“We’re all allowed to be fools the first week or two,” she said, hearing Diana’s voice in her head. There had been a short note from Diana telling her not to worry—that she had found a place in a seamstress’s shop. But how could she not be anxious for her?

“Aye,” Brigid was continuing sadly, “but I’m a fool yet.” She nodded at the Psalm pasted on Lyddie’s loom. “And you such a scholar.”

Lyddie slid her fingers under the paper to loosen the paste and handed it to Brigid. “Here,” she said, “for practice. I’ll make another for myself.”

Brigid shook her head. “It will do me no good. I might as well be blind, you know.”

“But I sent you a note once—”

“I took it straight away to Diana to read to me.”

“You’ve learned your letters at least?”

Shamefaced, the girl shook her head.

Lyddie sighed. She couldn’t take Brigid on to teach, but how could she begrudge her a chance to start? She made papers for the girl to post.

“A is for agent.” Beside it was a crude picture of a man in a beaver hat—the stern high priest of those invisible Boston gods who had created the corporations and to whom all in Lowell daily sacrificed their lives.

“B is for bobbin and Brigid, too.” B was instantly mastered.

“C is for carding.”

“D is for drawing in.” She went on, using as far as possible words Brigid knew from factory life. Each day Lyddie gave her three new papers to post and learn, and, at the end of the day, to take home and practice.

So it was that day by day, without intending to be, Lyddie found herself bound letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence, page by page, until it was, “Come by when you’ve had your supper, and we’ll work on the reader together.” Or on a Sunday afternoon: “Meet me by the river, and I’ll bring paper and pens for practice.”

She did not go to Brigid’s house. She was not afraid to go into the Acre. She was not frightened by rumors of robberies and assaults, but, somehow, she was reluctant to go for Brigid’s sake. She did not want Brigid to have to be ashamed of the only home she had.

At last a letter came from Charlie. She had not allowed herself to look for one, but when it came she realized how she had longed to hear—just to be reminded that she had not been altogether forgotten.

Dear Sister Lyddie,

(Charlie did make his letters well!)

We are fine. We hope you are well, too. Rachel began school last month. Her cough is nearly gone, and she is growing quite fat with Mrs. Phinney’s cooking.