The men from the quarry were carrying him up from the landing, wrapped in Father’s old green tartan. There were four of them, their faces still white with dust, and Mr. Philbert walked ahead. I could not move from my spot in the window, could not speak to my legs to move, nor tell my hands to let go their grip upon the sill. Up they came, slowly up the porch stairs, silent and steady and into the house. Sue waited in the front hall and greeted the men—thanked them! I watched through the doorway as she put her hand upon our brother and said, “You are home, Georgie,” and then kissed him, though he did not open his eyes.

Still I could not move or speak.

“Nell?” I heard. “Nell?” I looked at Susannah upon the threshold. She held her hand out to me and the string between us quivered, and I walked forward to her, my only sister. “Let us put him in the front room,” I suggested. “The couch is widest there.” She nodded and we turned together back to the men and took this new hell into our hands.

“What happened?” I asked Mr. Philbert after we had settled George comfortably as we could before the fire.

“Your brother tried to save a man from falling.”

“But he was not able to?” I asked quietly, sensing another horror.

“Nay.” Mr. Philbert shook his head.

“Who was the first?” Susannah could not look up. I think we both knew.

“It were strange,” the foreman reflected, “for him to have been up there at all—it were not like him in the evening—”

“Speak!” Susannah cried. “Who was’t?”

The man raised his eyes to her slowly. “Mr. Gilroy, miss.”

The cloth had fallen from Susannah’s hand. “Where is he?” I asked.

“In the boat behind. The men’ll have him up certain.”

The slow tramp of heavy feet sounded then upon the outer stairs.

14 May

We have buried Hayden next to Mother. Sue and I walked down the hill together, side by side—and at the bottom, she tucked her arm in mine, and I covered her hand with my own. So we walked slowly homeward, our tears slipping down unheeded.

16 May

Each night have I thought he would not live to see the morning, and yet he lives. Yet he lives! My poor George.

But he is badly broken. I hear an ocean in his chest where I lay my head to listen.

22 May

I wish I had not heard what he has told. I wish I had the moment back to switch the course of what did happen. Were I leaning over him once more and could see the struggle in his eyes, I would not say again, “Tell me, George.” But I thought it would be comfort for him to speak of it.