Mother opens the door and lets them all into the house. The seven strange children have runny noses and blistered feet. Drops of rain are beaded on their greasy hair and streaking their cheeks. They smell awful.

Uncle Mitchell looks around at the cramped room, the dirt floor, the low ceiling. Even in charitable candlelight, the shabbiness is undeniable. He holds a candle in front of a picture on the wall, makes a show of looking it over—a barnyard scene, a boy feeding a horse from his hand. The rain taps lightly at first, then louder and faster on the roof. “Where will we all sleep?” he asks.

First they eat. They fall on whatever cold food and stale bread remains in the pantry and complain that there’s no meat. “In the morning,” Uncle Mitchell says, “I’ll kill a couple of your chickens.”

“You can’t do that,” June tells him.

“Don’t contradict your elders and betters,” Uncle Mitchell says. “I’ll do as I please.” There is no more conversation.

Mother has been upstairs organizing. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell will take Mother and Father’s bed. The Mitchell girls are sent to sleep with Asia, all of them laid crossways on the mattress like fence posts. June retires to the carriage house with Joe Hall so that the boys can have the bed he shares with Edwin. Rosalie and her mother sleep, or mostly don’t sleep, on the rug downstairs. Rosalie wraps herself in Macbeth’s cape for warmth. All night the rain starts and stops, starts and stops. Next morning, Rosalie’s mind is muddled with fatigue.

The day that dawns is mild and sunny. Mother is able to open the doors and windows, air the cabin out. This season is always such a beautiful one on the farm—the trees in tender leaf, the air filled with the scent of jasmine and the songs of birds and streams. It’s a shame that Father so often misses it. He is always deeply moved by nature resurrecting.

The older Mitchells are still asleep, and Rosalie takes the children as far as the spring so the house will stay quiet. Mother suggested the woods, but Rosalie sees no need to go that far, expose the new children to the curiosity of the dead ones. The Mitchells are all limping, feet raw and swollen. The boys are drowning in June’s clothing. The girls are wrapped in woven blankets with their legs bare. A walk would be unkind.

Besides, Rosalie would have to carry little Charlotte and then Asia would demand to be carried, too. “I don’t like them,” Asia tells her, right where they can hear, and Rosalie whispers not to worry, the Mitchells will be gone soon enough. Anyone can see there’s no room.

The cousins are silent with each other—Asia suspicious, Edwin shy; the Mitchell children huddle together, inert and unsettled. Mother brings her chair to the doorstep to work in the sunlight. She’s collected the rags of their costumes to see which ones can be repaired and returned. She’s already mending.