But on receipt of this letter with the seeds and the promise, he got up from his lame repose, put off dying, and became something of his old self again. He looked long at the different seeds, holding them in his hands, rubbing them gently between the tips of his fingers as if they would give up their secrets to him by touch. Perhaps they did. He planted all of them, and most of them came up and grew, and the tending of them, not knowing what any would turn out to be, gave the old man reason to live, beyond his real reason, which was, of course, the promise that Floyd would return.

That letter, which turned out to be the last, was not passed about, but it was read to others, or its news was told. Sarah saw the letter, because she went every day to visit Ezra. Roman had taken to accompanying her on the visits, for he had long admired the old man’s knowledge. Then, too, Ezra was the father of a man he had known, although not well, who was colored and free, and who had traveled on his own to England and Holland and France. “And Egypt and Antioch,” he repeated softly when Sarah again read this last letter aloud, to please Ezra, who never tired of reading it, or hearing it read.

And so that summer of 1837 Ezra planted the seeds and tended the plants that grew from them; he made careful observations; and he waited.

6

Adam asked Edna, “What is this, Grandma?” At eight he was tall enough to see everything on the high mantelpiece of the living room, and confident enough to pick up the object of his current curiosity and hold it out toward her.

Edna looked at it, puzzled herself, until her eyes showed that she remembered. “I declare! I must have looked at that a dozen times a day since I put it there, twenty and more years ago. It’s a flute left—given to us—by your papa and Uncle Bonard’s teacher who lived with us, Tutor he was called. Mister Bartram. Jeremy Bartram. A very nice young man once he settled in. Your Uncle Leon used to ride over every day for lessons too. What a long time ago that is.”

Adam took the instrument back and examined it. He then put it to his mouth and blew through it without making any intelligent sound. He practiced fingering the holes of the flute, blowing lightly, but achieving no improvement.

Violet fluttered into the room. “They coming! I seen the wagon in the distance and heard Sugar holler!”