They had reached the burned-out remains of the Preckles’ house. The small barn had fallen in during the last winter’s heavy snows. It was a desolate sight now, the windows all broken, door off its hinges, and the whole thing charred black. Christina, more tired than she cared to admit, shivered as they went past.

“There’s something to be said for dying together in a big blaze when you’re near ninety,” Ellen commented.

“I suppose so. But I’ll never forget John’s face when he had gone up after the fire truck and came home.”

“Guess it would give anyone a turn—we all felt responsible in a way; don’t know quite why.”

“The loneliness …” Christina murmured. And they left it at that. Twenty years ago it had happened, those two old people burned to death and help coming long after they were gone. Sam had tried to drag his wife out, and then they had both succumbed in the doorway only a few feet from safety. That was the irony of it. “But I guess you’re right. Ninety is old enough. We won’t be climbing around like goats together when we’re that old, I can tell you.”

“It’s funny how one has always thought of dying, but never about old age,” Ellen said. “Seems as though I never wake up any more feeling really ready to git up and go. Why, I used to be up for Rufus by four o’clock!”

“Shh …” Christina had just time to make them both stand still as a young buck, his small antlers still in velvet, stood on the rise about twenty yards from them. For one long moment the two old women and the deer looked at each other. No one breathed. Then, with a superb bound, he crossed the road, white tail up, and crashed into the woods on the other side. It had been so quick, so silent, so full of magic that they still stood there for a long moment after he was out of sight.

“Oh—oh—” Christina breathed then. “How he looked at us—those liquid eyes! What a look!”

“Worth getting lost for that sight, I’d say.”

“I understand so well why the Indians felt the animals were gods. He was like a god, wasn’t he?”

“And he’ll be shot dead, like as not, come November.”

“I’ll never get used to it—never!” Christina was vehement.

“No, neither will I. But a deer means meat. The way the cost of living has gone up, you can’t blame people.”

“You know, it’s interesting—have you noticed as people get older they lose the wish to kill? Cornelius used to be a great hunter. Remember that time when he and Ned Turner got a bear, a wildcat, and two deer all in one morning?”

“I still have the clipping. They looked pretty proud of themselves.”