Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks.

Thomas Holbrook's quotation is from the marvelous screenplay for the 2007 BBC series Cranford.

The phrase "more strongly than accurately" comes from Elizabeth Gaskell's My Lady Ludlow.

In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love. Mother Teresa

Chapter 18: Lessons in Love

It actually was rather cozy, sitting together of a Sunday afternoon, the three of them, in Mr. Carter's office. It was the only time, the only place, it seemed, that they could advance Harry's education by inches – and be together, without apology, though only thanks to Lady Ludlow's sanction and the refuge that was Hanbury.

Bella Gregson would have rather had the boy at home, of course, but did not wish to stand in the way as her son slipped free of the burdens they'd put on him, she and Job. And if Job as yet bore ill will towards Mr. Carter, Bella never would, not when that good man had seen what she had: that Harry was her wise child, and really not so much of a child anymore. When Mr. Carter had put forth his plans for Harry honorably and directly, Bella had dared to cherish hopes for her son, to imagine he would never struggle as his parents did. Job didn't approve of books and suchlike, of course, but perhaps someday he'd come round, when he saw what his son was making of himself.

As for Harry, it felt more like a holiday than study when he helped Mr. Carter make up a fire in his office with the fuel he'd brought, and the light cast a glow on Miss Galindo's face as she sat there, reading aloud in her enchanting voice, or perhaps arguing with Mr. Carter.

She was sure to bring a book with her, something to amuse or challenge Harry, and today she'd surprised him with a book of French fairy tales – in translation, of course, though she was really coming to believe the boy might be ready for proper lessons in the language itself. He was of a good age, she said, and eager to learn, and she had taken to dropping hints of lessons in French or perhaps in German, though Mr. Carter suggested it might be a better use of the boy's time to study Latin or Greek.

As for Mr. Carter, the only language he had was English, and that clearly hard, plain, and in his own accent.

"Miss Galindo, I see no reason to lapse into French when good, plain English will serve our purposes just as well," he said during the history lesson.

"Upon my word, Mr. Carter, you cannot mean to object to my referring to King Richard as Richard Coeur de Lion. Why, even Shakespeare provided a very good joke in King Henry referring to himself as Harry le Roy," said Miss Galindo, with a smile at their own Harry. "Morever, Mr. Carter, Richard himself spoke French."

"Well, that was all very well for the king in his day, but you must attune to the times. Our own queen --"

"Speaks German."

"And English."

"And the prince consort speaks German," added Miss Galindo triumphantly, as Harry suppressed a giggle.

Mr. Carter sighed. "Very well, Miss Galindo. I concede that particular point. But let us make only the most sparing use of French expressions. You have mastered them, and so may Harry, but but I am too old to learn another language."

"By no means, Mr. Carter. It's just the pronunciation. You must abandon old habits and bear in mind that you are no longer forming English words, you are forming French words, or attempting to -- and your mouth must – that is, your lips must – well, you produce the sounds by –"

And Miss Galindo broke off helplessly, no longer certain of how to phrase her instructions to her unwilling pupil.

"Your face is all red, Miss Galindo," piped up Harry, who had been watching the impromptu lesson unfold.

"Harry!" said Miss Galindo, half laughing.

"Harry," growled Mr. Carter, almost simultaneously.

"But it looks very pretty," added the boy.

"Harry!" barked Mr. Carter again.

Harry turned innocent eyes on his mentor. "I thought ladies liked com- -- com- -- "

"Compliments?" inserted Miss Galindo helpfully.

"Yes, compliments. I thought ladies liked compliments."

"You are far too young to be concerned with paying compliments to ladies," said Miss Galindo. She turned to Mr. Carter. "Just what is it that you have been teaching Harry?"

She looked suspiciously prim as she put the question, though Harry was convinced he saw a secret smile as she watched Mr. Carter blush in his turn.

But her triumph was short-lived. "Why, Miss Galindo, Harry and I have been making a study of British history and literature, which are of course replete with examples of courage, honor, and the other masculine virtues, as it were. I trust you can have no objection to that." Summoning his old sternness, he held her gaze this time, until she blushed and looked away.

Harry was watching, utterly puzzled, as Miss Galindo rallied once again.

"Indeed, Mr. Carter, I have never objected to the study of literature and history, or for that matter virtue." She again looked directly into his eyes and added silkily, "But we are forgetting the task at hand."

Mr. Carter sat up straighter. "Yes, indeed we are. Harry, you will read the next passage."

It was with an effort that Miss Galindo announced it was time for her to go home. If the disappointment in Harry's eyes did not astonish her, the look on Mr. Carter's face did, but she still had to refuse his offer to see her back to the village. No, that would not do, not on a mild Sunday afternoon, and certainly not when sharp eyes were all about.

"It is a very fine day, and I need to be out of doors." That was true enough; she needed to feel the cold air on her face. "My physician would have me take regular exercise," she added, silently blessing Dr. Morgan for the ready excuse.

But Mr. Carter did not simply let her slip away; he stood up and waited as she made her preparations to depart, until Harry was half-convinced that Mr. Carter was about to help Miss Galindo on with her cloak and tie her bonnet ribbons for her. He didn't remember Mr. Carter ever behaving that way before.

"I like Miss Galindo," said Harry to Mr. Carter when that lady had at last vanished out the door. "I don't know anyone as clever -- except for you, sir," added Harry, with a thoroughly disarming smile.

Dear God, he was going to have to keep an eye on this boy. It wouldn't do to show such charm at an early age. What would Harry be like at twenty-one?

Mr. Carter endeavored to remain solemn. "Harry, you must use more delicacy when speaking to Miss Galindo. She's not one of your sisters."

"What's – sir, I don't know that word you just used."

"Delicacy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, when I say you must use delicacy, I mean you should show respect, use good manners."

"I'm trying to do everything you taught me, Mr. Carter."

"Yes, I see that, Harry, and you are doing very well, but there are still many things to learn. You know how you must behave with Lady Ludlow, for instance."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Miss Galindo is not quite of the same rank, though she is the daughter of friends of my lady."

Harry thought of something. "Sir, have I seen her mother and father visiting here at Hanbury?"

"No, Harry. Miss Galindo's parents died -- and her brothers and sisters as well," he added.

Harry went very quiet at that. A moment later he said, apropos of nothing, "I'm glad you are not angry with Miss Galindo anymore."

"Angry? When was I angry with Miss Galindo?"

"You were very cross when she came to work in the office, and you quarreled with her. She's always been very kind to me, sir, but she quarreled with you. That I remember," he added, as if that proved something.

"But you like Miss Galindo now," Harry added. "So it's all right."

"Yes, Harry. I like Miss Galindo very much."

But it wasn't all right. It broke his very heart to see Miss Galindo go on her way, alone, when, in another time, he might have accompanied her, or indeed never have had to see her go at all.

Oh, over the past weeks he'd managed to find moments with her – not a simple task, when new problems at Hanbury seemed to come at him from every direction – and to circumvent the hundred fiendish obstacles that always seemed to stand between them. Since December he'd exploited nearly any excuse to see her, to touch her, always under innocent guises, of course. It took very little to set tongues wagging in Cranford, and he'd be damned if he was going to subject her to a fresh round of public scrutiny, not after the cruel talk about her and Beckett that past autumn.

Still, as Lady Ludlow had once observed, Laurentia Galindo was not only clever but spirited, and indeed had rallied after the troubles of the past months. In fact he sensed she was very nearly her provocative, witty self again -- his Miss Galindo of old, all brown eyes and bons mots. Why, now she was teaching him to use French, for all his protests, and squabbling with him again. But the arguments were pleasanter this time, more satisfying than he'd remembered.

Still, there were the twin problems of where and how to see her, given all the recent awkwardness. Of course he'd paid calls to her before -- once to tender an apology, which he'd never even managed to utter, and the second time to persuade her to return to Hanbury.

But now he'd have to be discreet enough to prevent any additional gossip, and so it had remained that Hanbury was the safest place for them to meet, and if that was all for business too – reporting to her ladyship, keeping accounts, seeing to Harry's lessons – it had been Miss Galindo herself who had ensured they would indeed see each other there more frequently.

And it was all to Harry's good to have Miss Galindo share in teaching him. It wasn't only her patience and gentleness, but her knowledge and experience – her travels, her artist's eye, her ear for music and language – that opened worlds to the boy that Mr. Carter might only have hinted at. Miss Galindo was their Scheherazade, their spinner of tales and weaver of spells. Harry could have happily listened to her for hours, and so could Mr. Carter.

But there would come a time, and soon, when it would be Mr. Carter who would speak to her, and in private. He'd always been a plain-spoken man, and now was in need of words of infinite tenderness. Surely a look, an occasional touch had not been enough to convey his wishes and his dreams, and how fervently he hoped she might share in both.

Yes, there was happiness in these brief hours together, but they neither of them could afford to be profligate with time. He hoped -- no, he believed, he had to believe -- that when he opened his heart to her, she would see that they might always find their happiness side by side.

It was an unusually mild day, and Miss Galindo found the air bracing rather than biting as she made her way back to Cranford. It was fortunate that the weather had cooperated with their Sunday plans; she didn't know what things would have come to if Cranford had been subject to sudden snowstorms or monsoons.

Her solitary walk to and from Hanbury Court afforded her time in the outdoors and leisure for thinking, and while both were most welcome, it had been difficult to tear herself away from the company, to leave Harry and Mr. Carter to the fireside and their books and talk, when she would much rather have remained with them.

And she had to wonder what it might have been like, in another time, to walk with Mr. Carter over fields and through woods, and to have the luxury of speaking of anything that pleased them, or not speaking at all, if they wished. But that opportunity was clearly long past, and it grieved her, for all that it hadn't been entirely of her making or his.

Still, she had initiated this latest plan, the additional lessons for Harry, and Mr. Carter had not only embraced it but put it into action immediately.

But the greater surprise had been Lady Ludlow's reaction.

Her ladyship had once observed that a woman in Miss Galindo's situation required an independent spirit. Perhaps that was why, when she had assisted Mr. Beckett, her ladyship had proven more forgiving than some in village who to this day offered malicious whispers and hostile looks.

But as she began her second foray as teacher, she had spoken first to Lady Ludlow, less for her sanction than to put secrets and subterfuge behind. Lady Ludlow's expression on hearing the plan had been most enigmatic; she displayed neither astonishment nor the expected disapproval, but appeared oddly contented. Whether this was due to an alteration in her ladyship's own attitudes or the entreaties of Mr. Carter, or perhaps both, Miss Galindo could not say.

And this time Miss Galindo took great care not to excite attention with mysterious comings and goings of male callers to her doorstep, and that meant, of course, the solitary walk to and from Hanbury Court, and the leisure to consider just what it was she had embarked upon.

Miss Matty heard sniffling as she entered the kitchen. It was baking day, and Martha was up to her elbows in dough, and having a difficult time of it.

"Martha, I do hope you have not caught cold."

"No, Miss Matty," replied Martha, wiping her face on her sleeve.

"Why, you have been crying again. Whatever has happened?"

"Oh, Miss Matty, it's all foolishness – nothing you'd want to hear."

"I do want to hear of anything that is causing you to weep." Martha's face crumpled at that, and Matty hastened to produce a handkerchief for her. "There. And you may rest assured that I shall say not a word of this to anyone else."

Martha dabbed at her eyes and nose. "It's Jem, of course. We had a little quarrel, only it grew and grew. Oh, Miss Matty, it was a silly matter. Jem brought me sweets – now, when I'm so big and fat –"

"I think, Martha, he was only trying to lift your spirits."

"It wasn't my spirits he was trying to lift," said Martha bitterly, thinking of how Jem and she had courted in secret, in kisses and caresses stolen whenever and wherever they could manage. She'd been eager enough then, and so had he, and now…

"So you had words with Jem."

Martha's tears began again. "He said some terrible things, and I said a lot worse back, and now he's not speaking to me at all, and I don't think he loves me anymore and –"

She ended her speech in a sob.

"Martha, you are not long married, and there is so much ahead of you." Martha began to wail again at that, much to Miss Matty's discomfiture. "Now, now, Martha, I mean you have all the joys of life before you. You are loved by a good man – yes, Martha, I do not doubt that -- a man who wed you and is making a home for you and will be a father to your child.

"I know it is trying now, Martha, and possibly you feel you are alone. But I also see what you have been to me, and I like to pay my honest debts. I shall not allow you to wear yourself out with fretting or bustling about, either now or after your baby is born. You may always apply to me for counsel or assistance." At that Martha's tears flowed afresh, then stopped all at once as her expression changed. "Oh, he's kicking again!" she exclaimed, with both hands on her belly.

At that indelicate announcement, Miss Matty could sense Deborah's disapproving glare all the way from heaven. But she couldn't resist giving vent to a chuckle. "Is he? How wonderful, Martha. Now I will finish the preparations here – "

"Beg your pardon, Miss Matty, but I'll be better for doing something. I'll finish my baking," said Martha briskly, managing a smile.

"Well, then I will assist you, and afterwards we shall put the kettle on, and enjoy a nice cup of tea. Now go wash your face while I look after things for the moment. Go on."

The two voices coming from the sitting room were rising and falling, and Matty could only hear tantalizing elements of the discussion, single words – always verbs, oddly -- encouraged, allowed, led, parted – until she was uncertain which had been said by Mary's voice and which by the –

Oh, dear. She knew that second voice. Dr. Marshland had arrived, and she'd been in the kitchen sorting out Martha's woes while Mary had been in the sitting room with him the entire time.

Once again Matty could very nearly feel Deborah's disapproving gaze, this time at the prospect of a young woman entertaining a gentleman in their very home, and without so much as a companion present.

Matty steeled herself to enter the room and found Mary looking uncharacteristically tense. Indeed, she seemed fully as rattled as she had done at the lawn fete at Hanbury, when Mrs. Clara Smith had arrived from Manchester, children in tow, and proceeded to take her stepdaughter in hand.

"Dr. Marshland, I had no idea you were back in Cranford. How delightful to see you."

Dr. Marshland's smile was all charm. "And you, Miss Matty. I trust I find you well."

"Oh, quite well, thank you."

"Thank God. I know from Miss Smith's letters that she was very concerned for your welfare." At that an awkward silence fell on the three of them, which Dr. Marshland broke by continuing, "Still, now I'm here, and Miss Smith has been telling me all the news of Cranford's mad social whirl."

"Oh, I do not know that there is much to report these days, Dr. Marshland," said Miss Matty with a modest smile. "But I trust you find Cranford pleasant enough, and perhaps a welcome change from Manchester."

"Oh, Miss Matty, I do not think I've seen anything to equal Cranford in all my travels." There was an edge to his voice, but then he continued, more softly, "And speaking of travel, I really ought to be on my way."

"Oh, not so soon," cried Miss Matty, dismayed.

"I must return to my hosts, Dr. and Mrs. Harrison." Dr. Marshland took her hand. "Goodbye, Miss Matty."

He cast a glance at Mary, who had her hands clasped primly at her waist. "Godspeed, Dr. Marshland." She curtsied most formally, and spoke not another word as he took his leave.

On the morning of the second Saturday in February, Miss Galindo took a short inventory of the books still in her possession. She'd brought very little to her rooms when she had arrived years back – some modest furniture, a few keepsakes from her family, and not much else. Yet even now she had a modest library to call her own, including a few books from her girlhood. Surely there must be something there that would be of use to Harry.

Alas, she was sadly lacking in anything concerning science or mathematics, but there was a book on plants and flowers that might do for a bit of study. The volumes of verse and of essays would also likely meet with Mr. Carter's approval, and of course there were works on art and history, as well a representation of books in the modern languages. Well, she'd simply have to choose something on the morrow, and discuss the rest with Mr. Carter and Harry.

She then spent the morning and part of the afternoon waiting upon clients in the shop, afterwards walking out to perform errands, still pondering her list of items to bring to Harry. Thus distracted, she very nearly collided with Dr. Marshland outside Mrs. Rhys's flower shop in the High Street.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon!" Recognizing him, she added, "Forgive me, Dr. Marshland. I did not see you."

"Miss Galindo, light on your feet, as always, and looking well!" said Marshland, with a winning smile. "I've not seen you since earlier this winter."

"No, Dr. Marshland, not since Twelfth Night. I take it you have been very busy at the infirmary?"

His smile faded. "Indeed we have, as you can well imagine. But my – my informants tell me that there has also been trouble in Cranford since last I was here."

Miss Galindo looked sober in her turn. "Indeed there has been, but I need not tell a physician what it meant to put that behind us. You have seen Miss Matty?"

"Yes, Miss Galindo, I've had the pleasure of calling at the Jenkyns home, and satisfied myself that everyone there seems quite recovered, including Miss Matty.

"But of course I'm staying with the Harrisons," he added quickly. "You know Frank and I trained together at Guy's."

"Of course. And the two of you arranged Mr. Carter's medical care in London, as I recall," said Miss Galindo. "Lady Ludlow was most impressed by your efforts, Dr. Marshland, and for that matter so was Mr. Carter."

"And how is Mr. Carter these days?"

Miss Galindo smiled. "Very well. Very energetic!" she added.

Marshland chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it." But he looked distracted; he kept gazing past Miss Galindo to something or someone unseen, and all at once he said, in a most conspiratorial whisper, "Miss Galindo, it seems you have an admirer."

The Irishman nodded in the appropriate direction, and when Miss Galindo turned round, she saw Harry Gregson standing near, cap in hand, awaiting a pause in their conversation.

Harry was trying to remember where and when he'd seen the man before. Clearly he wasn't from the village, or he'd have known him at once. The man was young, certainly younger than Dada, a good deal younger than Mr. Carter, and wore the clothes of a gentleman. And he spoke like no other man Harry knew, in a higher, lilting voice.

"Harry! I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow," said Miss Galindo, astonished but still pleased.

"Tom and I were sent to the marketplace, Miss." Tom had told him to wait near the flower shop while he attended to business, and Harry suspected very much that the "business" was in the taproom at the George. Still, he wasn't about to reveal that to the stranger, or even to Miss Galindo.

Miss Galindo turned to the man and said, "Dr. Marshland, surely you remember Harry Gregson. And Harry, this is Dr. Marshland from the Manchester Infirmary."

"What's an infirmary?" asked Harry.

"It's a place where mad fellows like me try to heal people of all their ills," said the man, with a grin.

"Are you a surgeon, sir?"

"I'm a physician. Most days I'm coaxing some sad soul to take a pill or put on a pair of spectacles," said Dr. Marshland. "But I'm no stranger to the operating-room. Why, I even assisted your Dr. Harrison here in Cranford, not nine months back."

"Dada doesn't like surgeons. Or physicians," said Harry, with a look that suggested he quite agreed.

"Harry," began Miss Galindo.

Dr. Marshland replied evenly, "I don't blame your Dada. Some of us are rascals, even fools." He winked at Harry. "Though Frank Harrison does his best, as I think everyone in Cranford knows."

He turned again to Miss Galindo. "But you must excuse me, Miss. I've some business to conduct." And with smile, a nod, and a touch of his hat brim for her, and a final wink for Harry, he vanished inside Mrs. Rhys's shop.

In all the time he'd known Miss Galindo, she had never given him a cross word or displayed a second's impatience, not even when he peppered her with questions, not even when he nearly arrived late for the May Day pageant. But at this moment it was clear she was disappointed in him – and that, thought Harry miserably, after he'd promised Mr. Carter he would remember his manners.

"Harry, why did you speak to Dr. Marshland in that way?"

"Dada says surgeons cut up people like a butcher does a pig," he said stubbornly. "He says that doctors –"

"Harry, I know Mr. Carter has taught you better than that," she said. "Surely he's told you about science, how physicians like Dr. Marshland make a study of the body and seek to effect healing. You've nothing to fear from him, Harry, or from Dr. Harrison, for that matter."

"I was afraid at what they did to Mr. Carter. Dada says they tied him down like an animal and chopped off his leg --"

"Oh, Harry."

All these months later, and such images still retained the power of a blow.

Mr. Carter, scarred, bloodied, in tremendous pain, lying on the table in Dr. Harrison's surgery…

"Come back to me…"

She was at his side again, writing swiftly as he dictated the terms of his will, struggling to suppress her tears while he…

"Miss Galindo, I'm sorry."

"Harry. Harry, come over here." She put a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to comfort him, and they both moved to the bench some distance from the entrance of the shop.

She looked into Harry's large, solemn eyes and saw fear, and perhaps it did not matter if it stemmed from those painful days and weeks in the past year or the conversation the two of them must have at this moment.

"Oh, Harry," she said tenderly. "Is there anyone among us – you, myself, even Lady Ludlow – who would not pay any price to have spared Mr. Carter what he suffered, to have kept him from --"

By now the tears were running down her face, and she fell silent. Harry laid a light hand on hers as she began to speak again, her voice breaking.

"He saw the risks, and yet had very little choice in the matter, and so he consented to the operation. And he had to be brave, Harry, whether he -- whether he thought he could --"

She broke off, unable to continue, and felt the boy's hand tighten around her own, saw his tears drop upon her cloak.

"And you must not blame Dr. Harrison, Harry," she added with surprising firmness, "or Dr. Marshland. What they did actually was quite remarkable."

"I don't see that, Miss."

"Harry -- Harry, I don't want to tell you this, but --"

"Mr. Carter might have died?" he said in a low voice.

She spoke not a word but only nodded, and again was aware of the light pressure of Harry's hand on hers.

"Mr. Beckett told me Mr. Carter was lucky. I didn't believe him then." He was silent for a long moment, then looked again into Miss Galindo's face.

She smiled at Harry through her tears. "It is a curious sort of luck. He deserves so much better," she said. "You see, Harry, even in his pain, he'd not forgotten you, not forgotten Lady Ludlow --"

"Harry Gregson! I've been looking for you." Tom bore down on him with a fury, and grabbed him by the sleeve. "We must go back to Hanbury. Now, Harry. Now!" And without hesitation he dragged the boy off, as Harry struggled to cast a look of farewell at Miss Galindo.

Oh, Harry, Harry, I wanted to spare you that, and surely Mr. Carter did as well. But I've not revealed all his secrets, only told you enough to tear open the wounds, to lay bare all the scars of the past year. For all that you know his worth, know his kindness, there is so much more you cannot know, at least not yet.

I think fate is cruelest to those most deserving of happiness. But perhaps I expressed that more strongly than accurately; Mr. Carter, despite what he suffered, was not torn away from us after all, and we each of us still have him.

That is, we have him after a fashion. He keeps his heart well-guarded, for all that it's tender and generous. I wish that I might achieve that heart, even deserve it. Surely the latter is impossible, but I must attempt the former, or regret it all my days.

Tomorrow I will see him again, and perhaps discover my way forward. I have wasted such precious days, such precious months.

Tomorrow I will see him again.

"I'd have thought you would have called on Miss Smith this evening, Jack," said Dr. Harrison, taking another sip of port.

"Ah, Frank, now why would I do that?"

"Well, firstly, I'd observe you have paid a great deal of attention to Miss Smith, and secondly that you talk of no one else."

"Don't be daft. I send a letter now and then to make her laugh, and I might pay a call when I'm in town. Now where's the harm in that?"

"Oh, it's gone beyond correspondence and calls, Jack. I'd wager I'll be dancing at your wedding within a twelvemonth and standing godfather to your son by – "

Jack snorted. "Then you'll empty your pockets, Frank," he said. "No one's going to slip the bridle and reins over me."

Frank grinned confidently. "Spoken like one who has been thoroughly tamed." And he made a whinnying noise to complete the insult.

"I was wondering how long it would take you two to get into the port," said Sophy Harrison as she entered the room. She looked from her husband to Dr. Marshland. "Thick as thieves as usual, I see. Nothing ever changes."

"Oh, my love, Dr. Marshland and I were merely discussing…equestrian pursuits," said Frank with a giggle.

"Helen and Lizzie are not as giddy as the two of you, sometimes," said Sophy affectionately, ignoring the fact that for once Jack was not laughing along with Frank, "or as prone to gossip. I expect you'll want to talk into the night, as usual."

"No, I'll not keep Frank up past his bedtime," said Dr. Marshland, getting to his feet. "Good night, Mrs. Harrison, and mind the reins. This one's very spirited."

In her little room across town, Miss Matty still had the candle burning on her bedside table. She gazed across the room to at the silhouette of Thomas Holbrook, and thought again of a passage in one of his letters, a letter she'd received but a year ago: "Winter is the darkest season when one is alone."

Indeed it was, and yet she had not felt so terribly alone today, not in this cozy house filled with noise and trouble. It all ought to have preyed upon Matty's nerves, as it surely would have on Deborah's, had she been there and inclined to countenance any of it. And Deborah never would have tolerated such goings-on; of that her sister was certain.

Miss Matty chuckled to herself. She was becoming quite daring at last, perhaps out of necessity, but there you had it. Such was the state of things in the household. And if it was winter now, a season of natural stillness and dormancy, life was stirring in every respect, even if much of it was disguised as trouble.

Still, spring was not far off, not now, with the possibility that all might be resolved satisfactorily then.

Miss Matty looked again at the silhouette. "Good night, then," she said. "It has been such a day." And with that she put out the candle.

Miss Galindo had been in a curious mood that afternoon, thought Mr. Carter. She'd seemed at once unusually subdued and yet not especially silent, and she and Harry had displayed a notable rapport. There were moments, Mr. Carter thought, when perhaps it might have been better if he had quietly withdrawn from the room and left them to it. But every time he'd had that impulse, Miss Galindo had turned to him for help, for an observation, for an opinion. He didn't know what to make of it, or the expression in her eyes, or the fact that she'd not once teased him this afternoon. Curious.

When she rose to make preparations to return to Cranford, he and Harry stood up to see her off.

"I do wish you did not have to leave so soon, Miss Galindo," said Mr. Carter helplessly.

Miss Galindo, tying on her bonnet, at last offered him a dimpled smile, for all that there was yet a strange wistfulness in her eyes. "With the shorter days, I really must be on my way early," she said, with some of her accustomed briskness. Then she added, more softly, "But spring is not far off, Mr. Carter. Everything will surely change in the spring."

And she put out her hand for him to clasp, as Harry stood watching the two of them with his large, solemn eyes.

"Well, Harry, I think Miss Galindo was pleased with your work today."

"Thank you, sir. I tried to remember everything you told me last week."

"You did very well, Harry," said Mr. Carter kindly.

Harry felt an overwhelming urge to confess, for all that it threatened to undo everything that had just been said.

"Sir, I saw Miss Galindo in the village yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yes, sir, when Tom and I were sent to the market." Harry swallowed. "And I think I did something wrong, something you wouldn't like, sir."

Mr. Carter's expression was grave. "Go on."

"Miss Galindo was talking to Dr. Marshland, sir, from the Manchester In- -- from Manchester – "

"You mean Dr. Marshland of the Manchester Infirmary, Harry."

"Yes, sir. And I told him my Dada didn't like surgeons and physicians. Dr. Marshland almost laughed at that, but Miss Galindo didn't."

"Hm. Harry, Dr. Marshland took no offense because you are a boy, but you won't always be so, and you must learn when to hold your tongue."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Well, I suppose there is no harm done, and you have learned a lesson."

Harry struggled for one last bit of courage to speak. "I haven't told you everything, sir."

Mr. Carter sighed. "What else happened, Harry?"

"I made her cry."

"What! Miss Galindo?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you make her cry?"

"I said – sir, I talked to her about what happened – about your leg, sir. About what the doctors did to you."

To be continued…