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was dead.
    He was buried two days later in the cemetery at Mott's Corner and I returned to the Jessops'.
    A week later by myself I went back to the farm. The little shed where Father had kept his tools had not
burned for some reason, but the rest—the house and barn and milking shed and sty—were all in ashes. The old horse, the pigs, the two cows, and the chickens were gray and shapeless lumps.
    I didn't stay long. Nor did I try to find the silverware Father had hidden. Wherever it was, it most likely was melted down, but I didn't have the strength or the will to look.
    I stayed with kind Mrs. Jessop for another week. Then I decided to go to the Lion and Lamb, where Chad had helped out in the kitchen before he enlisted, and ask for work. It was two miles west of the Jessop place, near the East River. The boys got out the wagon to give me a lift along the road and Mrs. Jessop packed me something to eat. She also gave me a Bible.
    "I have three of the Holy Book," she said. "One for me and two for the boys. You take mine. You'll need it now that you'll be alone."
    She got out her Bible and pressed it on me, saying, "I find the Twenty-seventh Psalm, verse five, of comfort at times like these. 'For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.'"
    I thanked her for the Bible and the food, and climbed up in the wagon beside the two boys. The day was hot with restless rain clouds moving around. We went slowly up the road toward the Lion and Lamb. All the clothes I owned were on my back.

8
    T HE TAVERN WAS owned by Mr. and Mrs. Pennywell. It sat upon a hill that overlooked the estuary that opened into the East River. It was a big white building trimmed in green and had two stories with six dormer windows. There was a wooden gold sign hanging over the door that showed a lion and a lamb lying down together under a spreading oak tree.
    Mr. Pennywell had long hair and mean little eyes that were set too close together, but as things turned out he wasn't mean at all. When I told him that I was Chad Bishop's sister, he gave me a job in the kitchen right off, saying that he needed help, bad, that Chad was a fine boy, that he was sorry to hear about the farm and my father's death.
    "All of the girls I've had in the last month," he said, "since the militia moved into the fort up on Brooklyn Heights, only thought about one thing, soldiers. A seedy-looking lot they are, too. No uniforms. Most without muskets. Just farm boys."
    He gave me a good breakfast before I started to work—eggs and ham and corncakes. Mrs. Pennywell cooked it. She had a pretty face; at least, it must have been pretty
before she got fat and her nose sort of melted into pink and white folds.
    "Eat up," she kept urging me when I slowed down. "You look peaked. Don't blame you. Can you bake bread? The militia boys come down here half-starved, and baked bread hits the spot. You should be able to bake real good. Cooking for your family as you've done. For two years now, isn't it?"
    "I can bake," I told her.
    "What do you need?"
    "Indian maize, rye flour, and white flour."
    "Have them all, fresh from the mill."
    She bustled off and came back with three sacks. There was no special way I had to make bread, besides the equal parts of rye and cornmeal and white flour. Also you can use water, but milk is much better if you have it. Then you add salt aplenty and a gill of yeast to the quart of milk or water. Like all other bread, it should not be made so thick that you can't stir it well with your hand. I made two dozen big loaves, all the two ovens would take. They turned out well, golden-brown and bursting.
    The militia boys ate the two dozen loaves in a hurry. They came trooping in from the fort late in the afternoon. There were about thirty of them. I looked for Chad and inquired, but none of the soldiers knew him. One of the boys from a village near Hempstead said that he