The following was inspired by the BBC's Cranford, which was adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Elizabeth Gaskell.

Of course I have no connection whatsoever to the BBC and/or Mrs. Gaskell, and I have taken many liberties with plot and characters. As usual, much of the inspiration came from the actors' performances. Imagination -- or is it obsession? -- and research did the rest.

This chapter has been taking shape for quite some time, assumed a very different form from what I'd once intended, and proved difficult to write. Many, many thanks to everyone who takes the time to review, and a special note of appreciation to theHuntgoeson for that much-needed lesson in British vocabulary.

Chapter 25: Wednesday's Child

They'd wanted to give him a moment, Jem knew, by all quietly slipping away when they'd done their work. He stood alone now at the entrance to the room and opened the door softly, almost hesitantly. On seeing his wife lying in the bed, he was surprised by the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.

"Oh, you're a stubborn woman, Martha. Didn't I tell you we needed Dr. Harrison to put you right?"

Martha, as unrepentant as she was weary, looked up at him with a drowsy smile. "My mother always called the midwife, Jem, and it did her no harm. Besides, I don't like a man seeing me like that."

"Aye, Martha, but you'll be in no fit state at all if you decide when to keep the doctor from our door," said Jem, drawing a chair to her bedside. "And Mrs. Capps herself told you to call Dr. Harrison."

"She did. But this little mite" – and Martha dropped a kiss on the top of her newborn daughter's head – "had caused me pain enough before Dr. Harrison got to the house -- bringing all his needles with him," she added, grimacing.

"I'll wager she did, at that," said Jem. "But we'd not all three be here now, would we, if Dr. Harrison hadn't used one on my arm when he first came."

"Maybe not," said Martha, looking first at him, then down at their child, with equal tenderness. "She does look like you, Jem!"

"I've more hair, Martha, and don't open my mouth as often."

"Humph!"

"Any road, she'll be prettier than her father. Aye, she'll be a soft pink rosebud, our Matilda Mary," he said in a whisper, stroking his daughter's tiny fist with one of his great rough fingers.

"She will be," said Martha. "Our little Matilda Mary."

"It was good of Miss Smith to stay by your side, and to let Miss Matty take her rest."

At that Martha gave a tired little giggle. "Miss Smith at least knows what to expect of a woman in childbed. But poor Miss Matty – Jem, I thought Miss Smith and Mrs. Capps would have to fetch her the smelling-bottle, once I started shouting! Miss Matty was quite worried," she added, with another giggle. "No, it was better that Miss Smith remained behind to help. Oh, Jem, she was kind to me, and so calm."

"Aye, she's steady. Dr. Harrison has always said as much. I shouldn't wonder if he wanted her to help him most days."

"Most days? I don't believe Miss Smith has time enough for that."

"No, perhaps not, not with you abed and Miss Matty having to run the household, and without Miss Jenkyns too."

"I didn't mean that, Jem, though that's true enough. No, I'd wager that Miss Matty must learn to do without Miss Smith as well."

Jem looked up. "She hasn't said she'll wed Dr. Marshland, has she?"

For all that she was tired as she'd never been, Martha managed a serene smile. "No, she hasn't yet, Jem, but she will. You mark my words." She looked down at her daughter and added softly, "And then you'll see her with her own little Matilda."

"Aye, or her own little Jack."

What Bella had said to Job the other day had been true: she was carrying his child, and it wasn't like the other times. Yet she had struggled with the very notion of telling him anything at all – the child would arrive, whether she said anything beforehand or not – but at last decided it was only right she should speak to him.

What Job could not know, however, was that today the pains were much worse, and so was the feeling that the room was turning all about her. She'd not said a word of her illness before he went off with Mr. Owen that morning. In fact they'd said little to each other before his departure, maintaining a cold near-silence after the harsh words of the previous night.

Why had she been so angry with him, especially now, when everything was going to be all right? She hoped he would come home soon, and then she could beg his pardon.

But just now she felt so queer. This wasn't like the fever, or anything else she had known before. And the pains were coming in her shoulder now, and not only her belly. There had been blood this morning, too. She hadn't expected that -- truth to tell, she'd expected none of this -- and she pushed from her mind the thought that she would lose this child.

She could not tell the children what was wrong, though Harry, God bless him, had seen that she wasn't well, and so, curiously, had Malachi, who, if he had kept his distance that morning, still turned troubled eyes on her when he was in the house. Strange, wasn't it, that her boys were watching over her when Job was from home, though they could do nothing to help her.

But she dared not summon a surgeon. Perhaps if she but lay down on the bed for a time, perhaps if she closed her eyes for a moment, she'd be in a fit state when Job came home.

All about her the children were becoming restless. James was crying, and she hadn't strength enough to rise from the bed to lift him up. She'd have asked Harry or perhaps Malachi to take him, but neither boy was there – Malachi wandering the woods and the fields, no doubt, and Harry long since gone to Hanbury, where he was doing the work of a man.

Harry. God alone knew what she and Job would have done without Harry. She'd not so much as had to ask him to look after the little ones; he saw what needed to be done, and did it. If he hadn't been a bit of a scamp at times, she'd have worried about him, and taken him for an angel, not a child of hers.

But if Harry was a good boy, he was a clever one as well, and it was very wrong of Job to forbid him go to school.

As she lay on the bed, she knew suddenly that it was Job who should beg pardon of her, and not the other way round. She had asked him for this one thing, and he had denied it. Oh, he'd made her his fine promises of trinkets and dainties and new clothes to wear. Bella would have none of them, even if Job kept his word. She wanted all to be well with her children; that was what she had set her heart upon.

And that meant Harry would make his own way, would do well for himself, whatever Lady Ludlow wished, whatever Job believed. They'd not bend Harry to their will, nor would they break her own.

When Job came home, she would tell him as much. But now she must rest.

Harry's arms hurt, and he was already hungry, for all that it was still morning. He'd not slept much the previous night, and had lain awake long after his parents had gone to bed, the stiff and cold silence seemingly everywhere after the angry words they'd said to each other. He'd never heard Mum speak to Dada like that before, nor had he ever caused a quarrel between them -- not that he knew. But it was his fault now that Mum and Dada were angry with each other, and he knew better than to believe anyone but Dada would have his way.

Harry felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he went about his work. Mum wasn't well, and now he had made Dada angry with her, and with him, and even with Mr. Carter. He couldn't understand how Dada could speak so gently to Mum at one moment and then seem on the verge of striking her at another. Not that he'd ever seen Dada harm Mum, but he'd seen her flinch whenever he raised his voice.

Something was different now, though. Dada was going to work for Lady Ludlow, and they'd have a proper home, and Mum was going to have another baby -- Harry had heard her talking about it with Dada, when they both thought he was asleep -- and everything ought to have been all right. But it wasn't all right, not from what Mum was saying --

"Harry!"

He looked up, and there was Malachi in the doorway, breathless from running.

Dada had gone with Mr. Owen, and no one could say where. Harry, fairly dragging Malachi along with him, went from place to place hoping to discover someone, anyone, who knew what had become of the two of them. They went to the game pens, the outbuildings, but found no trace of Dada or Mr. Owen.

At length Harry formed a resolution. He must find Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter would know what to do, where to find help.

They ran to the office but found it locked up tight, and there was no sign of Miss Galindo. Mr. Carter surely was out and about on the estate, and Miss Galindo, who did not come to the office every day, would be in town.

In town.

"Malachi, I want you to go to town and fetch Dr. Frank Harrison."

"I've never been to town by myself," said Malachi fretfully.

"Just do it! And you'll have to run --"

"Why can't you go, Harry?"

"I'm going to go stay with Mum until you come with the doctor."

"But I don't know any Mr. Harrison," said Malachi, his tears beginning afresh.

"Just go to town and tell anyone you meet that you need a surgeon for Mum. They'll tell you where Dr. Harrison lives. Do it, Malachi! He'll know how to help her.

"Now run. Run!"

The man with the cart reminded Malachi very much of Dada -- tall and bearded. He had kind eyes too, as Dada's were at those times, such as Christmas, when they all were happy.

"Mr. Harrison? I don't know of any Mr. Harrison," said the stranger. At that Malachi began to cry, and the man said, "Now there, little fellow, no fear. I wouldn't know. I don't live in the village! Now what should a little lad like you want with this Mr. Harrison?"

"It's Mum. She's not well," said Malachi, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"Your mam is poorly? Is Mr. Harrison the surgeon, then? Why, then you must find him.

"I'm on my way to see the joiner, and he'll surely know where a surgeon lives. Climb up on the cart, and you'll not have so far to walk. Come on, boy. You're safe enough with me," he added kindly, when Malachi hesitated. "Climb up. We'll ask where this Mr. Harrison is to be found."

"Sophy, my dear, I must speak a word with you in private."

Sophy Harrison looked down at the little boy by her side. "Stay here, Malachi, while I speak with Dr. Morgan. Do not worry. We shall return to you directly."

When she had joined Dr. Morgan in the next room, he closed the door and turned to her in a fit of agitation. "Sophy, I cannot allow this!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "It is most improper!"

"Dr. Morgan, I see no harm in accompanying you, especially when the boy is so frightened. He does not know you --"

"He never knew you until five minutes ago!"

" -- and he would be calmer if I went with you to help his poor mother."

"Sophy, you cannot wish me to take you to Hareman's Lane. Consider the sort of people who live there. You would be going among squatters, my dear. Frank would not forgive me if anything happened to you, and neither, for that matter, would your father."

"My father, Dr. Morgan, taught me to love my neighbor as myself," said Sophy, with as much anger as she dared to summon. "As for Frank, I thought he believed, as you do, that a physician never sees to a patient's needs without keeping in mind the distress of the family, and the importance of compassion."

Dr. Morgan stood looking at her for a moment, a slight blush of shame taking the place of the indignation that had been evident on his face a moment before.

"Very well, Sophy," he said, sighing. "We shall accompany this dirty little imp back to Hareman's Lane. But God alone knows what we shall find there."

She had not deserved this, thought Morgan, looking down at her pale oval of a face with its full, beautifully formed lips, and the eyes shut as if in sleep. He could not tell her age with certainty, but she ought not to have died, not in the prime of life and not with a brood of six children left behind.

Morgan tried to imagine what had brought her to this – something amiss with her heart, perhaps. Or maybe she had been carrying another child and it had lain in the wrong place, and so she had lost it, and with it her life. He had seen it before. Or perhaps she had been with child and sought to do away with it herself -- he had seen that before as well -- but there were no signs she had done so, none that he could discover.

But of course there was little he could discover, thought Morgan, overtaken once more by the physician's familiar feeling of helplessness. He had simply been called too late, or indeed in vain. And he was not about to conduct a postmortem examination while this poor woman's children were gathered round.

Sophy, with practiced patience, was dealing with the little ones -- the fair-haired girls tugging at her skirts, the boy Malachi weeping yet again, the smallest child wailing as she held him on her hip and bobbed up and down in an attempt at comfort.

Dr. Morgan, able to do little else, was speaking with the eldest boy, Harry Gregson by name, a solemn-eyed child, remarkably intelligent -- not at all what the physician had been expecting when he'd been summoned to Hareman's Lane.

As gently as he could, he said to Harry, "We must send word to your father, my lad, or any relations you have nearby."

"Yes, sir. Dada -- my father works for Lady Ludlow. I tried to find him before -- before I came home." The boy had still not shed a tear, and it worried Morgan.

"We must send word to Lady Ludlow's estate manager, and he will find your father."

"Yes, sir. But my father won't like it that I've sent for you."

"No? Harry, do not worry. Your father owes no fee, and besides, he will understand you were trying to help."

At that Harry said nothing, but Morgan saw doubt, even fear in his eyes.

He pressed on, as gently as he could. "Had your mother been ill long, Harry?"

"I don't know, sir. But she had pains --"

"Pains?"

"Yes, sir. And she had trouble lifting James -- I mean the baby, sir. My brother."

"I see. Go on."

"And I heard her tell Dada -- I heard her tell my father she was going to have another baby, and that something was wrong." He lowered his eyes and added, "But they didn't know I had heard."

Job Gregson was not a man given to reflection or self-reproach, and yet the memory of the words he'd exchanged with Bella the previous night, and of the look on her face that morning, had troubled him throughout the day. He'd a right to expect her obedience, and his son's, and yet could not help thinking that this time, at least, he had been in the wrong.

They'd spoken of it often enough before, Bella always fearfully, as though she believed uttering the word school before her husband would carry with it sure punishment.

The truth was, he'd never raised a hand to her, even when he was very angry. No, he was always gentle, and especially so when they'd been apart for a time, which had been often enough in recent years. Still, it was plain she knew there there things he did not like, things she did not care to speak of in his presence, and their quarrels were rare as long as she remembered to hold her tongue, and avoid vexing him.

But now Bella had grown stubborn. He had seen the change in her, and it was all because of Harry -- both mother and son bewitched, Job thought, by all the things the boy had seen at Hanbury, and those books Carter had brought him from London and Manchester.

As for Carter, he was an odd sort of man, grave and stern as a magistrate in some ways, and soft-hearted as a girl in others. He kept away from the drink, had no time for anything but work, and set as much store by books as he would a roomful of gold.

And Carter had no wife, no children of his own, and so must prove meddlesome. He'd taken Harry in hand, and that had been the beginning of the trouble. Now the boy was given to strange talk, indeed strange words, all these odd names -- Dickens, Aesop. His tongue had been loosened, and he was always full of questions about the wider world, the places he wished to see, the things he might do. Carter was the cause of all this mischief; of that there was no doubt.

And there was worse. Mr. Carter was right, Bella had told him. Harry was clever, and ought to go to school.

It cut Job to the heart to hear such a thing. Bella was ashamed of him now, of what he was. He saw it in her eyes, heard it in her voice, and never so clearly until that previous night.

She'd never complained before, not until these queer notions of schools and books had filled her head. She found Job wanting now -- indeed, not only wanting but at fault for all their ills, for their lack of a proper home. And he had done Harry great wrong, she said, and she'd never forgive him till he put it right.

It was cruel of her, thought Job, to make such a complaint against him when he'd struggled to keep Harry fed and shod, and maintained silence when the boy might have been taken for poaching.

Yet even today Job need not go hat in hand to Bella. Surely she would be in a better temper this evening, given more to entreaties than quarrels. She'd ask his pardon, as she had done so many times before.

And this time, perhaps, when she had turned to him, all soft and sorrowful, he might yield to her pleas, might prove kind to to her, as kind as ever he'd been before. He'd hint that in time they might find a way to send Harry to school. That would give her comfort, especially when she was so poorly.

"The boy can go with you to the joiner, and to the rector."

"If you prefer, Mr. Gregson."

"It's only fitting. I'd go myself, but --"

Mr. Carter nodded. He cannot bear to leave her, he thought.

"I can't provide much for her," Job Gregson continued. "Just the -- just a place to rest, and perhaps you could ask the rector could say some words over her."

"Of course."

"Mind you, I don't want to hear about judgment, and how sinful we all are. She was a good woman, Mr. Carter."

"Yes."

"She doesn't deserve that sort of talk."

"I am certain the church will offer words of comfort, of hope," said Mr. Carter, feeling nearly ashamed at introducing such feeble terms as comfort and hope at that moment.

"That's as it should be. She always liked hearing the part about the mansions, and the one about the still waters." His voice had lowered nearly to a whisper, and for a moment it seemed he could not speak at all. "If they won't read that for her, perhaps Harry can do it." At last he looked at Mr. Carter directly. "You'll help him with it, won't you?"

"Of course, and we'll see to the other matters as well. And do not worry about the fees; I can arrange --"

"No." The word was final, unassailable.

But Gregson's expression had softened. "Harry always said you were a kind man.

"And she -- she thought well of you and all."

The joiner had kind eyes, thought Harry, and a ready smile, for all that he looked weary with work. He seemed to know Mr. Carter well, greeted him warmly, and at once began talking of the fine news he had to share -- all of which, Harry noticed, served to make Mr. Carter even more uncomfortable than he already was.

Mr. Hearne did not know why they were there, then, and was still talking when Mr. Carter turned to Harry and whispered, "Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside." With a nod he sent the boy out into the spring air.

Standing beneath the window, though, Harry could still hear what was being said, and knew what it meant when Mr. Carter carefully lowered his voice.

"Job Gregson's wife has --"

That was all Harry heard, or as much as he could bear to hear. He bolted from the spot, feeling the wind against his face and at the same time the now-familiar emptiness within. By the time he was out of earshot of both men he had released a gutteral cry and, at last, his tears.

"And so all things must end, Miss Galindo."

"Indeed they must, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Galindo, gathering up ribbons. "And yet that expression savors too much of solemnity for such a simple matter as the closing of my shop," she added, smiling. "There will no doubt be another such establishment, and soon."

"I suspect there will be, Miss Galindo," said Miss Pole. "After all, the ladies of this town still have need enough of caps and bonnets, and cannot forever be going to Manchester to obtain the same."

"No indeed," said Mrs. Forrester. "But it is not only this shop, Miss Galindo. I shall very much miss seeing you."

"That is most kind of you."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester," sputtered Miss Pole. "Miss Galindo is only changing her name. She is neither embarking upon a voyage to Africa nor secluding herself behind convent walls!"

"I dare say I am doing more than changing my name, Miss Pole, but otherwise you are entirely correct. Indeed I suspect you will see as much of Mr. Carter and myself as ever you did before!"

"Talking of seeing Mr. Carter, I wonder, Miss Galindo, why he did not choose to reveal to all the ladies this plan for the school --"

"You speak as though there had been some subterfuge involved," interrupted Mrs. Forrester. "That is entirely unfair."

"I am making no such assertion, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole indignantly. "But I dwell within the village, and so must take an interest in all that transpires here."

"And progress, wherever it occurs, must surely be of interest to a lady as much as to a gentleman, Miss Pole," said Miss Galindo warmly. "And you would like to hear discussion of it, and form your opinions accordingly."

"Indeed I should, and I suspect the other ladies would as well," said Miss Pole, noting well the smile that was stealing across Miss Galindo's face. Upon my word, one thinks of the puss with the saucer of cream.

"If that is your opinion, Miss Pole, then surely I must entreat --"

At that moment the shop door opened.

Miss Pole glanced around to see the new arrival, pulled a face, and turned back to Miss Galindo and Mrs. Forrester. "I was not aware, Miss Galindo," said she, "that young boys had business in such an establishment as this."

But Miss Galindo appeared not to hear, for she and Mrs. Forrester were both staring at Harry Gregson, who stood before them all with his cap in his hands. Miss Pole took a second glance at the boy, looked into his eyes, and at once her expression changed from indignation to shock.

"Harry," said Miss Galindo in a very low voice, as the other ladies stood by, too stunned to utter a word. "Harry, whatever is wrong?"

Mr. Carter very nearly hated himself for being angry. This was not, after all, a day for scolding, for reproach. The boy had lost his mother, and borne it all so quietly, with very few words and no tears at all. To tell truth, it had frightened him to see Harry like that; it would be much better for the boy if he cried, and even allowed himself to be comforted. After all, however many burdens Harry had assumed, he was still a child.

And Mr. Carter had proof enough of that now that the boy had fled, forcing a search just at the time when so much more needed to be done. Hearne had already set to work making the coffin, but there were still several matters to be resolved at the village church. Mr. Carter could accomplish none of it if he was out looking for Harry.

Mind you, he'd have preferred to spare Harry the harsh finality of making arrangements for his own mother's funeral and burial. If the boy could not escape the pain of his loss, he ought at least to be spared reliving it by speaking with the joiner, the sexton and the rector.

But Mr. Carter couldn't wink at the boy's absence now. Job Gregson was a hard man, for all that he was at this moment consumed with grief, and things would go very badly for Harry if he didn't turn up soon.

And so Mr. Carter set about his search methodically, passing from one place to another, one shop to another, before realizing he was thwarting his own efforts by not seeking out a most obvious ally.

When he arrived at Miss Galindo's shop, he made no move to knock but simply proceeded through the door, removing his hat with one swift motion as he entered. Yes, there was Laurie, and with her Harry, his face now wet with tears.

But that was not all.

"Oh, Mr. Carter!" said Miss Pole, bustling towards him, her cap bobbing, her skirts swishing. She came to him and dropped a curtsy. "Mrs. Forrester and I had fairly resolved to conduct a search of the village, and learn what had become of you. But now, at last, you are here."

Had he taken command, or had they? He was no longer sure. Within minutes Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole had fairly deluged him with questions, with offers of help, with observations about what was proper and correct.

"I'll go back to Jem Hearne, if you like, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Forrester, "and give him your further instructions."

"That is very kind of you, but it will not be necessary."

"Has someone called at the rectory?" asked Miss Pole.

"I plan to do that directly."

Only Laurie remained her competent if vulnerable self. Was there ever any woman, he thought, with such expressive eyes? He'd seen the look in them when he entered the shop and found her standing with Mrs. Forrester, Miss Pole, and a tearful Harry. Laurie had looked up and met his gaze with such an expression of both relief and sorrow that he wished he'd had a moment alone with her to exchange a few words, to take her in his arms.

But there was, of course, no such opportunity, given the relentless and searching gaze of Miss Pole, and Mrs. Forrester's solicitous but equally relentless inquiries.

There was nothing for it, then, but for each of them to take a task and perform it straightaway. Mrs. Forrester, it was decided, would fetch Harry something to eat from her own kitchen. Miss Pole would scurry home to fill a basket with food and perhaps even flowers for the Gregson family. Mr. Carter must call at the church and see to the arrangements for tomorrow.

In the meantime Harry must rest in Laurie's sitting room while she went to the bookshelf for a Bible or a prayer book -- anything that might contain the text of the 23rd Psalm.

Mr. Carter had been to see Jem Hearne, and to the rector as well, and even had accepted Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole's offers of assistance this evening. Very nearly everything was in readiness, and very much according to Job Gregson's wishes, but there was one task left to accomplish, and and it was nothing anyone had requested. No, it was a decision Mr. Carter had taken on his own, and would require a discreet visit to the sexton, Mr. Hatch, a man Mr. Carter had never particularly liked.

He'd decided, therefore, to keep his explanations simple. A woman was to be buried on the morrow, he told Hatch, and though arrangements had been made, a single task had been neglected.

"It seems no one remembered to pay the fee to have the bell rung for Bella Gregson, and I wanted to put that right."

Hatch looked back at him with pale, emotionless eyes. "Mr. Carter," he said, "it is well that I am an honest man, for I might have taken your money, rung the bell, and you'd have been none the wiser. But the truth is that someone has already paid the fee.

"I don't know why you should take it upon yourself to do so as well, for I can imagine no reason you might have known a squatter in Hareman's Lane. But I can tell you, Mr. Carter, that Bella Gregson will go to her rest with the tolling of the bell."

"But who would –"

Mr. Carter checked himself. He must not pry.

"I ought not to tell you, but it is such a curious thing that I am tempted to do so. And I know you won't tell tales, Mr. Carter, so I will speak plainly. It's young Mrs. Harrison who asked me to ring the bell, and who paid the fee."

"Mrs. Harrison?"

"Aye, the rector's own daughter."

Edward returned to her doorstep very late indeed that evening, and neither of them made comment about the hour or his obvious weariness. And for all that it seemed almost wrong to behave as lovers on such a night -- indeed, the grievous events of the day seemed to demand austerity -- the greeting they exchanged was an especially tender one.

Of course she did not tell him that when Harry Gregson, red-eyed and weeping, had arrived at her shop, she had been seized with paralyzing fear for his safety. Indeed it seemed quite selfish to talk of such things now; he was well, and it was Harry who faced tremendous grief.

And yet she sensed Edward had very much recognized the relief in her eyes at that moment when he opened the door and saw her standing with the other ladies, and with young Harry. Tonight he'd want to be by her side, if wordlessly, to acknowledge they had not been parted.

It had been a painful evening, though, and Edward was restless, and in no humor for conversation. So she insisted he settle into the sole comfortable armchair in her sitting room while she tended the fire and saw to some refreshment. Privately she thought he was very much in need of sleep, but she'd no desire to send him on his way just yet.

And he was evidently in no haste to go. After a while he turned to her and said, "Would you read to me, Laurie?" he said. "I should so like to hear your voice."

"Of course I shall read to you, Edward. What should you like to hear?"

"Anything you please," he said, his eyes darting about. "Verse will do, " he added, casting a glance her way.

This would require some delicacy, thought Miss Galindo. There were all manner of things that she might have read to him that must prove unsuitable at such a moment, and yet she also wished to avoid choosing anything too severe, or even morbid. His heart was low enough.

She returned to him with several small volumes in her hands. "Edward, would you like me to read from Donne, or perhaps Herbert? Or Vaughan?"

"Whatever you like."

"Very well. Then I shall --"

"Herbert, I think. But not Donne."

"Herbert, then." She settled into the chair close beside him, then spent an anxious moment glancing at titles and first lines.

There. There. That was it. Softly she began to read.

"'When God at first made Man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by --'"

"It will be difficult for him," he said suddenly.

She took no offense at the interruption but laid the open book in her lap. "Indeed it will, Edward," she said tenderly. "I cannot imagine what he endures at present, for all that I know what it is to lose a beloved parent. But Harry is fortunate that you --"

"Oh, it will be difficult enough for Harry," said Mr. Carter. "Dear God, it is a hard thing to put on one already so burdened, and so young! But Laurie," he added, "I think you misunderstood me. I was not speaking of Harry just now."

"Not speaking of Harry? Edward, you --"

"I meant Gregson."

Work was work, he'd told Martha not long ago. But Jem would have rather remained at home that evening, perhaps sitting at the fireside as Martha hummed a lullaby, or Mr. Jenkyns told one of his stories of his time in India.

Jem was the town's joiner, though, and he'd no choice. It was his duty to construct Mrs. Gregson's coffin, and bring it to the family directly.

He had been dreading it, but he hadn't known it would pierce him to the heart to see her, to be confronted with her pale, beautifully formed face, her smooth brow. She ought not to have been lying there, not when she had a brood of children -- young ones, too, and the eldest not even twelve years old. That made him heartsick as he had never been.

When he returned home, Matilda was wailing relentlessly, her little face red, her tiny mouth open in noisy protest. Martha lifted the child from the cradle and held her in her arms for a moment, already too tired to do much but murmur words of comfort to her little daughter. When that had no effect, Jem spoke up, just loudly enough that his voice might be heard over the baby's cries. "Here, let me take her."

"No, not just now, Jem. I think she's hungry." And Martha put the infant to her breast, and all at once restored peace to the household.

"What are you looking at, Jem Hearne?"

"I've never seen anything so beautiful."

"Beautiful! The sight of your daughter, Jem, or is it me?"

"Both. Aye, it's both."

To be continued…

John 14:2: "In my Father's house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you."

Psalm 23: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters."

Miss Galindo selects "The Pulley" by George Herbert to read aloud to Mr. Carter.