In the first photograph Christina took out, Sophia was standing in front of a barn door, in a tightly buttoned double-breasted jacket over a full skirt or, perhaps, apron—beneath it another skirt showed through. Her hair was parted in the middle and drawn tightly back from a wide brow. It was a strong, good-humored face, for although she was not smiling, her glance was warm.

“She does look in command of the situation.”

“That she certainly must have been.”

Christina went through the packet, about twelve photographs in all. In one the two children sat beside their mother, the boy remarkably like his mother, even to the mouth; the girl smaller in build, slighter, with rather pale eyes.

“It’s so funny,” Christina said, smiling at the children, “how they dressed children like small adults in those days. How did they ever manage in those long skirts?”

Then she laid the packet down, one hand over it, palm open, as if she were thinking with that hand as well as with her whole body, bringing alive what she had just looked at.

“Of course what the letters don’t tell is the hard times—the times when a crop failed for not enough sun, the times when it snowed and snowed, the times of panic or when a dog died. Of course what one longs to have is the other side of the correspondence.”

“My guess is that his letters were full of advice that was rarely followed. One wonders how long a letter took to reach a regiment in the field.”

“What was he like, Eben, do you think?”

“Well, here he is in uniform—a captain.”

“Heavens, how young he looks—far younger than she! Was he?”

“Just two years, if the dates in the family Bible are correct.”

“And what was it like when he came back and found his wife so powerfully in command? What then?”

They had plunged right into the whole subject as if nothing else existed. Now Molly came in with coffee, and they laughed spontaneously.

“We’re way back somewhere about 1870, Molly. We’re ghosts.”

“Nothing like the past to make one feel alive, I always say,” said Molly.

“Join us, won’t you? Bring in a cup, Molly—do.”

But Molly excused herself, to do the ironing she said. Christina guessed she was indulging Eben, being sensitive about his needs. No doubt they did have coffee together as a usual thing.

“Well,” Eben said when he had taken a sip, “Elisha came back with one arm shot to hell, and he had spent a winter in prison. For a time anyway he must have been pretty darned glad to have such a competent wife at home. My guess is”—and his eyes twinkled—“he just dwindled back into matrimony with a sigh of relief and let Sophia run things her way.”