Lyddie flushed furiously. She was worried about the money, but she wished Betsy wouldn’t put it like that. She wanted to explain to them—to justify herself. Maybe if she told them about the bear—about how close her family’d come to moving to the poor farm. Maybe if she told them about Charlie—how bright he was and how she knew he could do as good at college as Betsy’s stuckup brother. Only Charlie wasn’t at Harvard. He was sweeping chaff off a mill floor. And little Agnes had gone to God. She shuddered and held her peace. It might sound like cowardly excuses when the words were formed. But it didn’t matter if they understood or not. As much as she admired Diana, she wouldn’t be tricked by her, or even by Betsy, to joining any protest. Just another year or two and she could go home—home free. I got to write Mama, she thought. I got to tell her how hard I’m working to pay off the debt.

Dear Mother,

I was made quite sad by your letter telling of my sister Agnes’s death. I am consern that you are not taking proper care of your health. I have enclose one dollar. Please get yourself and little Rachel good food and if possible a warm shawl for the winter. I will send more next payday. I try to save for the debt, but you must tell me how much it is exakly. And do I send it direct to Mr. Wescott or to some bank? I am well. I work hard.

Your loving daughter,

Lydia Worthen

She checked her spelling in Oliver. The grammar as well. She felt a little thrill of pride. She knew she was improving in her writing. Not that her mother would be able to tell, but Charlie would. She took a second sheet to begin a letter to him, then hesitated, suddenly shy. It had been so long. She hardly knew what to say. I must go to see him soon as my year is up, she thought. I’ll lose touch. Or—he’ll forget me. She jerked her head to loosen the thought. Charlie would no more forget her than the snow would forget to fall on Camel’s Hump Mountain. But she should write. He might think she had forgotten him.

Dear Charlie,

No, “Dear Charles.” (He was nearly a man now and might not like a pet name.)

Dear Charles,

She held the pen so tight her fingers cramped.

I have heard from Mother that little Agnes has died. Did she write you as well this sad news? We must get Mother and Rachel home soon. I am saving most of my wages for the debt. I am working hard and making good pay. We can go home soon I stil hop. (ha ha). I trust you are well.

I am as ever your loving sister,

Lydia Worthen