“Well!” I heard Ruth exclaim behind me, and I imagined her exchanging a significant look with Cynthia. What was it? What was it? I found myself drawn to the protection of the high-backed settee in the front room. Suddenly, the picture of Halcy snapping sharp her dust cloth flashed into my thoughts; she had been here, often about this very room—and that image broke open the gate around my heart. There she was; there she was after all. Alive—and particular. Not a heroine, but a girl. The one I’d chattered with, and dreamed. The one I’d followed belowstairs for buttered muffins, passing a china cup of milk between us across the wooden tabletop, the hum and bustle of the busy kitchen all around. I leaned my forehead against the back of the settee and gave in to hot, silent tears for my childhood companion.

After a bit, I heard Ruth and Cynthia’s talk start up again through the open window at the opposite end of the room. My tears eased and I sat there lulled, my cheeks cooling. One of the curtains lifted and fell in the dispersing breeze of the quiet room. A minute went by, and another. Then, drifting over the wooden ridge of the settee, came a flight of smoke rings, perfectly formed and spinning in the bright afternoon air. The rings floated for an instant together and then the gay procession disbanded.

“Well said,” a man commented.

I started. The wicker of his chair creaked as he rose. I struggled to press myself farther down into the pillows, listening as his slow tread crossed the room and stopped directly behind the settee.

I looked up into the calmly considering eyes of Bartholomew Hunnowell, now resplendent in white vest and trousers.

“What was well said?” I asked uncomfortably, pushing myself upright. “It is not fair to spring upon me like that.”

“No, it is not,” he agreed. “Forgive me.” But he remained where he stood, looking down; and aware of my flushed cheeks and reddened eyes, I started up, smoothing my skirts about my hips, to move from off this tiny island of unease into the midst of the room. I reached the center table safely and turned to face him.

“What was well said?” I repeated.

He pointed toward the windows at the front of the room. “Halcy Ames and Henry Brown should not be turned into the silly tales of girls.”

I followed his gaze. There sat Ruth and Cynthia perfectly framed. He must have witnessed the entire scene. I flushed up again.

“Thank you,” I said, abashed. Standing there at the table, side by side, we both watched the girls a minute more. I could not think what to do. And he did not move from his spot, nor offer a break through which I might gracefully end our tête-à-tête.