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to it tomorrow.”
    He nodded. “Very well, then, we shall go halves. My portion of the linen money shall go to the cobbler and to the trader for whatever foodstuffs you think we need. But your part is yours to keep and do with as you wish.”
    She could see that he would brook no further argument, so she lowered her chin. All too stubborn that chin had become lately, she supposed. Sometimes it felt as if these were her own children she championed. “We agree, sir.”
    “Good. Now, you must be on your way. I insist that we shall make our own supper tonight.”
    She opened her mouth to protest, but Ben chimed in with, “I’ll make up the fire, Father, and John will help Abby set the table.”
    John threw a dark look at his brother, but the pastor’s features relaxed.
    Christine decided it might be well for him to have a calm evening alone with his children. She had left the stew ready to heat in the iron kettle, and there really wasn’t much to do. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect Goody Deane and I shall retire early.” She gathered her things and crossed the dusty street to the widow’s cottage.
    As she opened the door, Goody Deane startled in her chair, and Christine greeted her softly. “Good evening. The pastor says he and the children can take care of themselves tonight.”
    “I been looking for ye to come back,” the old woman said. “If I’d known ye weren’t eating at the parson’s, I’d have put supper on.”
    “Don’t stir yourself,” Christine told her. “It looks as though you’ve made a lot of progress on your knitting today. I’ll build the fire up and fix us a bite.”
    “Oh, do we need to heat the house up? It’s just now getting bearable. I have hopes of a restful sleep tonight, but not if we get the fire up and heat the house to a simmer.”
    “Very well.” Christine opened the tin box where they kept bread and remnants of food. “I think there’s enough lamb here to eke out a meal with bread and butter, and I spy a morsel of seed cake. I’ll fetch a bucket of cool water, and we’ll sit down.”
    She took up the nearly empty water pail and dumped the little that was in it into a pitcher. The cottage had no well, but the walk to the river was a short one. It took her only a few minutes to reach the bank and fill her bucket.
    The trader’s daughter had also come to fetch water, and they greeted each other cheerfully.
    Christine trudged alone back to the little house, thinking about her place in the community. When she first returned from her captivity in Canada, she had felt like an outsider and was shunned by many of the villagers. But time and contact had softened their attitudes, and she now felt a part of Cochecho. Her pleasant days divided between Goody Deane’s cottage and the parsonage filled her with contentment.
    She was nearly to the cottage door when she saw a dark figure flit across the garden in the twilight, toward the back of the house. Christine halted so quickly that water sloshed over the rim of the bucket, soaking the bottom of her skirt. She set the pail down quietly in the path and tiptoed to the corner of the house.
    A man in ragged clothes was peering in Goody Deane’s kitchen window. He turned toward her, his eyes wide.
    Before she could speak, he gestured threateningly. “Quiet, miss. If ye give alarm, I’ll kill ye.”

three
    Samuel served his children supper and was about to sit down to his own plate of food, when a peremptory knocking sounded on the door.
    Edward Chapman, one of the fishermen who lived along the riverbank, stood outside, panting as though he had run all the way from his house. His rapid breathing and unsteady gaze told Samuel immediately that something untoward had happened.
    “Edward! What’s the trouble?”
    “Parson, can you come? The cow kicked my boy, Philip, and I think his knee is broken.”
    “The poor lad. I’ll come take a look.” Samuel looked around, swiftly taking a mental count of the children. “Ben, I