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mother lived, and so there had been no occasion to write letters.
    Surely this was not the kind of letter someone would throw away. Why had it been tossed in the bottom of a shipping barrel? She must get these letters back to whoever had lost them— probably someone in Pittsburgh. She could discuss it with her father, but he might say it was none of their concern. Or the mention of a sick mother in the letter might trigger one of his dark moods that could last for weeks.
    Troubled, she collected each of the letters and folded them together. She must think on this. She would put the letters in a safe place where no one else would see them, until she could decide what to do.

Four
    R USHVILLE
22nd February 1826
    A NN DIPPED HER QUILL IN THE INK AND SCRATCHED on the page:
    MyDearest Eli,
    Ithasbeen overtwoyears nowsince youasked metobe your wife. Youonce told methat none should barthemarriageoftrue minds, and yetyouyourself have done sowithout abackward glance. Howcould youturn from mewith no further questions, asifchoosing anewhorse atmarket?
    Youkeep company with Phoebe Vanderlick. Doesshe share your loveofletters? Ihave observed nosuch interest in her, forshenever spoke ofourstudies inschool butonly of ribbons, games, and parties.
    Her hand trembled as she wrote the words, and an ugly stain blotted the page of her diary. She strained to read what she had written, but the cold light from her bedroom window failed to reach her desk. If only she could write to Eli of what was really in her heart—her abiding and passionate conviction that God had destined her to be Eli’s wife, that there could be no other spouse for either of them. But she did not know how he would respond, so the words stayed trapped in the pages of her diary.
    â€œAnn! Where are you?” her father called from the kitchen.
    She snapped the little book shut, heedless of the likely smearing, and knelt down beside her bed to shove it under the loose floorboard. She kept the diary there with the wrinkled letters from the boy Will’s mother, which she had read again and again until they were like letters from her own mother.
    â€œAre you ready?” her father asked from the hall. He came to the door of her room, the gray in his hair belied by his clean-shaven face and vigorous bearing.
    He closed his mouth in a firm line. “You aren’t dressed.”
    â€œNo, Father. I don’t wish to go to the dance.”
    â€œYou can’t mew yourself up in here like a convent girl. You’re eighteen years old. It’s time for you to get out, meet young men.” He avoided her eyes.
    â€œI don’t wish to meet any young men.”
    â€œThat’s not what your mother would have wished.” He shook his head. “She would not want you to spend your life with me on our farm. I am to blame; I have not raised you as she would have—” He broke off. Perhaps he was thinking of the forbidden betrothal. His face grew overcast, the brows heavier, forecasting the coming gloom.
    Ann sighed. “Very well, I’ll go.” The dance would be torture, with Eli and Phoebe certain to be in attendance, but it would be worse to see her father enter the shadows of his grief for her mother. When he did, Ann would be forced to put on an air of artificial lightness in the presence of her sisters, to keep the farm from sliding into full-scale mourning. She would rather bear up under two hours of chatter and dance invitations than two weeks of false gaiety.
    â€œAnd wear the good dress I brought you from Pittsburgh,” he said. “Your old ones don’t fit as well, now that you’re growing up.” He looked away in embarrassment. “You too seldom make the most of your appearance. If your mother were here, she would urge you to tend to your hair as the other girls do. You’re a very pretty girl, when you make up your mind to groom yourself and dress properly.”
    It doesn’t matter now .