She watched for him to show resentment about her having taken Roman into the house, but he did not. It was as though the boy no longer existed for him. They never met. Roman saw to that. Floyd painted Roman’s room and built him a rough desk and a case for the books Sarah had taken to ordering from Savannah to give him. When he was not occupied with Sarah or with reading, Roman often fell into talk with the kitchen women, being so near to them. He entertained them by telling them things from his reading. They took pride in his smartness and were grateful in an easy, laughing, teasing way for his attentions to them. They often made special treats for him. Otis and Lotus followed him everywhere.

Leon was in town almost as much as ever. The school no longer kept and would not again until the fall. The children were in the fields, not by Roscoe’s orders, but because that is where everyone else was now, and therefore where they wanted to be, even for their playing.

Selma, accompanied usually by Pauline, walked early in the day, but after retiring to her room in midmorning, seldom ventured forth again. Leon brought lemons and ice from town almost every evening, but there never seemed to be enough lemons to make a pie or cake, so many did Pauline take for Selma’s pleasure.

After the long visit she had paid to Beulah Land in late winter and spring—the grass had grown over Deborah’s grave before she made her departure—Penelope was content to keep to Broughton Street in Savannah. As I grow older, she wrote to Sarah, the old home is dearer to me than ever, and even a day away from it seems a day lost. Prudence surprised us all by having five kittens. As soon as their eyes have opened and cleared, and before we grow too fond of them, I shall put them into a basket and tie a ribbon on the handle and have Ricey take them about among the neighbors offering them to whoever at the time may need a good cat. I trust the books arrived safely.

It was an abundant summer. The corn was fat and milky, coming on early and lasting long. Watermelons almost split open of themselves, needing only the touch of a knife point. The cotton grew thick and heavy in its bolls even before the bolls popped open. Just as it was ready for picking, on Sunday, August 2, 1835—Sarah would remember the date as long as she lived—an unexpected visitor arrived.

Leon had driven himself and Sarah into Highboro for church services, because they had not been since June, and Sarah thought they ought to see county people again and ask how their crops were coming along. It was a hot day, but dry enough so that they were tolerably comfortable.