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reply, whether verbal or written—but only once—for her mother had spoken to her about it. By common consent, they had agreed it was best to give Lyyndaya more time to herself, so Ruth had sipped a cup of tea in the kitchen and listened to her parents tell her why they had to do what they were doing to Lyyndaya and Jude.
    She took the envelope in her hand and sat on her bed and thought about purposely losing it or destroying it. Then Jude would be none the wiser and would show up at the door or at the Sunday singing with a horse and buggy for Lyyndaya. Mother and Father would have to explain themselves to Jude at the house or in front of the whole colony at the singing instead of hiding behind the letter.
    Ruth sighed. Of course, she would not do that. She was a good daughter and tried very hard to be a good Christian. The day Jude returned on the train, hoping to see her sister, she would be the bearer of bad tidings that would crush his spirit. Oh, she liked him—she thought he was perfect for Lyyndaya. Her younger sister needed someone as strong-willed and adventurous as she was. Why couldn’t Mother and Father see past aeroplanes and propellers and focus on the young man at the smithy who worked hard, sang the hymns like an angel, and who had wept unashamedly at his mother’s funeral? He was a man with heart and soul.
    She looked over at Lyyndaya, fast asleep, bright hair fanning across her pillow like a bird’s wing.
    “Oh, my little Lyyndy,” she whispered, “what Jude wouldn’t give to be sitting where I am right now and looking at your beauty. Will there ever be such a day for him or you? I fear that before there is even the remotest chance of that happening you will both have to go through waters that are too deep, too dark, and too chill. I will never stop praying. But may God have mercy on you both.”

F OUR
     
    T he train whistle blew twice, long urgent notes, telling Paradise it had arrived. Lyyndaya stopped milking her cow a minute and looked out the open barn door to the main road. There were still buggies, carts, and wagons moving along toward the station—some to pick up supplies or tools, others to meet family or visitors or bring members of the colony back to their homes. Ruth would be there, ready to greet Jude and give him the letter at the train or follow him back to his house. Perhaps he would give her sister a note to bring back, the last exchange of messages Mother and Father would permit.
    She went back to milking and tried, unsuccessfully, to put the matter from her mind. A few cows down from her, her younger sister, Sarah, who was fourteen, struggled to get Primrose to cooperate and muttered away in Pennsylvania Dutch. Daniel, who was nine, and Harley, who was twelve, were helping their mother at the butter churn in an adjoining shed. Luke, at fifteen, was with Papa examining their second hay field to determine when it should have its first cut. Lyyndaya leaned her head gently against Cynthia and kept working, holding the teat in one hand and expressing the milk with the strong slender fingers of her other hand. One of the fingers had a small white bandage. Lyyndaya looked at it and thought of the aeroplane ride and that first thrilling barrel roll. She smiled at the memory and prayed,
Please, God, I hope you do not see this as a frivolous request, but may there be many, many more aeroplane rides with Jude
. Yet once she had finished her short prayer a part of her felt sorrow at something that she feared might never be again.
    Her pail full, she carried it to the nearest milk can sitting in the cool shadows. After pouring her pail into the can she moved on to Vivianne, who always made such a fuss. She continued to milk down the row of cows, now and then stopping to help Daniel or Harley—Sarah always refused help of any kind. After more than an hour she began to fret about Ruth’s absence. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that her sister was gone so long? She had no sooner begun to