscoe’s hitting the boy in her presence, on the pretext of punishing him for his slowness at responding to a simple question, but really to warn Sarah away from him, did not turn her away. After the first time, Sarah did not even listen to the exasperated pleading of Leon, or the scolding of Deborah, or the emotional advice of Lovey.

Roman was teased and taunted by his younger, darker brothers, Roscoe and Alonzo, slapped and screamed at by his mother, and beaten by his nominal father. But it made no difference.

She took him by the hand, and they walked together through the orchard when spring came and it bloomed; beyond that, through the woods and fields. Once, early on, she asked him in a brisk tone, “Does it hurt you to walk?”

“No,” he said, and she let that settle it.

Sometimes she went too fast in her eagerness to explore and had to stop and wait for him. Sometimes she even chided him. “Come along! You can walk faster than that.” Now and then they raced short distances, as if both of them were children and rivals. She did not make the mistake of letting him win, which might have discouraged his trying to pit his strength against hers.

“What do you dream about?” she asked him one day.

“You sometimes,” he answered readily.

“Do you?” She was pleased.

“And I dream I’m like everybody else. It’s a funny thing, but in my sleep, I’m straight and tall.”

“You won’t ever be, Roman.”

“I know,” he said.