I shivered from the cold. A heap of fresh hay stood in an empty stall and I went to it, burrowing deep, but with the animals still in my sight. It was nearly midnight. I craned my neck and waited for the slow sinking of the heavy animal bodies. When the time came I was sleepy. The rustling of the cows and mules as they went to their knees, and the sighs that escaped them as they shifted their weight, seemed to me to be the voice of God.

One windy night in March there came a pounding on our door. I had been sound asleep and didn’t quite wake up. I heard someone say, “mortal ill.” Later Daddy carried me to Aunt Becka’s bed.

“They’s a sick boy needs to lie beside the fire,” Aunt Becka whispered.

“M-m-m,” I answered, turned over, and slept again.

I saw the boy the next morning, before I went to school. He was wrapped in quilts like a cocoon so that only the top of his head showed. All I could tell was that he was black-haired. His breathing was slow and raspy. Aunt Becka made an onion poultice.

“Is he going to die?” I asked.

“Hush,” she said, and nodded toward a man sitting forlornly at the table. “We aim to do everything for the poor youngun we can.”

“Who are they?” I whispered.

“Drummer and his boy. Now you go on down to the Aunt Jane Place. She’s making your breakfast. And you go there after school, too.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll say me a prayer.”

I dreamed about him all day, a black-haired waif like Heathcliff at Wuthering Heights. He would be handsome, dashing, and I would be his Cathy.

Flora came in the next morning after sitting up with him through the night.

“I’m afraid the pneumonia is going to carry that boy off,” she said wearily. “His fever aint broke yet and he’s hot as a stove. Hit’s got to wear him out. He’s a fighter, though. Hit pains me to hear how hard he tries to breathe.”

I was so distracted in school that Ben gave up on me and sent me back to the Aunt Jane Place. Flora was asleep and Aunt Jane was gone, so I walked to the Homeplace. Aunt Jane stood at the well.

“Help me fetch some water,” she said. “The fever appears to be breaking.”

His name was Albion Freeman, and he was fourteen years old. He was to stay with us all the spring and summer. His daddy was bound for Ohio and back to sell his wares—drumming, we called it. But the doctor from Shelby said Albion must stay in bed at least a month, maybe longer, to guard against a fever of the heart. Albion’s father decided to come back through Kentucky in the fall and get his son. He gave Aunt Becka a new cooking pot for the boy’s keep, and promised Albion would be a good hand to work once he was better.