“Of course you’re good,” said Al Junior.

“Do you mind my asking. I’ve met many hospitable people in my time, and stayed in many a happy home, but not one happier than this, and no one quite so glad to see me.”

All were still around the table. Finally, Faith raised her head and smiled at him. “I’m glad you found us to be happy,” she said. “But we all remember other times as well, and perhaps our present happiness is sweeter, from the memory of grief.”

“But why do you take in a man like me?”

Miller himself answered. “Because once we were strangers, and good folk took us in.”

“I lived in Philadelphia for a time, and it strikes me to ask you, are you of the Society of Friends?”

Faith shook her head. “I’m Presbyterian. So are many of the children.”

Taleswapper looked at Miller.

“I’m nothing,” he said.

“A Christian isn’t nothing,” said Taleswapper.

“I’m no Christian, either.”

“Ah,” said Taleswapper. “A Deist, then, like Tom Jefferson.” The children murmured at his mention of the great man’s name.

“Taleswapper, I’m a father who loves his children, a husband who loves his wife, a farmer who pays his debts, and a miller without a millstone.” Then the man stood up from the table and walked away. They heard a door close. He was gone away outside.

Taleswapper turned to Faith. “Oh, milady, I’m afraid you must regret my coming to your house.

“You ask a powerful lot of questions,” she said.

“I told you my name, and my name is what I do. Whenever I sense that there’s a story, one that matters, one that’s true, I hunger for it. And if I hear it, and believe it, then I remember it forever, and tell it again wherever I go.”

“That’s how you earn your way?” asked one of the girls.

“I earn my way by helping mend wagons and dig ditches and spin thread and anything else that needs doing. But my life work is tales, and I swap them one for one. You may think right now that you don’t want to tell me any of your stories, and that’s fine with me, because I never took a story that wasn’t willingly told. I’m no thief. But you see, I’ve already got a story—the things that happened to me today. The kindest people and the softest bed between the Mizzipy and the Alph.”

“Where’s the Alph? Is that a river?” asked Cally.

“What, you want a story?” asked Taleswapper.

Yes, clamored the children.

“But not about the river Alph,” said Al Junior. “That’s not a real place.”

Taleswapper looked at him in genuine surprise. “How did you know? Have you read Lord Byron’s collection of Coleridge’s poetry?”

Al Junior looked around in bafflement.