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as if to throw off her melancholy. Just then she caught sight of Evan turning the corner and starting for the house. For the first time since morning, she felt the weight of disappointment and dread lift from her heart.
    Evan saw her at the window and waved. Nora watched him closely as he neared the cottage. This was his afternoon in Five Points with the new singing group, and she was learning to associate certain telltale signs of discouragement with Thursday afternoons.
    But not today. Her own mood brightened still more when she saw that he wore a smile. Indeed, he was taking the walk with the eager, carefree steps of a boy!
    Curious as to what might account for his obvious high spirits, Nora hurried to the door and flung it open. Eagerly, she slipped into her husband’s embrace, feeling the last shadow of her earlier gloom disappear.

    After dinner and the children’s prayers, Evan and Nora sat on the sofa, reading. As was their habit each evening—and at Nora’s insistence—Evan read aloud.
    For several days now, they had been enjoying Oliver Twist —a novel by the English author Charles Dickens. An indictment of the London society that so callously and routinely abused the poor, the book created a world of such realistic, distinctive characters that both Evan and Nora found it difficult to put down when day was done.
    Although he was a highly successful author, Dickens was yet regarded with suspicion and even disdain in some quarters. Famous while still in his early twenties, the prolific writer apparently possessed unlimited mental and physical energy. Yet the sheer volume of his writings and their unanticipated success seemed to contribute to the criticism leveled against him: that he was entirely too commercial, too sentimental and unsophisticated. He was nothing more than an entertainer, critics charged.
    Even in America, where Dickens had toured early in the decade, the popular author was accused of lacking artistic taste and relying much too heavily on cheap dramatic effects.
    With a mixture of annoyance and amusement, Evan wondered if the criticism would have been nearly as heated had Dickens not so successfully and brilliantly exposed the corruption of an entire political and social system. He personally found the man’s work nothing short of genius. Both the Papers of the Pickwick Club, which he had read while still in England, and this new work, Oliver Twist, were surely the products of an inventive mind, adeeply sensitive and acute observer of the human condition. He suspected the widely read, popular—and entertaining —author’s works would long outlast many of the more “literary” and “artistic” efforts of others.
    Evan was somewhat surprised to realize that Nora had fallen asleep, her head resting on his shoulders. Usually she protested when he put the book away for the evening. A prickle of concern intruded on his thoughts, and he turned slightly to study her face.
    Still troubled, he noted the shadows under her eyes, the slight frown even in repose. Being careful not to waken her, he settled her more closely against his side and sat watching the fire.
    Outside, the wind moaned. Despite the room’s snug warmth, Evan shivered. Staring into the fire, he let his thoughts roam. As always, they went to his wife.
    Nora thought him unaware of her sadness, her apprehension. But he had known as soon as he saw her framed in the doorway earlier in the evening that she had been weeping. Later, while playing with Johanna and Tom outside, he had caught her staring into the distance, an unmistakable glaze of sorrow in her eyes.
    As always, she had evaded his questions, making an obvious effort to be more cheerful. But by now Evan recognized the slight darkening of those magnificent gray eyes, the faint tightening of the skin around her mouth.
    She was determined to give him a child. A son. And it seemed no amount of reassurance on his part would ease her