Grace's Pictures Read Online Free PDF

bring focus to the man’s face. Exactly as it should be. This man, Mr. Hawkins, had the look of a kind, gentle person. And Mrs. Hawkins had apparently loved him deeply. Grace studied his face again, wondering if she could detect an element of compassion somewhere in his appearance. She turned back to the woman. “A man took a photograph of me on Ellis Island. I have his address.”
    “You should go see it, love. I bet it’s handsome. I’d be happy to accompany you sometime and inquire.”
    This woman was very accommodating. “Thank you.” She turned back to the picture of Harold Hawkins. “Who took this photograph, if I may ask?”
    The woman raised a finger. “A man who works tirelessly for social reform. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Jacob Riis. He doesn’t usually take portraits like this one.”
    “Mr. Riis is famous?”
    “Well, he is certainly well-known.”
    “Why did he take this one? Is he a friend?”
    “Not a friend exactly. Just someone who shares the convictions of the Benevolents. We met him at an event and he admired Harold’s service to his country and offered to take the portrait. I haven’t seen him since that time.”

    Later, after Grace retired to her bedroom, she collapsed on the bed, exhausted but pleased. She had a warm bed and a full belly. She was on her way.
    With her head on her pillow, she should have dropped into a deep sleep after the tension of waiting at Ellis Island and then meeting all these strangers. But instead of sleep, thoughts pounded her consciousness. She was not sure she could let Reverend Clarke, as nice as he was, plan her prospects for her. The idea of handing over her future again, haunted her until she rose from her bed. She’d seen a newspaper in the parlor. Maybe it was still there.
    Wrapping a thin blanket around her shoulders, she crept quietly down the stairs and let herself into the front room. A window faced the street, where the gas lamps still burned, allowing enough light to help her find what she was looking for. Tucking the paper under her arm, she wandered to the window. On the way here, she hadn’t taken the time to properly observe her surroundings. She gazed out at the night. People still up, walking about. What were they doing? She leaned in until her nose touched the wavy glass panel. A large presence in a dark coat and hat lumbered by, something like a stick dangling from its arm. Seemed familiar somehow. She squinted her eyes. The man from the trolley.
    He turned and stared right at her. She gasped and stepped back. Tugging her blanket tighter, she headed for the hall. A light rapping on the door made her freeze. It came again. If he woke the household, how would she explain herself?
    She took a step toward the stairs. If Mrs. Hawkins woke, Grace would tell her she had gotten hungry and gone looking for a bite to eat.
    Two quick knuckle thuds resounded louder. She darted to the door and peeked out the side window. It was him, all right. She cracked the door open. “What do you want?”
    “Is everything all right, Miss . . . Miss Grace? That’s it, right? I saw you on the trolley.”
    “Everything’s fine, Officer.”
    “I saw you at the window. Are you sure nothing’s up?”
    “Just getting my bearings. I’m going to bed now.”
    “Good night, Grace.”
    “McCaffery’s the name. Good night, Officer.”
    “Lock the door, then. I’ll check again on my rounds.”
    “No need to come back. I am sure you have to be catching some robbers or some such villains, aye?”
    He turned away, stopped, and then turned toward her. “Oh, and it’s Owen. You can call me Owen.”
    She sighed, closed the door, and turned the lock. No one had told her that Americans were so . . . nosy. With the newspaper gripped securely in one hand, she took the steps two at a time. Grace tossed the paper to her bed, removed her blanket-robe, and whispered into the dark. “Can’t leave my fate to others. I’m looking for employment.” Grace turned up the