As soon as she made the turn onto the highway, the bright sunlight made her wince. Instinctively, she pulled down the visor and groped for her sunglasses. She was driving right into the sun, and the visibility was very poor. The sun reflected off every bit of ice and smear on the windshield, and to make matters worse, the woods lining the road made deep shadows. She was terrified she wouldn’t see a pedestrian or bicyclist in the shadows until it was too late.

A big pickup truck loomed suddenly behind her, tailgating so closely that she was afraid to try to pull over to let it pass. Her nerves already raw, she clutched the steering wheel tightly and tried to maintain a steady forty miles an hour. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the changes in light and shadow as she tried to see the road ahead, keep track of the truck behind her, and check the speedometer.

I have to do something, she decided, and cautiously tapped the brake and turned on her left signal. To her relief the pickup backed off, giving her room to pull over to the side. The driver, a young fellow with his black lab beside him on the passenger seat, honked and waved, and Lucy shook her head.

She was stopped, she realized, right in front of Miss Tilley’s antique Cape Cod house. The little white clapboard house hugged the ground, anchored by a huge central chimney. It had been built more than two hundred years ago and was designed to stay warm even in the frigid winter winds. Impulsively Lucy turned into the driveway and marched up to the door. If anyone in town would know about Harold Higham, it would be Miss Tilley.

“Lucy, how nice to see you,” she said, opening wide the solid pumpkin pine door. “I was just having some tea. Won’t you join me?”

Lucy glanced at her watch. If she didn’t stay long, she could still be home before the school bus.

“Thank you, I will. I’m awfully sorry about dropping in on you like this,” Lucy apologized. “I have a question I want to ask you.”

“I’m always glad to see you, Lucy,” said Miss Tilley, leading the way into the cozy living room. Despite her age she had kept her height and her ramrod-straight back. “Lucy, do you know Emily Miller?” Miss Tilley indicated a tiny figure seated on a wing chair near the fireplace.

“Oh, dear, that fire has gotten low, hasn’t it?” Miss Tilley threw another log on the fire and stirred it up with the poker. “There, that’s better. Now, Emily, this is Lucy Stone. I think I may have mentioned her to you.”

“Of course, Lucy Stone. It’s very nice to meet you.” Although she was tiny and frail, Mrs. Miller’s eyes were bright. She seemed to have recovered her strength since the day of Sam’s funeral.