“Pretty,” she said softly, and tears flooded Priscilla’s lower lids. This poor woman. This poor old, ugly, half-witted woman, so alone, so rejected, so talked about, so teased. When Priscilla was in grade school, the worst insult a child could give another was to call someone a “Martha.” And here she was, sensitive, human, just trying to do what she could with what she had.

“You’re pretty too, Martha,” Priscilla said, with surprising truth. “You have beautiful, sensitive eyes.” She put her arms around the large older woman and hugged her close. “I’ll come back next week, okay? And maybe we can learn to do some other things besides bake bread and make lemonade. Maybe we can sew you a new dress . . . or . . . or something.”

Martha pulled back from the embrace and pointed at the calendar on the wall. “Which square?”

Priscilla put her manicured forefinger on the next Sunday. “This square.”

“I be here,” Martha said with finality. She was so pleased. She had learned two new things today. She waved to Priscilla as she pulled out of the driveway in her little blue car, then sat down. She thought about the smooth feel of Priscilla’s little pink nose; she thought about Mr. McRae and trading; she thought that it was pretty good that she understood, at last, that the squares were days, and that Priscilla would come back on one special day. She smiled to herself and hummed a little, and rubbed her ankle and waited for the days to go by.

4

CHAPTER 4

Harry sat astride a kitchen chair, resting his chin on his arms. He watched his wife at work, bent over the young girl on the sofa. The girl’s hoarse breathing broke the silence in the room.

It was Christmas. They awoke early to see fresh snow atop the yard, the drift on the north side of the house now higher than the roof. The day was ringing clear, with a cloudless blue sky looking down proudly on all the whiteness it had left during the night. Fern made a big breakfast while Harry tended to the animals. After eating, within the ring of warmth from the iron kitchen stove, they opened their presents.

Colorful boxes from the townsfolk were piled high under their little tree, gifts of gratitude from the people Fern had helped. Harry had to chunk out a little freezer room in the ice alongside the cellar door for all the turkeys and roasts they’d been given in appreciation; they’d all have to be eaten before the thaw.