TheAuthor

MARGARETLAURENCEwasborninNeepawa,Manitoba,in1926.UpongraduationfromWinnipeg'sUnitedCollegein1947,shetookajobasareporterfortheWinnipegCitizen.From1950until1957LaurencelivedinAfrica,the

firsttwoyearsinSomalia,thenextfiveinGhana,whereherhusband,acivilengineer,wasworking.ShetranslatedSomalipoetryandproseduringthistime,andbeganhercareerasafictionwriterwithstoriessetinAfrica.WhenLaurencereturnedtoCanadain1957,she

settledinVancouver,whereshedevotedherselftofictionwithaGhanaiansetting:inherfirstnovel,ThisSideJordan,andinherfirstcollectionofshortfiction,TheTomorrow-Tamer.HertwoyearsinSomaliawerethesubjectofhermemoir,TheProphet'sCamelBell.Separatingfromherhusbandin1962,Laurencemoved

toEngland,whichbecameherhomeforadecade,thetimeshedevotedtothecreationoffivebooksaboutthefictionaltownofManawaka,patternedafterherbirthplace,anditspeople:TheStoneAngel,AJestofGod,TheFireDwellers,ABirdintheHouse,andTheDiviners.LaurencesettledinLakefield,Ontario,in1974.She

complementedherfictionwithessays,bookreviews,andfourchildren'sbooks.HermanyhonoursincludetwoGovernorGeneral'sAwardsforFictionandmorethanadozenhonorarydegrees.MargaretLaurencediedinLakefield,Ontario,in

1987.

THENEWCANADIANLIBRARY

GeneralEditor:DavidStainesADVISORYBOARD

AliceMunroW.H.NewGuyVanderhaeghe

MARGARETLAURENCE

TheStoneAngel

WithanAfterwordbyAdeleWiseman

Copyright©1964byMargaretLaurenceAfterwordCopyright©1988byAdeleWiseman

FirstNCLEditionpublished1968Reprinted1989

Allrightsreserved.Theuseofanypartofthispublicationreproduced,

transmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recording,orotherwise,orstoredinaretrievalsystem,withoutthepriorconsentofthepublisherisaninfringementofthe

copyrightlaw.McClelland&StewartInc.TheCanadianPublishers

481UniversityAvenueToronto,Ontario

M5G2E9

CanadianCataloguinginPublicationData

Laurence,Margaret,1926-1987Thestoneangel

(NewCanadianLibrary)ISBN0-7710-9989-4

1.Title.11.Series.PS8523.A86S761988C813'.54C88-094196-0

PR9199.3.L39S761988

PrintedandboundinCanada

TypesettingbyPickwick

Donotgogentleintothatgoodnight,Rage,rageagainstthedyingofthelight.

DylanThomas

One

ABOVE THE TOWN, on the hill brow, the stone angelused to stand. I wonder if she stands there yet, inmemoryofherwhorelinquishedherfeebleghostasIgained my stubborn one, my mother's angel that myfatherboughtinpridetomarkherbonesandproclaimhisdynasty,ashefancied,foreverandaday.

Summer and winter she viewed the town withsightlesseyes.Shewasdoublyblind,notonlystonebutunendowedwithevenapretenseofsight.Whoevercarved her had left the eyeballs blank. It seemedstrange to me that she should stand above the town,harkingusalltoheavenwithoutknowingwhowewereatall.ButIwastooyoungthentoknowherpurpose,althoughmyfatheroftentoldmeshehadbeenbroughtfrom Italy at a terrible expense and was pure whitemarble.Ithinknowshemusthavebeencarvedinthatdistant sun by stone masons who were the cynicaldescendants of Bernini, gouging out her like by thescore, gauging with admirable accuracy the needs offledglingpharaohsinanuncouthland.

Herwingsinwinterwerepittedbythesnowandinsummerbytheblowngrit.ShewasnottheonlyangelintheManawakacemetery,butshewasthefirst,thelargest, and certainly the costliest. The others, asrecall, were a lesser breed entirely, petty angels,cherubimwithpoutingstonemouths,oneholdingalofta stone heart, another strumming in eternal silenceuponasmallstonestring-lessharp,andyetanotherpointing with ecstatic leer to an inscription. Irememberthatinscriptionbecauseweusedtolaughat

itwhenthestonewasfirstplacedthere.

Restinpeace.Fromtoil,surcease.

ReginaWeese.1886

SomuchforsadRegina,nowforgotteninManawaka— as I, Hagar, am doubtless forgotten. And yet Ialwaysfeltshehadonlyherselftoblame,forshewasa flimsy, gutless creature, bland as egg custard,caring with martyred devotion for an ungrateful fox-voicedmotheryearinandyearout.WhenReginadied,from some obscure and maidenly disorder, the olddisreputable lady rose from sick-smelling sheets andlived, to the despair of her married sons, anotherfulltenyears.NoneedtosayGodresthersoul,forshe must be laughing spitefully in hell, whilevirginalReginasighsinheaven.

Insummerthecemeterywasrichandthickassyrupwith the funeral-parlor perfume of the plantedpeonies,darkcrimsonandwallpaperpink,thepompousblossoms hanging leadenly, too heavy for their lightstems, bowed down with the weight of themselves andthe weight of the rain, infested with upstart antsthatsaunteredthroughtheplushpetalsasthoughtothemannerborn.

I used to walk there often when I was a girl.Therecouldnothavebeenmanyplacestowalkprimlyin those days, on paths, where white kid boots anddanglingskirtswouldnotbetornbythistlesorputinunseemlydisarray.HowanxiousIwastobeneatandorderly, imagining life had been created only tocelebrate tidiness, like prissy Pippa as she passed.But sometimes through the hot rush of disrespectfulwind that shook the scrub oak and the coarsecouchgrass encroaching upon the dutifully cared-forhabitations of the dead, the scent of the cowslips

wouldrisemomentarily.Theyweretough-rooted,thesewild and gaudy flowers, and although they were heldback at the cemetery's edge, torn out by lovingrelatives determined to keep the plots clear andclearly civilized, for a second or two a personwalking there could catch the faint, musky, dust-tinged smell of things that grew untended and hadgrownalways,beforetheportlypeoniesandtheangelswithrigidwings,whentheprairiebluffswerewalkedthroughonlybyCreewithenigmaticfacesandgreasyhair.

Now I am rampant with memory. I don't oftenindulge in this, or not so very often, anyway. Somepeoplewilltellyouthattheoldliveinthepast—that'snonsense.Eachday,soworthlessreally,hasararity for me lately. I could put it in a vase andadmire it, like the first dandelions, and we wouldforgettheirweedinessandmarvelthattheywerethereatall.Butonedissembles,usually,forthesakeofsuchpeopleasMarvin,whoissomehowcomfortedbythepictureofoldladiesfeedinglikedocilerabbitsonthelettuceleavesofothertimes,othermanners.HowunfairIam.Well,whynot?Tocarplikethis—it'smyonlyenjoyment,thatandthecigarettes,ahabitIacquired only ten years ago, out of boredom. Marvinthinks it disgraceful of me to smoke, at my age,ninety.TohimthereissomethingdistressinginthesightofHagarShipley,whobysomemischancehappensto be his mother, with a little white burning tubeheld saucily between arthritic fingers. Now I lightone of my cigarettes and stump around my room,rememberingfuriously,fornoreasonexceptthatIamcaughtupinit.Imustbecarefulnottospeakaloud,though, for if I do Marvin will look at Doris andDoriswilllookmeaningfullybackatMarvin,andoneofthemwillsay,"Mother'shavingoneofherdays."Letthemtalk.WhatdoIcarenowwhatpeoplesay?I

caredtoolong.Oh, my lost men. No, I will not think of that.

WhatadisgracetobeseencryingbythatfatDoris.The door of my room has no lock. They say it isbecauseImightgettakenillinthenight,andthenhowcouldtheygetintotendme(tend—asthoughIwereacrop,acashcrop).Sotheymayentermyroomany time they choose. Privacy is a privilege notgrantedtotheagedortheyoung.Sometimesveryyoungchildren can look at the old, and a look passesbetween them, conspiratorial, sly and knowing. It'sbecauseneitherarehumantothemiddlingones,thoseintheirprime,astheysay,likebeef.

I'd be about six, surely, when I had that plaidpinafore,palegreenandpalered-notpink,awateryred,rather,likethefleshofaripewatermelon,madeby an aunt in Ontario and grandly piped in blackvelveteen. There was I, strutting the board sidewalklike a pint-sized peacock, resplendent, haughty,hoity-toity,JasonCurrie'sblack-haireddaughter.

BeforeIstartedschool,IwassuchanuisancetoAuntie Doll. The big house was new then, the secondbrickhousetobebuiltinManawaka,andshehadthefeelingalwaysthatshemustliveuptoit,althoughshewashiredhelp.Shewasawidow,andhadbeenwithussincemybirth.Sheworeawhitelaceboudoircapinthemornings,andshrilledatmelikeawitchwhenI tweaked it off, exposing her frizzled mop to thechortlingeyesofReubenPearl-whobroughtthemilk.At such times she'd ship me off to the store, andtheremyfatherwouldsitmedownonanemptyupturnedapple-box, amid the barrels of dried apricots andraisinsandthesmellofbrownpaperandsizingfromtheboltsofclothinthedrygoodssection,andmakemememorizeweightsandmeasures.

"Twoglasses,onenoggin.Fournoggins,onepint.Two pints, one quart. Four quarts, one gallon. Twogallons,onepeck.Fourpecks,onebushel."

He'd stand there behind the counter, bulky and

waist-coated,hisvoicewithitsScotsburrpromptingmewhenIforgot,andtellingmetoconcentrateorI'dneverlearn.

"Do you want to grow up to be a dummy, a daftloon?"

"No.""Thenconcentrate."When I repeated them all through, Troy Weight,

Long and Lineal Measure, Imperial Dry Measure, CubicMeasure,he'dnod.

"Hayroot,strawfoot,Nowyou'vegotit."

That'sallhe'deversay,whenIgotitright.He

neverbelievedinwastingawordoraminute.Hewasaself-mademan.Hehadstartedwithoutabean,hewasfondoftellingMattandDan,andhadpulledhimselfupbyhisbootstraps.Itwastrue.Noonecoulddenyit. My brothers took after our mother, gracefulunspirited boys who tried to please him but rarelycould.OnlyI,whodidn'twanttoresemblehimintheleast,wassturdylikehimandborehishawkishnoseandstarethatcouldmeetanyone'swithoutblinkinganeyelash.

The devil finds work for idle hands. He put hisfaith in homilies. They were his Pater Noster, hisApostles'Creed.Hecountedthemofflikebeadsonarosary,orcoinsinthetill.Godhelpsthosewhohelpthemselves.Manyhandsmakelightwork.

He always used birch for whippings. That's whathad been used by his father on him, although inanothercountry.Idon'tknowwhathe'dhavedoneifnobirchhadflourishedaroundManawaka.Luckily,ourbluffssproutedafew—theywerethinandpuny,andnevergrewtoanyheight,buttheyservedthepurpose.MattandDangotthemostofit,beingboysandolder,andwhentheydid,they'dcomeanddotomeasthey'd

been done to, only they used maple, green switcheswith the leaves still on. You wouldn't think thosesoftleaveswouldsting,buttheydid,onbareflanksstill pudgy with baby fat, and I'd howl like thetriple-mouthedbeastsofhell,asmuchfromshameashurt,andthey'dhissthatifItoldthey'dtakethesaw-toothed breadknife that hung in the pantry andopen my throat and I'd bleed to death and be leftemptyandwhiteasHannahPearl'sstillbornbabythatwe'd seen at Simmons' Funeral Parlor in its whitesatinbox.ButwhenI'dheardMattcalled"foureyes"atschool,becausehehadtowearglasses,andAuntieDoll scold Dan because he'd wet his bed although hewas past eight, then I knew they'd never dare, so Itold.Thatputanendtoit,andwhattheygotservedthemright,andheletmewatch.After,though,IwassorryI'dwitnessedit,andtriedtotellthemso,buttheywouldn'thearmeout.

Theydidn'tneedtotalkasthoughtheyweretheonlyones.Igotit,too,althoughnotoften,Ihaveto admit. Father took such a pride in the store —you'd have thought it was the only one on earth. Itwas the first in Manawaka, so I guess he had duecause.Hewouldleanacrossthecounter,spreadinghishands,andsmilesowonderfullyyou'dfeelhewelcomedtheworld.

Mrs. McVitie, the lawyer's wife, bonnetedgarishly,smiledbackandaskedforeggs.Iremembersowell.itwaseggssheaskedfor—brownones,whichshe thought more nourishing than the white-shelledkind. And I, in black buttoned boots and detestedmauveandbeigestripedstockingswornforwarmthandthe sensible long-sleeved navy-blue serge dress heordered each year from the East, poked my nose intothe barrel that housed the sultanas, intending tosneakahandfulwhilehewasbusy.

"Oh,look!Thefunniestweethings,scampering—"I laughed at them as they burrowed, the legs so

quick and miniature you could hardly see them,

delightedthatthey'ddareappearthereandfloutmyfather'smightymustacheandhisire.

"Mindyourmanners,miss!"TheswipehecaughtmethenwasnothingtowhatI

gotinthebackofthestoreaftershe'dleft."Haveyounoregardformyreputation?""ButIsawthem!""Didyouhavetoannounceitfromthehousetops?""Ididn'tmean—""No good to say you're sorry when the damage is

done.Holdoutyourhands,miss."Iwouldn'tlethimseemecry,Iwassoenraged.

He used a foot ruler, and when I jerked my smartingpalmsback,hemademeholdthemoutagain.Helookedat my dry eyes in a kind of fury, as though he'dfailedunlesshedrewwaterfromthem.Hestruckandstruck,andthenallatoncehethrewtherulerdownandputhisarmsaroundme.HeheldmesotightlyIwas almost smothered against the thick moth-ball-smelling roughness of his clothes. I felt caged andpanickyandwantedtopushhimaway,butdidn'tdare.Finally he released me. He looked bewildered, asthough he wanted to explain but didn't know theexplanationhimself.

"Youtakeafterme,"hesaid,asthoughthatmadeeverythingclear."You'vegotbackbone,I'llgiveyouthat."Hesatdownonapacking-caseandtookmeonhisknee,

"Whatyoumustrealize,"hesaid,speakingsoftly,hastily, "is that when I have to take the ruler toyou,ithurtsmejustasmuchasitdoesyou."

I'dheardthatbefore,manytimes.Butlookingathim then from my dark bright eyes, I knew it was abarefaced lie. I did take after him, though — Godknowshewasn'twronginthat.

Istoodinthedoorway,poisedandreadytorun."Areyougoingtothrowthemaway?""What?""Thesultanas.Areyougoingtothrowthemaway?"

"You mind your own business, miss," he snapped,"orI'll-

Stifling my laughter and my tears, I turned andfled.

Quite a number of us started school that year.Charlotte Tappen was the doctor's daughter, and shehad chestnut hair and was allowed to wear it loose,withagreenbow,whenAuntieDollwasstillputtingmineinbraids.CharlotteandIwerebestfriends,andused to walk to school together, and wonder what itwouldbeliketobeLottieDrieserandnotknowwhereyour father had got to, or even who he'd been. WenevercalledLottie"No-Name,"though—onlytheboysdidthat.Butwetitteredatit,knowingitwasmean,feeling a half-ashamed excitement, the same as I'dfeltonceseeingTelfordSimmonsnotbotheringtogototheboys'outhouse,doingitbehindabush.Telford'sfatherwasn'tveryhighlyregarded.HekepttheFuneralParlorbutheneverhadanickeltoblesshimselfwith."Hefrittersawayhiscash,"myfathersaid,andafterawhileIlearnedthismeanthedrank.MatttoldmeoncethatBillySimmonsdrankembalmingfluid,andforalongtimebelievedit,andthoughtofhim as a ghoul and used to hurry past him on thestreet,althoughhewasgentleandshamblingandusedtogivechocolatemaple-budstoTelfordtodistributeto us all. Telford had curly hair and a slightstammer,andallhecouldfindtobragaboutwastheoccasionalcorpseinthecoolvault,andwhenwesaidwedidn'tbelievehecouldreallygetin,hetookusthattimeandshowedusHenryPearl'ssister,thedeadbaby. We went in through the basement window, thewhole gang of us, Telford leading. Then LottieDrieser, tiny and light with yellow hair fine asembroiderysilk,boldasbrassalthoughherdresswaspatched and washed raw. Then the rest — CharlotteTappen,HagarCurrie,DanCurrie,andHenryPearl,whodidn't want to come along but probably thought we'dcallhimasissyifhedidn't,andchantabouthimas

wesometimesdid.

"HenryPearlLookslikeagirl—"

Hedidn't,asamatteroffact.Hewasabiggawky

boy who rode in from the farm every day on his ownhorse,andwhoneverhadmuchtimetogoaroundwithusbecausehehadtohelpsomuchathome.

Theroomwaschilly,likethetownicehouse,wherethe blocks cut from the river in winter were storedall summer under the sawdust. We shivered andwhispered,terrifiedatthebawling-outwe'dgetifwewerecaught,Ididn'tlikethelooksofthatbabyatall. Charlotte and I hung back, but Lottie actuallyopeneduptheglass-toppedlidandstrokedthewhitevelvet and the white folds of satin and the smallpuckered white face. And then she looked at us anddaredustodothesame,butnoonewould.

"Scaredycats,"shesaid."IfeverIhaveababy,anditdies,I'mgoingtohaveitalldoneupinsatinjustlikethis."

"You'llhavetofindafatherforitfirst."ThatwasDan,whonevermissedachance."Youshutup,"Lottiesaid,"youshutup,orI'll

—"Telfordwasdancingupanddownwithpanic."Come

on,comeon—we'llreallycatchitifmammaseesushere—

TheSimmonsfamilylivedabovetheFuneralParlor.Billy Simmons wasn't anything to worry over, butTelford's mamma was a pinch-faced parsimonious shrewwho would stand on the doorstep and hand Telford acookieafterschoolbutneverhadonetospareforanyotherchild,andTelford,mortified,wouldchewdrylyonitunderherwaitingeye.Outwealltrooped,andaswewent,LottiewhisperedtoTelfordinacoyvoicethatmadeCharlotteandmedoubleoverwithlaughter.

"Don'tbescared,Telford.I'dstickupforyou.I'dtellyourmotheritwasDanmadeyoudoit."

"I'dassoonyoudidn't,"Telfordpuffed,pullinghis short legs out over the casement. "It wouldn'thelpaspeck.She'dneverlistentoyou,Lottie."

When we were out on the lawn, and the basementwindow closed and everyone safe and innocent oncemore,weplayedshadowtagaroundthebigsprucetreesthat shaded and darkened that whole yard. All of usexceptLottie,thatis.Shewenthome.

I was clever in school, and Father was pleased.SometimeswhenIgotastarformywork,he'dgivemeapaperofbuttoncandiesorahandfulofthosepastellozenges that bore sugary messages — Be Mine, YouBeauty, Love Me, Be True. We sat around the dining-room table every evening, Dan and Matt and I, doingourhomework.Anhourwasrequired,andifwehadnomore schoolwork to do, Father would set us sums anddispenseadvice.

"You'll never get anywhere in this world unlessyou work harder than others, I'm here to tell youthat.Nobody'sgoingtohandyouanythingonasilverplatter. It's up to you, nobody else. You've got tohave stick-to-itiveness if you want to get ahead.You'vegottousealittleelbowgrease."

Itriedtoshutmyearstoit,andthoughtIhad,yet years later, when I was rearing my two boys, Ifoundmyselfsayingthesamewordstothem.

I used to dawdle over my homework so I wouldn'thave to do the sums he set. We had the Sweet PeaReader,andIwouldtracethewordswithmyfingerandstareatthelittlepicturesasthoughIhopedthey'dswellandblossomintosomethingdifferent,somethingrare.

Thisisaseed.Theseedisbrown.But the stiff black seed on the page stayed the

same,andfinallyAuntieDollwouldpokeherheadinfromthekitchen.

"Mr.Currie—it'sHagar'sbedtime,"

"Allright.Upyougo,daughter."He called me "miss" when he was displeased, and

"daughter" when he felt kindly disposed toward me.NeverHagar.I'dbeennamed,hopefully,forawell-to-do spinster great-aunt in Scotland, who, to myfather's chagrin, had left her money to the HumaneSociety.

Once, my hand on the polished newel post at thefoot of the stairs, I heard him speaking to AuntieDollaboutme.

"Smartasawhip,sheis,thatone.Ifonlyshe'dbeen—"

Andthenhestopped,Isupposebecauseherealizedthatinthedining-roomhissons,suchastheywere,werelistening.

Weunderstoodquiteclearly,allofus,eventhen,that when Father spoke of pulling himself up by hisbootstrapshemeantthathehadbegunwithoutmoney.Buthe'dcomeofagoodfamily—hehadthatmuchofaheadstart.Hisfather'sportraithunginourdining-room,theoilsolive-greenandblackinthebackgroundaround the peaked face of the old gentleman whosported incongruously a paisley waistcoat, mustardyellowwithworm-likeswirlsofblue.

"He died before your birth," Father would say,"beforeheevenknewI'dmadegoodoverhere.Ileftwhen I was seventeen, and never saw him again. Youwere named after him, Dan, Sir Daniel Currie — thetitlediedwithhim,foritwasn'tabaronetcy.Hewasasilkimporter,buthe'dservedwithdistinctioninIndiainhisyoungerdays.Hewasnogreatshakesasamerchant.Helostnearlyeverything,throughnofaultof his, except he was too trusting. His partnercheatedhim—oh,itwasabadaffairallaround,Ican tell you, and there was I, without a hope or aha'penny.ButIcan'tcomplain.I'vedoneaswellasheeverdid.Better,forI'venopartners,norwillIever.TheCurriesareHighlanders.Matt—septofwhatclan?"

"SeptoftheClanranaldMacDonalds.""Correct.Pipemusic,Dan?""Clanranald'sMarch,sir.""Right."Andthenwithalookatme,andasmile:

"Thewarcry,girl?"And I, who loved that cry although I hadn't an

inkling what it meant, would shout it out with suchferocity that the boys snickered until our fatherimpaledthemwithafrown.

"GainsayWhoDare!"Itseemedtome,fromhistales,theHighlanders

must be the most fortunate of all men on earth,spending their days in flailing about them withclaymores, and their nights in eightsome reels. Theylivedincastles,too,everymanjackofthem,andallwere gentlemen. How bitterly I regretted that he'dleft and had sired us here, the baldheaded prairiestretching out west of us with nothing to speak ofexcept couchgrass or clans of chittering gophers orthe gray-green poplar bluffs, and the town where nomorethanhalfadozendecentbrickhousesstood,therest being shacks and shanties, shaky frame andtarpaper, short-lived in the sweltering summers andthewintersthatfrozethewellsandtheblood.

I'd be about eight when the new PresbyterianChurchwentup.ItsopeningservicewasthefirsttimeFather let me go to church with him instead of toSunday School. It was plain and bare and smelled ofpaint and new wood, and they hadn't got the stainedglasswindowsyet,butthereweresilvercandlesticksatthefront,eachbearingatinyplaquewithFather'sname,andheandseveralothershadpurchasedfamilypews and furnished them with long cushions of brownandbeigevelour,soourfewfavoredbottomswouldnotbebotheredbyhardoakandalengthysermon.

"On this great day," the Reverend DougallMacCulloch said feelingly, "we have to give specialthanks to those of our congregation whose generosityand Christian contributions have made our new church

possible."Hecalledthemoff,thenames,likeanhonorrole.

Luke McVitie, lawyer. Jason Currie, businessman.Freeman McKendrick, bank manager. Burns MacIntosh,farmer.RabFraser,farmer.

Fathersatwithmodestlybowedhead,butturnedtomeandwhisperedverylow:

"IandLukeMcVitiemust'vegiventhemost,ashecalledournamesthefirst,"

Thepeoplelookedasthoughtheywonderedwhetherthey should clap or not, ovations being called for,and yet perhaps uncalled for in a church. I waited,hopingtheywould,forIhadnewwhitelaceglovesandcouldhaveshownthemoffsowell,clapping.Butthenthe minister announced the psalm, so we all sangmightily.

"UntothehillsarounddoIliftupMylongingeyes.Owhenceformeshallmysalvationcome,Fromwhencearise?FromGODtheLORDdothcomemycertainaid,FromGODtheLORD,whoheavenandearthhathmade."

AuntieDollwasalwaystellingusthatFatherwasaGod-fearingman.Ineverforamomentbelievedit,of course. I couldn't imagine Father fearing anyone,Godincluded,especiallywhenhedidn'tevenowehisexistence to the Almighty. God might have createdheaven and earth and the majority of people, butFatherwasaself-mademan,ashehimselfhadtoldusoftenenough.

He never missed a Sunday service, though, nor agrace at meals. He said it always himself, slowly,whilewefidgetedandpeeked.

"Somehaemeatandcannaeat,Somewouldeathaelackit.

Butwehaemeatandwecaneat,SaelettheLordbethanked."He did not marry again after our mother died,

althoughhesometimesspokeoffindingawife.IthinkAunt Dolly Stonehouse fancied he might eventuallymarryher.Thepoorsoul.Iwasfondofher,althoughshe made no secret of the fact that Dan was herfavorite, and it seemed a pity that she believedFatherheldbackbecauseshewassuchahomelywomanwithhersallowskinthatwasnevergreatlyimprovedbythewitchhazelandlemonjuiceshedabbedon,andhertopincisorsthatprotrudedlikeajackrabbit's.Shewassoconsciousofthoseteethofhers,sheusedtoputonehandinfrontofhermouthwhenspeaking,sothathalfthetimeevenherwordswerehiddenbyascreen of fingers. But her appearance wasn't whatwouldhavedecidedFather.MattandDanandIalwaysknewhecouldneverhavebroughthimselftomarryhishousekeeper.

I only ever saw him speaking alone with a womanonce,andthatwasbyaccident.Iusedtowalkouttothecemeterybymyselfsometimes,toreadandgetawayfrom the boys, I had a place behind a chokecherrybush,atthehill'sedge,justoutsidethefencethatmarkedthecemeterylimits.I'dhavebeentwelve,orthereabouts,thatafternoon.

They walked so quietly on the path farther downthehill,neartheriverbanks,wheretheWachakwaranbrown and noisy over the stones. At first I didn'trealizeanyonewasthere,andwhenIdid,itwastoolatetogetaway.Hesoundedpeevishandirritable.

"What's the matter with you? What's thedifference?"

"Iwasfondofhim,"shesaid."Ilovedhim.""I'llbetyoudid.""Ididso,"shecried."Ididso!""Whydidyousayyou'dcomehere,then?"

"I thought —" the thin high girl's voice. "Ithought,likeyou,whatdifferencewoulditmakenow?Butit'snotthesame."

"Whynot?""Hewasyoung,"shesaid.I thought he was going to hit her, perhaps say

"hold out your hands, miss," as he'd done to me. Ididn't know why. But through the leaves I could seedestructionprintedonhisface.Hedidn'ttouchher,though,norsayaword.Heturnedandwalkedaway,hisbootscrunchingonthefallentwigs,untilhereachedtheclearingwherehe'dleftthebuggy.ThenIheardhiswhipsinging,andthehorse'ssurprisedsnort.Thewomanlookedafterhim,herfacesoftandblank,asthoughsheexpectednothingoutoflife.Thenshebegantotrudgeupthehill.

Ifeltnopityforhernorforhim.Iscornedthemboth—him,forwalkingherewithherandspeakingtoher;her,because—well,simplybecauseshewasNo-Name Lottie Drieser's mother. Yet now, rememberingtheirfaces,I'dbehardputtosaywhichofthemhadbeenthecrueler.

She died not so long after, of consumption. Ithoughtitservedherright,butIhadnorealreasonforthinkingso,exceptthefurychildrenfeeltowardmysteries they have perceived but been unable topenetrate,ImadesureIwastheonetolethimknow,running all the way home from school to impart thenews.Butheneverletonatallthathe'dsomuchasexchangedawordwithher.Hemadethreecomments.

"Poorlass,"hesaid."Shecouldn'thavehadmuchofalife."

Then,asthoughrecallinghimself,andtowhomhespoke, "Her sort isn't much loss to the town, I'mboundtosay."

Then an inexplicably startled look came over hisface."Consumption?That'scontagious,isn'tit?Well,theLordworksinwondrouswaysHiswilltoperform."

Noneofthethreemademuchsensetomethen,but

theystuckinmymind.I'vesincepondered—whichwasmyfather?

The boys worked in the store after school. Theydidn'tgetpaidforit,ofcourse.Itdidn'tdothemanyharm,either.Youngsterswereexpectedtohelpoutin those days — they didn't laze around as they donow. Matt, skinny and bespectacled, worked doggedly,withneitherasmilenoracomplaint.Buthisfingerswere all thumbs — he'd knock over a sack of lampglasses or jolt a bottle of vanilla essence from ashelf, and then he'd catch it from Father, whocouldn't bear clumsiness. When Matt was sixteen, heasked Father for a rifle and leave to go with JulesTonnerre to set winter traplines up at GallopingMountain.Fatherrefused,naturally,sayingMattwouldlikely blow a foot off, and a pretty penny it wouldset him back to have an artificial one made, andanyway he wasn't having any son of his gallivantingaround the country with a half-breed. I wonder howMatt felt, that time? I never knew. I never much ofMattatall.

We used to fish under the board sidewalks forcoppers that had been dropped by careless Saturdaynight drinkers homeswinging from the Queen VictoriaHotel, and Matt would lower so seriously his stringwithitsblobofwellchewedsprucegum.Whenhemadeacatch,he'dneverspendit,orshareit,notevenifyou'dgivenhimthegumrightoutofyourmouth.He'dputitawayinhisblacktincashbox,alongwiththeshinplaster, twenty-five cents in paper money, whichtheTorontoauntshadsent,andthehalfdollarFatherbestowedatChristmas.Hecarriedthekeyofthatboxaround his neck like a St. Christopher medal or acrucifix.DanandIusedtoteasehim,dancingoutofhisreach.

"Nyah,nyah,MiserMatt,

Youcan'tcatchme

Forabumblebee…"

Ineversawhimtakeanymoneyoutofthatbox.Hewasn'tsavingforajackknifeoranythinglikethat.HowmeanIusedtothinkhim.Ineverknewthetruthof it until years later, years too late, after I'dgrown up and wed and gone to live at the Shipleyplace.ItwasAuntDollywhotoldme.

"Didn't you know what he meant to do with hismoney, Hagar? I used to laugh at him, but he neverpaidanymind—thatwasMatt'sway.Hemeanttosetuponhisown,ifyouplease,orstudylawdownEast,or buy a ship and go into the tea trade, such wildnotions youngsters get. He'd have been going onseventeen,Iguess,whenitfinallydawnedonhimthatthe handful of nickels and quarters he had wouldn'ttakehimfar.Doyouknowwhathedid?Itwasn'tabitlikeMatttogoanddoathinglikethat.HeboughtafightingcockfromoldmanDoherty—spentthewholelotatonce,likeafool,andoverpaid,Idon'tdoubt.HematcheditwithoneofJulesTonnerre's,andMatt'slost, of course — what did he know of birds? Hebroughtithome—youandDanmust'vebeenout,forImindIwasinthekitchenbymyself—andhesatandlooked at it for the longest time. It was enough toturnyourstomach,itsfeatherscoveredwithbloodandthe thing breathing very queerly. Then he wrung itsneckandburiedit.Iwasn'tsorrytoseeitgo,Icantellyou.Itwouldn'tevenhavemadeaboilingfowl.Tootoughtobeeaten,butnottoughenoughtofight."

Danielwasadifferentsortentirely.Hewouldn'tliftafingertowork,unlesshewaspushedtoit.Hewas always delicate, and he knew very well theadvantages of poor health. He'd shove away hisporridgeplateatbreakfast,withthemerestwhiffofasigh,andDollwouldfeelhisforeheadandshiphimoff to bed — "No school for you today, young man."She'd run herself ragged, toting bowls of broth and

mustardplastersupanddownthestairs,andwhenhe'dhadhisfillofcoddling,he'dfindhimselffeelingatrifle better and would progress to raspberry jellyandconvalescenceontheliving-roomsofa.Fatherhadsmallpatiencewiththeseantics,andusedtosayallDanneededwasfreshairandexercise.Sometimeshe'dmake Dan get up and get dressed, and would send himdowntothestoretocleanoutthewarehouse.Butsureas guns, if he did, the next day Dan would sproutchicken pox or something indisputable. It must havebeen mind over matter, for he cultivated illness assome people cultivate rare plants. Or so I thoughtthen.

Whenwewereinourteens,Fatherusedtoletushave parties sometimes. He went over the list ofintended guests and crossed off those he thoughtunsuitable. Among those of my age, Charlotte Tappenwasalwaysasked—thatwentwithoutsaying.TelfordSimmonswasallowed,butonlyjust.HenryPearlwasanawkward one — his people were decent, but beingfarmerstheywouldn'thavetheproperclothes,Fatherdecided, so it would only embarrass them for us tosend an invitation. Lottie Drieser was never invitedto our parties, but when she'd grown a doll-likeprettiness and a bosom, Dan sneaked her in once andFatherraisedcainaboutit.Danwasfondofclothes,andwhenwehadapartyhewouldappearinsomethingnew,themoneyhavingbeenfinagledfromAuntieDoll.Whenhewasnotill,hewasthegayestoneimaginable,likeawaterbeetlebusilyboatingonthesurfaceoflife.

Whitewoodenlacefestoonedtheverandasinthosedays,sedatetrimmingonthebeigebrickhousessuchas my father had built. Once there was a craze forJapaneselanterns,hungfromthepaintedlace,crimsonand fragile paper, bulbous and thin, ribbed withbamboo, flamboyant with gilt dragons andchrysanthemums. In each lantern there was a candlewhich never stayed alight for long, it seemed, for

someeagerlankyboywasalwaysshinnyinguptheporchpillars,matchinhand,tosettheglowagainforthereelandschottischewetwirled.Lord,howIenjoyedthose dances, and can hear yet the stamping of ourfeet, and the fiddler scraping like a cricket. Myhair,pinnedontopofmyhead,wouldcomeundoneandfall around my shoulders in a black glossiness thattheboyswouldtrytotouch.Itdoesn'tseemsoverylongago.

InwintertheWachakwariverwassolidasmarble,and we skated there, twining around the bends,stumbling over the rough spots where the water hadfrozen in waves, avoiding the occasional patch wheretheicewasthin—"rubberice,"wecalledit.DohertyfromtheLiveryStableownedtheManawakaIcehouseaswell,andusedtosendouthissonswiththedrayandhorses to cut blocks. Sometimes, skidding around acurveintheriver,you'dseeadarkplaceahead,likeadeepwoundonthewhiteskinofice,andyou'dknowDoherty's dray and ice-saw had been there thatafternoon. It was at dusk, all shapes and colorshaving turned gray and indefinite, that my brotherDaniel, skating backward to show off for the girls,fellin.

The ice was always very thick where the blockswerecut,soitdidn'tbreakaroundtheedgesofthehole.Matt,summonedbyourshrieks,skatedcloseanddrewDanupandaway.Itmusthavebeenthirtybelow,thatday,andourhousewasatthefarendoftown.OddthatitneveroccurredtoMattormetotakeDanintothefirsthousewecameto,butno—wewereonlyconcernedtogethimhomebeforeFathergotbackthateveningfromthestore,sonooneexceptAuntieDollwouldneedtoknow.Hisclotheshadfrozenbeforewereachedthehouse,eventhoughMatthadtakenoffhisown coat and wrapped it around him. Father was homewhenwegotthere—justDan'sbadluck,forhegotrailed at good and plenty for not watching where hewasgoing.AuntieDollgavehimwhiskyandlemon,and

puthimtobed,andthenextdayheseemedallright.I don't doubt he would have been, too, if he'd beenhuskytostartwith.Buthewasn't.Whenhecamedownwithpneumonia,allIcouldthinkfordaysonendwasthe number of times I'd believed him to bemalingering.

The night Dan's fever went up, Auntie Doll wasover seeing Floss Drieser, Lottie's aunt, who was adressmaker. Auntie Doll was getting a new costumemade,andshespenthoursatthefittingsessions,forFloss heard everything that went on in Manawaka andwasnevershyaboutpassingiton.Fatherwasworkinglate that evening, so only Matt and I were in thehouse.

MattcameoutofDan'sbedroomwithhisshouldersbentforwardasthoughhewerehurryingsomewhere.

"Whatisit?"Ihardlywantedtoknow,butIhadtoask.

"He's delirious," Matt said. "Go for DoctorTappen,Hagar."

Ididthat,flyingthroughthewhitestreets,notmindinghowmanydriftsIsteppedinnorhowsoakingmyfeetgot.WhenIreachedTappen'shouse,thedoctorwasn't there. He'd gone to South Wachakwa, Charlottesaid, and the way the roads were, it wasn't likelyhe'd be back until morning, if then. That was longbeforethedaysofsnowplows,ofcourse.

When I got back home, Dan was worse, and Matt,coming downstairs to hear what I had to say, lookedterrified,furtivelyso,asthoughheweretryingtofigure out some way of leaving the situation tosomeoneelse.

"I'llgotothestoreforFather,"Isaid.Matt'sfacechanged."No, you won't," he said with sudden clarity.

"It'snotFatherhewants.""Whatdoyoumean?"Mattlookedaway."MotherdiedwhenDanwasfour.

Iguesshe'sneverforgottenher."

It seemed to me then that Matt was almostapologetic,asthoughhefeltheoughttotellmehedidn't blame me for her dying, when in his heart hereallydid.Maybehedidn'tfeelthatwayatall—howcanapersontell?

"Doyouknowwhathe'sgotinhisdresser;Hagar?"Mattwenton."Anoldplaidshawl—itwashers.Heusedtogotosleepholdingit,asakid,Iremember.I thought it had got thrown out years ago. But it'sstillthere."

He turned to me then, and held both my hands inhis,theonlytimeIeverrecallmybrotherMattdoingsuchathing.

"Hagar—putitonandholdhimforawhile."Istiffenedanddrewawaymyhands."Ican't,Oh

Matt,I'msorry,butIcan't,Ican't.I'mnotabitlikeher."

"He wouldn't know," Matt said angrily. "He's outofhishead."

ButallIcouldthinkofwasthatmeekwomanI'dneverseen,thewomanDanwassaidtoresemblesomuchand from whom he'd inherited a frailty I could nothelpbutdetest,howevermuchapartofmewantedtosympathize.Toplayatbeingher—itwasbeyondme.

"Ican't,Matt."Iwascrying,shakenbytormentsheneverevensuspected,wantingaboveallelsetodothe thing he asked, but unable to do it, unable tobendenough."Allright,"hesaid."Don'tthen,"

WhenIhadpulledmyselftogether,IwenttoDan'sroom,Mattwassittingonthebed.Hehaddrapedtheshawlacrossoneshoulderanddownontohislap,andhe was cradling Dan's head with its sweat-lank hairandchalkfaceasthoughDanwereachildandnotamanofeighteen.WhetherDanthoughthewaswherehewanted to be or not, or whether he was thinkinganythingatall,Idon'tknow.ButMattsattherelikethatforseveralhours,notmoving,andwhenhecamedowntothekitchenwhereIhadfinallygone,IknewDanwasdead.

BeforeMattlethimselfmournoreventellmeitwasover,hecameclosetomeandputbothhishandsonme—quitegently,exceptthatheputthemaroundmythroat.

"If you tell Father," Matt said, "I'll throttleyou."

That was how little he knew of me, to imagine Imight.Iusedtowonderafterward,ifIhadspokenandtried to tell him — but how could I? I didn't knowmyselfwhyIcouldn'tdowhathehaddone.

Somanydays.Andnowtherecomestomindanotherthing that happened when I was almost grown. AboveManawaka, and only a short way from the peoniesdroopingsullenlyoverthegraves,wasthetowndump.Herewerecratesandcartons,teachestswithtorntinstripping, the unrecognizable effluvia of our lives,burned and blackened by the fire that seasonallycauterized the festering place. Here were the wrecksofcuttersandbuggies,therustyspringsandgashedseats,theskeletonsofconveyancespurchasedinfinefettle by the town fathers and grown as racked andruined as the old gents, but not afforded a decentconcealment in earth. Here were the leavings fromtables, gnawed bones, rot-softened rinds of pumpkinandmarrow,peelingsandcores,pitsofplum,brokenjarsofpreservesthathadfermentedandbeenchuckedreluctantlyawayratherthanriskptomaine.Itwasasulphurous place, where even the weeds appeared togrowmoregrossandnoxiousthanelsewhere,asthoughtheycouldnothelpbutshowthestainandstenchoftheirimpropernourishment.

IwalkedthereoncewithsomeothergirlswhenIwas still a girl, almost but not quite a young lady(how quaintly the starched words shake out now, yetwiththecertainendearment).Wetiptoed,fastidiouslyholdingtheedgesofourgarmentsclear,likedainty-nosed czarinas finding themselves in suddenastonishingproximitytobeggarswithweepingsores.

Then we saw a huge and staggering heap of eggs,

jarred and broken by some wagoner and cast here,unsaleable.Julywashotthatday—Icanfeelyetitsinsistenceuponmyneckandmywringingpalms.Wesaw,with a kind of horror that could not be avoided,howevermuchonelookedawayorscurriedon,thatsomeof the eggs had been fertile and had hatched in thesun. The chicks, feeble, foodless, bloodied andmutilated,prisonedbytheweightofbrokenshellsallaroundthem,weretryingtocrawllikelittleworms,theirhalf-mouthsopeneduselesslyamongthegarbage.I could only gawk. and retch, I and the others, allexceptone.

Lottie was light as an eggshell herself, and Ifeltsurlytowardherlittlenessandpalefinehair,for I was tall and sturdy and dark and would havelikedtobetheopposite.Eversincehermotherdied,she had been brought up by her mother's dressmakersister,andmostofushadnearlyforgottenthepair,irresponsibleasgoatsorgods,who'dlainonceinaditchorbarn.Shelookedatthechicks.Ididn'tknowwhether she made herself look, or whether she wascurious.

"Wecan'tleavethemlikethis.""ButLottie—"thatwasCharlotteTappen,whohad

anexceptionallyweakstomach,eventhoughherfatherwasadoctor."Whatcanwedo?Ican'tlook,orI'llthrowup."

"Hagar—"Lottiebegan."I wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole," I

said."Allright,"Lottiesaidfuriously."Don't,then."Shetookastickandcrushedtheeggshellskulls,

andsomeofthemshesteppedonwiththeheelsofherblackpatent-leathershoes.

It was the only thing to do, a thing I couldn'thavedone.AndyetittroubledmesomuchthatIcouldnot.Atthetimeitstungmeworse,Ithink,thatIcould not bring myself to kill those creatures thanthat I could not bring myself to comfort Dan. I did

notliketothinkthatLottiemighthavemoregumptionthanI,whenIknewfullwellshedidnot.WhycouldInothavedoneit?Squeamishness,Isuppose.Certainlynotpity.Forpity'ssaketheywereputoutoftheirmisery, or so I believed then, and still in partbelieve. But they were an affront to the eyes, aswell. I am less certain than I was that she did itentirelyfortheirsake.IamnotsorrynowthatIdidnotspeedthem.

Atimidtappingatmydoor.Dorisdeceivesnoone,

except probably herself. She's as far from timid asany woman I've seen, and yet she persists in thismousemask,likethehorridchildrenwithcartoonearswhomMarvinwatchesstolidlyonhisTV.Sheknocksonmydoorself-effacinglysoshemaysayinherwhisperywhinetoMarvinlater—"Idasn'tgiveagoodloudrapthesedaysoryouknowwhatshellsay."Oh,thesecretjoysofmartyrdom.

"Comein."Amereformalityonmypart,forsheiswedgingin

throughthedoorwayalready.Shewearsherdarkbrownartificialsilk.Everythingisartificialthesedays,it seems to me. Silks and people have gone out ofstyle, or no one can afford them any more. Doris ispartialtodrabshades.Shecallsthemdignified,andifyourdignitydependsuponvestmentstheshadesofnight,Isupposeyou'rewelladvisedtoclingtothem.

IwearmylilacsilkbecausethedayseemsSunday.Yes,itisSunday.Arealsilk,mine,spunbywormsinChina,feedinguponthemulberryleaves.Thesalesgirlassured me it was real, and I can see no reason todoubther,forshewasaverycivilgirl.Dorisswearsup and down it is acetate, whatever that means. ShefanciesIamalwayscheatedunlessItakehershoppingwithme,andnowthatmyanklesandfeetaresomuchworse, I usually do, although she has no more tastethanabroodyhen,whichiswhatshemostresemblesin

her dowdy brown, dandruffed on either shoulder anddownthebacklikemoltingfeathers.Shewouldn'tknowsilkfromfloursacks,thatwoman.Howannoyedshewaswith me when I bought this dress. Unsuitable, shesighedandsniffed.Lookatthestyle—muttondressedaslamb.Lethertalk.Ilikeit,andwillwearitonweekdaysnow,perhaps,aswell.Iwould,too.Idon'tseehowshecouldstopme,ifIreallywantedto.

The lilac is the exact same shade as the lilacsthatusedtogrowbesidethegrayfrontporchoftheShipley place. There was little enough time or roomfor flowering shrubs there, with that land that wasneverluckyfromthefirstbreakingoftheground,allthebrokenmachinerystandingintheyardliketheoldbonesandribsofgreatdeadseacreatureswashedtoshore, and the yard muddy and puddled with yellowammoniapoolswherethehorsesemptiedthemselves.Thelilacsgrewwithnocaregiventhem,andintheearlysummer they hung like bunches of mild mauve grapesfrombranches.withleaveslikedarkgreenhearts,andthe scent of them was so bold and sweet you couldsmellnothingelse,aseasonalmercy,

WhatonearthdoesDoriswant,fatlysmirking?"Marv and me are having a cup of tea, Mother.

Wouldyoulikeacup?"Mylipstighten.Marvandme.Whycouldhenotat

least have found himself a woman who could speakproperly? But this is absurd, for he doesn't speakproperly himself. He speaks as Bram did. Does itbothermestill?

"Not right now. Maybe I'll come down later,Doris."

"It'llbecoldbythen,"shesaysdrearily."Of course I suppose it would cost too much to

makeasecondpot?""Please —" She sounds tired now, and I repent,

cursemychurlishness,wanttotakebothherhandsinmineandbegforgiveness,butifIdidshe'dbelievemedaftentirely,insteadofonlyhalfso.

"Let'snotstartthisalloveragain,"shesays.Iforgetmycravenself-reproach."Startwhat?"My

voiceis,gruffwithsuspicion."Yesterday I made a second pot for you," Doris

says,"andyoudumpeditdownthesink.""I did no such thing." And indeed, I cannot

remember doing any such thing. It is possible, justbarelypossible,thatIbecameirritatedwithheroversometriflingthingorother—butwouldInotrecall?Because I cannot remember doing it nor yet recalldefinitelynotdoingit,doingsomethingelse(suchasdrinking the tea, let us say, calmly), I becomeflustered.

"Allright,allright,I'llcomedownnow."I rise from my chair hastily, intending to

straighten the things on my dressing-table and thenfollowherdownstairsafterashortinterval.Butthemovementistooabrupt.ThearthritisknotsinsidemylegsasthoughIhadpiecesofbinder-twineinsteadofmusclesandveins.Myanklesandfeet(thickasstumpstheyarenow,andjustaboutaseasilymoved—onehastouprootthem)stumbleaverylittleovertheedgeofmybedroomrug.

Icouldbeallright—Icouldrightmyself—ifonly she would not take alarm and startle me, thefool. She screeches like a fire siren in terror andhope.

"Mother—watchout!""Eh?Eh?"Ijerkupmyheadlikeanoldmare,a

slowoldsway-back,atthesoundoffireorthesmellofsmoke.

ThenIfall.Thepainundermyribsistheworst,theonethathasbeencomingmorefrequentlyoflate,althoughIhavementionednothingofittoMarvinandDoris.Nowwiththejoltofmyfall,theribsburiedsodeeplyundermylayeredfatseemtofoldtogetherlikethebamboobonesofapaperfan.ThepainburnsthroughtomyheartandIcannotbreatheforamoment.Igaspandflounderlikeafishontheslimedboards

ofadock."Oh dear oh dear oh dear —" Doris bubbles wetly

throughhernose.She runs to lift me, and cannot. She heaves and

strainslikeacalvingcow.Theblackishveinsstandoutalongherforehead.

"Leaveme,leavemebe—"Canthistornvoicebemine?Aseriesofyelps,likeaninjureddog.

Then,terribly,Iperceivethetears,myowntheymustbealthoughtheyhavesprungsounbiddenIfeeltheyareliketheincontinentwetnessoftheinfirm.Trickling,theytauntdownmyface.Theyarenotearsof mine, in front of her. I dismiss them, blasphemeagainst them — let them be gone. But I have notspoken,andtheyarestillthere."Marv!"shecalls."Mar-Vin!"

Thudding, he mounts the stairs, quickly for him,forheissolidandbulgedasabarrelnowanddoesnot find swiftness easy. He must be close to sixty-fiveifhe'saday.Strange.Morestrangeforhim,nodoubt,tohaveamotherathisage.Hisbroadfaceisalarmed,andifthereisonethingMarvinhatesitistobealarmed,upset.Calmnessisnecessarytohim.Hehasamonolithiccalm.Iftheworldfelldown,insteadofonlyme,hewouldshakehisheadandblinkandsay,"Let'sseenow—thisdoesn'tlooksogood."

Whoever chose Marvin for his name? Bram, Isuppose.AShipleyfamilyname,itwas,Ithink.Justthe sort of name the Shipleys would have. They wereall Mabels and Gladyses, Vernons and Marvins, squatbrownnames,commonasbottledbeer.

Hetugsandhoistsundermyarmpits,andatlastIrise,notofmyownaccord,butluggedlikelead.HeglaresatDoris,twitteringonthesidelines.

"Thishasgottostop,"hesays.ButIcannottellwhetherhemeansthatI,bysome

applicationofwill,muststopfalling,ormerelythatDorismuststopliftingmewhenIdo.

"She went down," Doris says, "like a ton of

bricks.""Neverthelessandnotwithstanding,"Marvinsaysin

hispompousway,"Iamnotgoingtohaveyouhavingaheartattack."

Well,somuchisclear.HeisreferringtoDoris.She sighs, one of her deep sighs straight from thebelly,andgiveshimaglance.Sheliftsaneyebrow.Heshakeshishead.Whataretheytryingtosignaltoone another? They spoke before as though I weren'there,asthoughitwereafullgunnysacktheydraggedfrom the floor. But now, all at once, they areintensely aware of my open ears. And I feel somehowthat I must explain the unfortunate occurrence, showinsomefashionhowuntypicalitwas,howunlikelytohappenagain.

"I'mfine,"Isay."Onlyalittleshaken.Itwasthat rug. I've told you, Doris, if you'd only movethat pesky rug out of my room. It's not safe, thatrug.I'vesaidsoadozentimes."

"All right, I'll move it," Doris says. "Come onand get your tea or it'll be stone cold. Can youmanage?"

"Ofcourse,"Isaycrossly."OfcourseIcan.""Here — I'll give you a hand," Marvin puts in,

takingmyelbow.Ishoveasidehispaw."Icanmanagequitewell,

thankyou.Yougoondown.I'llbethereinamoment.Goonnow,forpity'ssake."

At last they go, with dubious backward glances.WillI,byanymarvelouschance,breakmyneckinthedescent?Iwait,summoningpoise.Onmydressing-tableis a bottle of eau de Cologne, given me by Tina —theirdaughterandmygranddaughter,grownupalready—onmybirthdayorChristmasorsometime.ItisLillyoftheValley.Idonotblameherforthischoice,nordoIthinkitwasduetoanytactlessnessonherpart.Iwouldnotexpecthertoknowthattheliliesofthevalley,sowhiteandalmosttoostronglysweet,weretheflowersweusedtoweaveintothewreathsforthe

dead. This perfume smells nothing like its namesake,but it is pleasant enough. I dab a little on mywrists,andthenIventuredownthestairs.Iholdthebanister tightly, and of course I'm all right,perfectlyallright,asIalwaysamwhenIhaven'tgotan audience. I gain the hall, the living-room, thekitchen,andtheretheteaislaidout.

Dorisisagoodenoughcook—I'llgiveherthat.EvenwhensheandMarvinwerefirstmarried,shecouldturnoutadecentmeal.Ofcourse,shealwayshadtoprepare meals, even when she was quite young. A bigfamily, she came from, with nothing to speak of. Ilearned to cook after I was married. As a child Ispenthoursinourhugewarmgreen-cupboardedkitchen,but only to watch and nibble. Watching Auntie Dollslapandpatatthepastryorpareanappleallinonelongcurledribbonofpeeling,Iusedtothinkhowsadto spend one's life in caring for the houses ofothers.Ineverhadanypremonition,andIfeltmyselftobe—oh,quitedifferentfromAuntieDoll,amicablebutdifferent,adifferentsortentirely.

Doris baked yesterday. Lemon slice, with brownedcoconut on top, and chocolate strip with walnuts.Good, she's iced it. I like it so much better thisway. She's made cheese bread, as well — aren't wegrandtoday?Idobelieveshehasspreadbutteronit,notthatdisgustingmargarineshebuysforeconomy,Isettlesnugly,andsipandtaste,tasteandsip.

Doris pours more tea. We are comfortable. Marvinis hairy in shirtsleeves, elbows on the table. Highday or holiday or Judgment Day — no difference toMarvin.Hewouldhaveputhiselbowsonthetableifhe'dbeenanapostleattheLastSupper.

"Careforalittlemorelemonslice,Mother?"Whyishesoattentive?Iwatchtheirfaces.Does

a questioning look pass between them or do I onlyfancyitisso?

"No,thankyou,Marvin."Aloof.Alert.Nottobetakenin.

He blinks his pallid eyes and grimaces his faceintoapuzzledfrown,wantingtospeaksomethingbutunable to begin. He has never had a facility withwords. I grow more suspicious by the minute, andregretnowtheteaandmyownpartaking.Whatisit?Whatisit?Iwanttoshoutthequestionimpatientlyathisface.InsteadIfoldmyhands,asIammeanttodo,overmysilklilacbelly,andwait.

"ThehouseseemskindofemptynowthatTina'snothere,"hesaysatlast,"andStevendoesn'tgethomeveryoften."

"She's been gone a month or more," I remind himtartly, somehow delighted that it is I who amremindinghimofathing.

"It'stoobig,that'swhatMarvmeans,"Dorisputsin."It'stoobig,withneitherofthekidsherenowexceptholidaysandthat."

"Big?"WhyshouldItakeitsokeenly?"Iwouldn'tcallitbig,ashousesgo."

"Well, you couldn't compare it to the big newsplit-levelsandthose,"Dorissays."Butit'safour-bedroomhouseandthat'sbigenoughforthesedays."

"Fourbedroomsbig?TheCurriehousehadsix.EventheoldShipleyplacehadfive."

Doris lifts brown rayon shoulders, looksexpectantlyatMarvin.Saysomething,hereyesspell,yourturnnow.

"Wethought,"Marvinspeaksashethinks,slowly,"wegottothinking,Dorisandme,itmightbeagoodidea to sell this house, Mother. Get an apartment.Smaller,easiertokeep,nostairs."

Icannotspeak,forthepainundermyribsreturnsnow,allofastab.Lungs,isit?Heart?Thispainishot,hotasAugustrainorthetearsofchildren.NowIseethereasonforthespreadtable.AmIacalf,tobefattened?Oh,hadIknownIwouldnothaveeatenabiteofherdamnablewalnutsandicing.

"You'll never sell this house, Marvin. It's myhouse,It'smyhouse,Doris.Mine."

"No,"Marvinsaysinalowvoice."YoumadeitouttomewhenItookoveryourbusinessmatters."

"Oh yes," I say quickly, although in fact hadforgotten,"butthatwasonlyforconvenience.Wasn'tit?It'sstillmyhouse.Marvin—areyoulisteningtome?It'smine.Isn'tthatso?"

"Yeh,allright,it'syours.""Now wait a minute," Doris says, a high hurt

squawking, like an unwilling hen the rooster treads,"youjustholdonaminute—"

"Thewayshetalks,"Marvinsays,"you'dthinkIwas trying to do her out of her blamed house. Well,I'm not. Understand? If you don't know that by now,Mother,what'stheuseoftalking?"

Idoknowit,anddonot.Icanthinkofonlyonething—thehouseismine.IboughtitwiththemoneyIworkedfor,inthiscitywhichhasservedasakindofhomeeversinceIlefttheprairies.Perhapsitisnothome,asonlythefirstofallcanbetrulythat,butitismineandfamiliar.Myshredsandremnantsofyears are scattered through it visibly in lamps andvases, the needle-point fire bench, the heavy oakchair from the Shipley place, the china cabinet andwalnut sideboard from my father's house. There'd notbe room for all of these in some cramped apartment.We'd have to put them into storage, or sell them. Idon't want that. I couldn't leave them. If I am notsomehowcontainedinthemandinthishouse,somethingof all change caught and fixed here, eternal enoughformypurposes,thenIdonotknowwhereIamtobefoundatall.

"Maybe you're forgetting," Doris says, "I'm theone who has to look after this place. It's me thattrotsupanddownthesestairsahundredtimesaday,andlugsthevacuumcleaneruptwiceaweek.Ioughttohavesomesay."

"Iknow,"Marvinsaysheavily."Iknowthat."Howhehatesallthis,thebicker-bickerofwomen,

therecrimination.Heoughttohavebeenahermitora

monk and lived somewhere beyond the reach of humanvoices.

Probably she is right. I no longer make even apretenseofhelpinginthehouse.ForsolongIdid,andfinallysawIwasonlygettinginherway,withmyslow feet, and my hands that have to be coaxed toperformtasks.IhavelivedwithMarvinandDoris—ortheyhavelivedinmyhouse,whicheverwayonecaresto phrase it — for seventeen years. Seventeen — itweighslikecenturies.HowhaveIborneit?Howhavethey?

"IalwayssworeI'dneverbeaburden—"NowIperceive,toolate,howladenwithself-pity

my voice sounds, and how filled with reproach. Buttheyriselikefishtothebait.

"No — don't think that. We never said that, didwe?"

"Marvonlymeant—Ionlymeant—"HowashamedIam,toplaythatwornoldtune.And

yet—IamnotlikeMarvin.Idonothavehisurgetokeepthepeace.Iamunreconciledtothisquestionofthehouse,myhouse,mine.

"I wouldn't want the house sold, Marvin. Iwouldn'twantthat."

"Okay,"hesays."Let'sforgetit.""Forget it!" Doris's voice is like a darning

needle,heavyandsharp."Please,"Marvinsays,andDorisandIbothsense

hisdesperation."Ican'tstandallthisracket.We'llsee. We'll leave it now. Right now I'm going to seewhat'son."

Andhegoestotheden—anappropriatename,foritisreallyhisdarkfoxyden,wherehelooksathisflicker pictures and forgets whatever it is thatbothershim.DorisandIacceptthetruce.

"I'm going to evening service, Mother. Care tocomealong?You'venotbeenforsometimenow."

Dorisisveryreligious.Shesaysitisacomfort.Herministerisplumpandpink,andifhemetJohnthe

Baptist in tatters in the desert, stuffing deadlocustsintothatparchedmouthforfood,andblazingtheNewKingdomoutofthoseterribleeyesockets,hewouldfaint.ButsowouldI,likely.

"Nottonight,thanks.Nextweek,perhaps.""I was going to ask him to call on you. The

minister,Imean,Mr.Troy.""In a week or so, perhaps. I haven't felt much

liketalkinglately.""Youwouldn'tneedtotalksomuch.He'sawfully

nice. It helps me, just to talk a few minutes withhim."

"Thankyou,Doris.Butnotthisweek,ifyoudon'tmind."

Tact comes the hardest of all to me now. How tosaythatpearlyMr.Troywouldbewastinghistimeinoffering me his murmured words? Doris believes thatageincreasesnaturalpiety,likeakindofinsurancepolicy falling due. I couldn't explain. Who wouldunderstand, even if I strained to speak? I am pastninety, and this figure seems somehow arbitrary andimpossible, for when I look in my mirror and beyondthechangingshellthathousesme,IseetheeyesofHagarCurrie,thesamedarkeyesaswhenIfirstbeganto remember and to notice myself. I have never wornglasses. My eyes are still quite strong. The eyeschangeleastofall.John'seyesweregray,andevennearthelasttheylookedthesametomeastheboy's,still that hidden eagerness as though he halfbelieved, against all reason and knowledge, thatsomethingsplendidwouldsuddenlyoccur.

"Ask your Mr. Troy to call, if you wish. I mayfeeluptoitnextweek."

Gratified, she goes to church, to pray for me,perhaps, or for herself, or Marvin staring at hisepilepticpictures,orjusttopray.

Two

HERE WE SIT, the little minister straight from thebook,bashfulandyounglyanxious,andItheEgyptian,not dancing now with rowanberries in her hair, butsadlyaltered.Thedayiswarmandspring,andweareintheback-gardenyellowwithforsythia.Iamstruckasalwayswiththeshrubs'earlyblossominghere,thecoastplantsstillamarveltome,recallingthelateprairiespringandthetenacioussnow.

Mr. Troy has chosen a bad day to call. The ribpainisnotsointrusivethisafternoon,butmybellygrowlsandsnarlslikeaseparatebeast.Mybowelsarelockedtoday.IamJobinreverse,andneithercascaranor syrup of figs nor milk of magnesia will prevailagainst my unspeakable affliction. I situncomfortably.Iambloated,full,weighteddown,andIfearImaypasswind.

Nevertheless, for the minister's call I have atleast put on my gray flowered dress. Silk jersey,Doriscallsit.Mutedandsuitableitis,theflowersminiature and peach-colored, nothing to jar God'slittle man. All the same, I quite like the frockmyself.Itflowsinfoldsaroundme,andtheflowers,sprinkled liberally, almost overcome the gray. Grayisn't only the hair of the old. Even more, it'sunpainted houses that strain and crack against theweather, leached by rain and bleached by the bone-whitening sun. The Shipley place was never painted,not once. You would think in all that time someonewould have had the odd dollar to spare for a fewgallonsofpaint.Butno.Bramwasalwaysgoingtodo

it—inspring,itwouldbedoneatharvest,andinfall,itwouldbedoneforsureinspring.

Mr.Troyistryinghislevelbest."A long and full life like yours — it can be

countedablessing—Imakenoreply.Whatdoesheknowofit,oneway

oranother?Iwillnoteasehisway.Lethimflounder."I guess life must have been quite difficult in

thosedays,eh?"hestumbleson."Yes.Yes,itwas."Butonlybecauseitcannotbe

otherwise,atwhatevertime.IdonotsaythistoMr.Troy,wholikestothinkthathalfacenturymakesallthedifferenceintheworld.

"I guess you grew up on the farm, eh, Mrs.Shipley?"

Whydoesheask?HedoesnotcareifIwasbornonthefarmorinthepoorhouse,inZionorinhell.

"No. No, I did not, Mr. Troy. I grew up in thetown of Manawaka. My father was one of the firstpeoplethere.Thefirstmerchant,hewas.HisnamewasJasonCurrie.Heneverfarmed,althoughheownedfourfarmsandhadthemtenanted."

"Hemusthavebeenawealthyman.""Hewas,"Isay."Inthegoodsofthisworld.""Yes, yes," says Mr. Troy, voice leaping like a

spawning salmon, to show his spirituality. "Wealthcan'tbetrulymeasuredindollarsandcents."

"Twohundredthousandhewasworth,atleast,andneveraredcentofitcametome."

"Dear,dear,"saysMr.Troy,notcertainwhattheresponseshouldbetothat.Iwillnottellhimmore.Whatbusinessisitofhis?YetnowIfeelthatifIwere to walk carefully up to my room, approach themirrorsoftly,takeitbysurprise,Iwouldseethereagain that Hagar with the shining hair, the- dark-manedcoltofftothetrainingring,theyoungladies'academyinToronto.

IwantedtotellMattIknewheshouldhavebeenthe one to go east, but I could not speak of it tohim.IfeltIoughttosayittoFather,too,butIwasterrifiedhemightchangehismindaboutsendingme.Isaidnothinguntilmytrunkwaspackedandallthearrangementsmade.ThenIspoke.

"Don't you think Matt should go to college,Father?"

"What would he learn that would help him in thestore?" Father replied. "Anyway, he's past twenty —it's too late for him. Besides, I need him here. Ineverhadthechancetogotocollege,yetI'vegotonallright.Mattcanlearnallheneedsrighthere,ifhe's minded to do so. It's not the same for you —there's no woman here to teach you how to dress andbehavelikealady."

Suchabarrageofargumentsmanagedtoconvincemewithnodifficulty.Whenitcametosayinggood-bytoMatt,atfirstIavoidedhiseyes,butthenIthought—whyonearthshouldI?SoIlookedathimsquarelyand said good-by so evenly and calmly you'd havethoughtIwasgoingovertoSouthWachakwaorFreeholdandwouldbebackthatevening.Later,inthetrain,Icried,thinkingofhim,but,ofcourse,heneverknewthat,andI'dhavebeenthelasttotellhim.

When I returned after two years, I knewembroidery,andFrench,andmenu-planningforafive-coursemeal,andpoetry,andhowtotakeafirmhandwithservants,andthemostbecomingwayofdressingmyhair.HardlyidealaccomplishmentsforthekindoflifeI'dultimatelyfindmyselfleading,butIhadnonotion of that then. I was Pharaoh's daughterreluctantly returning to his roof, the square brickpalacesooddlyantimacassaredinthewilderness,backto the hill where his monument stood, more dear tohim, I believe, than the brood mare who lay beneathbecauseshe'dprovednomatchforhisstud.

Fatherlookedmeover,mybottle-greencostumeandfeatheredhat.Iwishedhe'dfindsomefault,tellme

I'dbeenextravagant,notnodandnodasthoughIwereathingandhis.

"Itwaswortheverypennyforthetwoyears,"hesaid."You'reacredittome.Everyonewillbesayingthat by tomorrow. You'll not work in the store. Itwouldn'tdo.Youcanlookaftertheaccountsandtheordering—thatcanbedoneathome.You'dnotbelievehow the store's grown since you've been away. Ientertainnow—justafewfriendsfordinner,nothingtooelaborate.Ifindit'swellworthwhile.It'sgoodto have you back, and looking smart. Dolly's quitepassable as cook, but as for hostess — it's beyondher."

"I want to teach," I said. "I can get the SouthWachakwaschool."

Both of us were blunt as bludgeons. We hadn't ascrap of subtlety between us. Some girls would havespentaweekpreparinghim.NotI.Itneveroccurredtome.

"DoyouthinkIsentyoudownEastfortwosolidyears just so you could take a one-room school?" hecried.

"Anyway, no daughter of mine is going out therealone.You'llnotteach,miss."

"Morag MacCulloch teaches," I said. "If theministersdaughtercan,whycan'tI?"

"I always suspected Dougall MacCulloch was afool,"Fathersaid,"andnowIknowit."

"Why?"Iblazed."Why?"We were standing at the foot of the stairs. My

fatherputhishandsaroundthenewelpostandgrippeditasthoughitwereathroat.HowIfearedhishands,andhim,butI'dasliefhavediedaslethimknow.

"YouthinkI'dallowyoutogotoSouthWachakwaandboardwithGodknowswho?YouthinkI'dletyougotothekindofdancestheyhavethere,andletallthefarmboyspawyou?"

Standing there rigidly on the bottom step,

buttonedandarmoredinmylongdarkgreen,Iglaredathim.

"You think I'd allow that? What do you think ofme?"

He held tightly to the newel post, his handsworkingatthesmoothgoldenwood.

"Youknownothing,"hesaidinanalmostinaudiblevoice."Menhaveterriblethoughts."

Itneverseemedpeculiartomethenthathesaidthoughts,notdeeds.Onlynow,whenIrecallit.Ifhehadkepttohispatternthen,laiddownthelawinnouncertainterms,I'dhavebeenangryandthat'sall.Buthedidnot.Hereachedoutandtookmyhandandheldit.Hisownhandtightenedpainfully,andforthemerestinstantthebonesinmyfingershurt.

"Stay,"hesaid.Perhapsitwasonlythemomentarypainmademedo

it.IjerkedmyhandawayasthoughIhadaccidentallysetitonahotstove.Hedidn'tsayaword.Heturnedandwentoutside,whereMattwastellingthedraymanwhat to do with the black trunk inscribed Miss H.Currie.

I felt I must pursue him, say it was a passingthingandnotmeant.ButIdidn't.Ionlystoodatthestairs' ending, looking at the big brown-framedpicture, a steel engraving of cattle, bearing thelegendThelowingherdwindsslowlyo'erthelea.

I did not go out teaching. I stayed and kept myfather's accounts, played hostess for him, chatteddiplomaticallytoguests,didallheexpectedofme,for I felt (sometimes with rancor, sometimes withdespair) that I would reimburse him for what he'dspent,whateveritcostme.Butwhenhebroughthomeyoung men, to introduce to me, I snubbed the lot ofthem.

I'dbeenbackinManawakathreeyearswhenImetBrampton Shipley, quite by chance, for normally Iwouldnothavefoundmyselfinhiscompany.ChaperonedbyAuntieDoll,Iwasallowedtogotoadanceatthe

schooloneevening,becausetheproceedsweretogotothefundforbuildingahospitalintown.AuntieDollwas gabbling away with Floss Drieser, so when Bramaskedmetodance,Iwentwithhim.TheShipleysalldancedwell,I'llgivethemthat.HeavyasBramwas,hewaslightonhisfeet.

We spun around the chalky floor, and reveled inhis fingernails with crescents of ingrown earth thatnever met a file. I fancied I heard in his laughterthe bravery of battalions. I thought he looked abeardedIndian,sobrownandbeakedaface.Theblackhair thrusting from his chin was rough as thistles.Thenextinstant,though,Iimaginedhimriggedoutinasuitofgraysoftasadove'sbreast-feathers.

Oh, I was the one, all right, tossing my blackmane contemptuously, yet never certain the young menhadreallynoticed.Iknewmymind,nodoubt,butthemindchangedeveryminute,oneinstantfeelingpleasedwithwhatIknewandwhoIwasandwhereIlived,thenext instant consigning the brick house to perditionand seeing the plain board town and the shackdwellings beyond our pale as though they'd been thebeckoning illustrations in the book of Slavic fairytalesgivenmebyanaunt,theenchantedhouseswitheyes, walking on their own splayed hen's feet, theczar'ssonsplayingatpeasantsincoarseembroideredtunics, bloused and belted, the ashen girls drowningattractively in meres, crowned always with lilies,neverwithpigweedorslime.

BramptonShipleywasfourteenyearsolderthanI.He'dcomeoutfromtheEastwithhiswifeClarasomeyearsbefore,andtakenahomesteadinthevalleyjustoutsidetown.Itwasriverland,andshouldhavebeengood,butithadn'tflourishedforhim.

"Lazy as a pet pig," my father said of him. "Noget-up-and-go."

I'dseenhimsometimesinthestore.Hewasalwayslaughing.Godknowswhyhehadcausetolaugh,lefttobringuptwogirlsalone.Hiswifehaddiedofaburst

spleen, nothing to do with children. I'd spoken nomore than hello to her occasionally in the store. Avat of a woman she had been, something moistly fatabout her, and around her there always clung a souryeastysmellasthoughshespentherlifeincleaningchurns.Shewasinarticulateasastabledbeast,andwhenshemusteredvoiceithadbeengruffasaman's,pebbled with impermissibles, I seen and ain't, evenworse coming from the woman than from the man, theLordknowswhy.

"Hagar,"BramShipleysaid."You'reagooddancer,Hagar."

AswewentspinningliketumbleweedinaViennesewaltz, disguised and hidden by the whirling crowd,quite suddenly he pulled me to him and pressed hisoutheldgroinagainstmythigh.Notbyaccident.Therewasnomistakingit.Noonehadeverdaredinthiswaybefore. Outraged, I pushed at his shoulders, and hegrinned. I, mortified beyond words, couldn't look athimexceptdartingly.Butwhenheaskedmeforanotherdance,Idancedwithhim.

"I'dliketoshowyoumyplacesometime,"hesaid."I'vehadsomebadluck,butwe'recomingonnow.I'mgetting another team in the fall. Percherons. ReubenPearl'ssellingthemtome.It'llbeworthlookingat,someday,thatplaceofmine."

AsAuntieDollandIweregettingourwrapsthatnight,IchancedtoseeLotieDrieser,stilllightandtiny, her yellow hair puffed up and arranged socarefully.

"IsawyoudancingwithBramShipley,"shesaid,andsnickered.

Lottie herself was keeping company with TelfordSimmons,who'd-gonetoworkinthebank.

I was furious. I still am, thinking of it, andcannot even wish her soul rest, although God knowsthat's the last thing Lottie would want, and I canimagine her in heaven this very minute, slylywhisperingtotheMotherofGodthatMichaelwiththe

flamingswordspokesubtleillofHer."Whyshouldn'tI?"Isaid."Commonasdirt,aseveryoneknows,"shebreathed,

"andhe'sbeenseenwithhalf-breedgirls."Howclearlyherwordscometomind.Ifshe'dnot

saidthem,wouldIhavedoneasIdid?Hardtosay.How silly the words seem now. She was a silly girl.Many girls were silly in those days. I was not.FoolishImayhavebeen,butneversilly,

TheeveningItoldFatherIwasboundonmarryingBram Shipley, he was working late in the store, Irecall,andheleanedacrossthecounterandsmiled.

"I'mbusy.Notimeforyourjokesnow.""It'snotajoke.He'saskedmetomarryhim,and

Imeanto."He gaped at me for a moment. Then he went about

hiswork.Suddenly,heturnedonme."Hashetouchedyou?"Iwastoostartledtoreply."Hashe?"Fatherdemanded."Hashe?"Thelookonhisfacewassomehowfamiliar.Ihad

seenitbefore,butIcouldnotrecollectwhen.Itwasthiskindoflook—asthoughdestructionwereatwo-edged sword, striking inward and outwardsimultaneously.

"No,"Isaidhotly,butfearful,too,forBramhadkissedme.

Fatherlookedatme,scrutinizingmyface.Thenheturnedbacktotheshelvesandwentonarrangingthetinsandbottles.

"You'llmarrynoone,"hesaidatlast,asthoughhe hadn't meant a thing by the pliable boys of goodfamilywhomhe'dtrottedhomeformyinspection."Notat the moment, anyway. You're only twenty-four. Andyou’llnotmarrythatfellowever,Icanvowtothatmuch.He'scommonasdirt."

"That'swhatLottieDriesersaid."She's no whit different," my father snapped.

"She'scommonasdirtherself."

Ialmosthadtolaugh,butthatwastheonethinghecouldneverbear.Instead,Ilookedathimjustashardashewaslookingatme.

"I'veworkedforyouforthreeyears.""There'snotadecentgirlinthistownwouldwed

without her family's consent," he said. "It's notdone."

"It'll be done by me," I said, drunk withexhilarationatmydaring.

"I'm only thinking of you," Father said. "Ofwhat's best for you. If you weren't so pig-headed,maybeyoucouldseethat."

Then,withoutwarning,hereachedoutahandlikealariat,caughtmyarm,heldandbruisedit,notevenknowinghewasdoingso.

"Hagar—"hesaid."You'llnotgo,Hagar."Theonlytimeheevercalledmebymyname.TothisdayIcouldn'tsayifitwasaquestionoracommand.I didn't argue with him. There never was any use inthat.ButIwent,whenIwasgoodandready,allthesame.

Never a bell rang out when was wed. Not even mybrother set foot in the church that day. Matt hadmarriedMavisMcVitietheyearbefore,andFatherandLukeMcVitiehadgonehalvesonbuildingthemahouse.Mavis was inclined to simper, but she was a niceenough girl. She sent me a pair of embroideredpillowcases. Matt sent nothing. But Auntie Doll (whocame to my wedding, bless her, despite everything)toldmehe'dalmostsentaweddinggifttome.

"Hegaveittometobringyou,Hagar.Itwasn'tmuchofagift,forMatt'sastightwithhismoneyasheeverwas.ItwasthatplaidshawlthatDancouldn'tbepartedfromwhenhewasknee-hightoagrasshopper.TheLordknowswhereMatthaddugitupfrom,orwhatusehethoughtyou'dhaveforit.Buthecametomenot an hour afterward and took it back. Said he'ddecidedhedidn'twanttosenditafterall.Justaswell."

It was the night before my wedding, and I wasstaying at Charlotte Tappen's house. I wanted to goand talk with Matt but I was not sure enough. He'dintended to send it as a reproach, a mockery, thenfoundhecaredsomethingaboutmeafterall—thatwasmy first thought. Then it struck me — what if he'dactuallymeantthegifttoconveysomegentleness,butchangedhismind?Ifthatwasthecase,I'dnothavewalkedacrosstheroadtospeakwithhim.Idecidedtowait and see if he'd turn up the following day, togive me away in place of Father. But, of course, hedidnot.

What did I care? For the moment I wasunencumbered. Charlotte's mother gave a smallreception,andIshimmeredandflittedaroundlikeanewborngnat,free,yetcertainalsothatFatherwouldsoften and yield, when he saw how Brampton Shipleyprospered,gentled,learnedcravatsandgrammar.

It was spring that day, a different spring fromthis one. The poplar bluffs had budded with stickyleaves,andthefrogshadcomebacktothesloughsandsang like choruses of angels with sore throats, andthemarshmarigoldswereopeninglikeshavingsofsunonthebrownriverwherethetadpolesdancedandthebloodsuckerslayslimyandlow,waitingfortheboys'feet.AndIrodeintheblack-toppedbuggybesidethemanwhowasnowmymate.

The Shipley house was square and frame, two-storied, the furniture shoddy and second-hand, thekitchen reeking and stale, for no one had scouredthere properly since Clara died. Yet, seeing it, Iwasn't troubled in the slightest, still thinking ofmyselfaschatelaine.IwonderwhoIimaginedwoulddothework?IthoughtofPolacksandGaliciansfromthemountain, half-breeds from the river valley of theWachakwa,orthedaughtersandspinsterauntsofthepoor, forgetting that Bram's own daughters had hiredoutwhenevertheycouldbespared,untiltheymarriedveryyoungandgainedapermanentemployment.

All the things in the musty, whey-smelling housewere to be mine, such as they were, but when weentered, Bram handed me a cut-glass decanter with asilvertop.

"Thishere'sforyou,Hagar."I took it so casually, and laid it aside, and

thoughtnomoreaboutit.Hepickeditupinhishandsandturneditaround.ForamomentIthoughthemeantto break it, and for the life of me I couldn't seewhy.Thenhelaughedandsetitdownandcameclosetome.

"Let'sseewhatyoulooklikeunderallthatrig-out,Hagar."

Ilookedathimnotsomuchinfearasinanironincomprehension.

"Downstairs—"hesaid."Isthatwhatbothersyou?Or daylight? Don't fret — there's no one around forfivemiles."

"It seems to me that Lottie Drieser was rightaboutyou,"Isaid,"althoughIcertainlyhatetosayit."

"What did they say of me?" Bram asked. They —knowingmorethanonehadspoken.

I only shrugged and would not say, for I hadmanners.

"Nevermindthatnow,"hesaid."I.don'tgiveagoodgoddamn.Hagar—you'remywife."

It hurt and hurt, and afterward he stroked myforeheadwithhishand.

"Didn'tyouknowthat'swhat'sdone?"I said not a word, because I had not known, and

when he'd bent, enormous and giant, I could notbelievetherecouldbewithinmearoomtohousesuchmagnitude.WhenIfoundtherewas,Ifeltasonemightfeel discovering a second head, an unsuspected area.Pleasureorpainwereonetome,meaningless.Ionlythought — well, thank the Lord now I know, and atleast it's possible, without the massacre it lookedlikebeing.Iwasaverypracticalgirlinmanyways.

ThenextdayIgottoworkandscrubbedthehouseout.Iplannedtogetahiredgirlinthefall,whenwe had the cash. But in the meantime I had nointentionoflivinginsqualor.Ihadneverscrubbedafloorinmylife,butIworkedthatdayasthoughI'dbeendrivenbyawhip.

"It'salllongpast,"IsaytoMr.Troytosmoothhimandmyself.

"Quiteso."Henodsandlooksadmiring,andIseethatIama

wonder to him, talking, as parents will gaze awe-struck at a learning child, astonished that humanspeechshouldissuefromitsmouth.

He sighs, blinks, swallows as though a clot ofphlegmhadstuckinhisgullet.

"Haveyoumanyfriendshere,Mrs.Shipley?""Mostofthemaredead."I'vebeencaughtoff-guard,orIwouldneverhave

saidthat.Henodsagain,asthoughinsatisfaction.Whatisheupto?Icannottell.IperceivenowthatIam fingering a fold of the flowered dress, twistingandcreasingitinmyhands.

"Apersonneedscontemporaries,"hesays,"totalkwith,andremember."

Hesaysnomore.Hespeaksofprayerandcomfort,allinabreath,asthoughGodwereakindoffeatherbedorspring-filledmattress.Inodandnodandnod.Easiertoagree,now,hopinghewillsoongo.Hepraysalittleprayer,andIbowmyhead,afeatherinhiscaporintheeiderdownofGod.Then,mercifully,heleaves.

I am left with an intangible doubt, anapprehension. What was he trying to say? What didDorisaskhimtosay?Somethingaboutthehouse?Thisseemsthemostlikely,andyethiswordsdidn'tpointtoit.Igrowperturbed,afencedcowmeetingonlythebarbedwirewhicheverwaysheturns.Whatisit?What

isit?ButIcannottell,and,baffed,canonlyturnandturnagain.

Iwalkbackintothehouse.Paintedrailing,thenstepandstep,thesmallbackporch,andfinallythekitchen. Doris is at the front door, bidding herpastor a caroling farewell. Dimly, through halls, Ihear her outpoured thanks for his emerald time, hisdiamondwords.Soverygoodofyou.Etcetera.Sillyfool.

It is then that I see the newspaper and thedreadful words. Spread out on the kitchen table, ithas been left open at the classified ads. Someone'shandhasmarkedaplaceinpen.Ibend,andpeer,andread.

OnlytheBestWillDoforMOTHER

Do you find it impossible to give Mother thespecializedcaresheneedsinherdecliningyears?SILVERTHREADS Nursing Home provides skilled carefor Senior Citizens. Here in the pleasant cozyatmosphere of our Lodge, Mother will find thecompanionshipofthoseherage,pluseverycomfortand convenience. Qualified. medical staff.Reasonable terms. Why wait until it is Too Late?Remember the Loving Care she lavished upon you,andgiveMotherthecareshedeserves,NOW.

Thenanaddressandaphonenumber.QuietlyIlay

the paper down, my hands dry and quiet on its drypages. My throat, too, is dry, and my mouth. As Ibrushmyfingersovermyownwrist,theskinseemstoowhiteafterthesunburnedyears,andtoodry,powderyas blown dust when the rains failed, flaking withdrynessasanoldbonewillflakeandchalk,leftoutinasunthatgrindsboneandfleshandearthtodustas though in a mortar of fire with a pestle ofcrushinglight.

Up flames the pain now, and I am speared oncemore, the blade driving under my ribs, the heavylarded flesh no shield against it, for it attackscraftily, from the inside. Breath goes. I cannotbreathe. I am held, fixed and fluttering, like anearthworm impaled by children on the ferociouslyunsharp hook of a safety pin. I am unable to drawbreathatall,andmyquickpanicisapartfrommeandalmostseen,likethemasksthatleeroutofthedarkonHallowe'en,stoppingtheyoungintheirtracksandfreezingtheirmouthsinthe"O"ofasoundlesswail.Canabodyholdtothislifemorethananinstantwithempty lungs? It passes through my mind the way thatJohn in his second year used to hold his tantrumbreath,andhowIpleadedandprayedtohimasthoughheweresomeinfantandrelentlessJesus,untilBram,angryatusboth,slappedhimandmadehimdrawbreathinayell.Ifhissmallframecouldliveunfedbyairforthatseemingeternity,socanmybulk.Iwillnotfall.Iwillnot.Igripthetableedge,andwhenIcease to strain for air, of itself it comes. Myconstricted heart releases me and the pain subsides,drawing away and out of me so slowly and tenderly Ialmost expect my blood to follow it, as though thebladewerevisible.

Now I have forgotten why it came upon me. Myfingers straighten the newspapers, folding eachsection tidily, the habit of a lifetime, nothingstrewnaroundthehouse.ThenIseetheinkmark,andthewordinheavyprint.MOTHER.

HereisDoris,plumplysleekinherbrownrayon,puffing and sighing like a sow in labor. I push thepapersaway,butshehasseen.SheknowsIknow.Whatwillshesay?Shewillnotbeataloss.Nother.NotDoris. She has enough gall for ten. If she trieswarblingsweetandgentle,Iwillnotspareher.

She stares scaredly at me, her face flushed andperspiring. She has an unpleasant mannerism. Shebreathes noisily and adenoidally when agitated. She

rasps now like a coping saw. Then she tried to turnthe moment as though it could be flicked like anuninterestingpage.

"Gracious,Mr.TroystayedlongerthanIthought.Igottohustlewiththedinner.Thankgoodness,theroast'sin,atleast.Didyouhaveanicevisitwithhim?"

"Ratherastupidman,Ithought.Heshouldgetaplate.Histeetharesobad.Ididn'tcatchhisbreath—justaswell,Iwouldn'twonder."

Doristakesoffense,pursesmauvelips,flingsonanapron,scrapescarrotswithferocity."He'sabusyman,Mother.Thenumberofparishionershe'sgot—you'dscarcelybelieveit.Itwasniceofhimtosparethetime."

Sheturnsanarrowedglanceonme,wilyasababynow,knowinglytwiningitsparent.

"Yourflowereddresslookednice."I will not be appeased. Yet I glance down at

myself all the same, thinking she may be right, andseewithsurpriseandunfamiliaritythegreatswathedhips.MywaistwastwentyincheswhenIwed.

It was not work that did it, nor even the food,although potatoes grew so well on the river bottomland of the Shipley place, especially during timeswhentheyfetchednopricetospeakofinthetown.Itwas not the children, either, only the two and tenyearsapart.No.Iwillmaintainuntilmydyingdayitwas the lack of a foundation garment. What did Bramknowofit?Wehadcatalogues—Icouldhaveorderedcorselettes. The illustrations, considered daringthen, pictured swan. necked ladies, shown only fromthe hips up, of course, encased in lace, boned to anicety,indrawnwaistsslenderasawrist,facesaloofbutconfident,asthoughtheywereunawaretheyfacedtheworldcladonlyintheirunderclothes.Iusedtoleaf and ponder, but never did I buy. He would onlylaughorscowl.

"Thegirlsdon'tgoinforthemthings,dothey,

Hagar?"Ofcoursehisgirlsdidnot.JessandGladyswere

like heifers, like lumps of unrendered fat. We hadpreciouslittlemoney—better,hethought,tospenditonhisschemes.Honey,itwasonce.Wewouldsurelymakeourfortunes.Didn'tthewhiteandyellowcloverteem all around? It did, but something else grew aswell, some poisonous flower we never saw, hiddenperhaps from the daylight, shielded by foxtails thatwavedtheirbarbedfurrybrushesinhispastures,orconcealed by the reeds around the yellow-scummedslough,someblossomofburdockornightshade,siren-scentedtobees,nodoubt,anddeadly.Hisdamnedbeessickened and for the most part died, looking likescatteredhandfulsofshriveledraisinsinthehives.Afewsurvived,andBramkeptthemforyears,knowingfull well they frightened me. He could plunge hishairy arms among them, even when they swarmed, andtheyneverstung.Idon'tknowwhy,excepthefeltnofear.

"Mother—areyouallright?Didn'tyouhearwhatIsaid?"

Doris'svoice.HowlonghaveIbeenstandingherewith lowered head, twiddling with the silken stuffthat covers me? Now I am mortified, apologetic, andcannot for a moment recollect what it was I heldagainsther.Thehouse,ofcourse.Theymeantosellmyhouse.Whatwillbecomeofallmythings?

"Idon'twantMarvintosellthehouse,Doris."She frowns, perplexed. Then I remember. It was

more than the house. The newspaper remains on thekitchentable.Silverthreads.Onlythebest.Rememberthelovingcareshelavished.

"Doris — I won't go there. That place. Oh, youknowallright.YouknowwhatImean,mygirl.Nousetoshakeyourhead.Well,Iwon't.Thetwoofyoucanmove out. Go ahead and move right out. Yes, you dothat.I’llstayhereinmyhouse.Doyouhearme?Eh?"

"Now,Mother,don'tgoandgetyourselfallupset.

How could you manage here alone? It's out of thequestion. Now, please. You go and sit down in theliving-room.We'llsaynomoreaboutitjustyet.Ifyou get all worked up, you're certain to fall, andMarvwon'tbehomeforhalfanhour."

"I'mnotworkedupabit!"Isitmyvoice,raucousanddeep,shouting?"Ionlywanttotellyou—"

"I can't lift you if you fall," she says. "Isimplycannotdoitanymore."

Iturnandwalkaway,wishingtobehaughty,buthideously hitting the edge of the dining-room table,joggling the cut-glass rose bowl she uses now,although it is mine. She runs, rejoicing in her illfortune,catchesthebowlandmyelbow,guidesmeasthough I were stone blind. We gain the living-room,andasIlowermyselftothechesterfield,thewindyprison of my bowels belches air, sulphurous andgroaning. I am to be spared nothing, it appears. Icannotspeak,foranger.Dorisissolicitous,

"Thelaxativedidn'twork?""I'mallright.I'mallright.Stopfussingover

me,Doris,forpity'ssake."Back she goes to the kitchen, and I'm alone. My

things are all around me. Marvin and Doris think ofthem as theirs, theirs to keep or sell, as theychoose, just as they regard the house as theirs,squatters' rights after these years of occupation.WithDorisitisgreed.Sheneverhadmuchasachild,Iknow,andwhentheyfirstcamehere,tobewithme,sheeyedthefurnitureandbric-à-braclikeapouch-facedgophereyeingacorns,eagertonibble.Butitisnotgreed,Ithink,withMarvin.Suchastolidsoul.Hisdreamsarenotofgoldandsilver,ifhedreamsatall. Or is it the reverse — does he ever waken? Helivesinadreamlesssleep.Heseesmythingsashisonlythroughlongacquaintance.

But they are mine. How could I leave them? Theysupport and comfort me. On the mantelpiece is theknobbled jug of blue and milky glass that was my

mother's, and beside it, in a small oval frame ofgilt, backed with black velvet, a daguerreotype ofher, a spindly and anxious girl, rather plain,ringletedstiffly.Shelookssoworriedthatshewillnotknowwhattodo,althoughshecameofgoodfamilyandoughtnottohavehadamoment'shesitationaboutthe propriety of her ways. But still she peersperplexed out of her little frame, wondering how onearth to please. Father gave me the jug and picturewhen I was a child, and even then it seemed sopuzzlingtomethatshe'dnotdiedwheneitheroftheboys was born, but saved her death for me, When hesaid "your poor mother," the moisture would squeezeout from the shaggy eyelid, and I marveled that hecouldachieveitatwill;sosuitableandinfinitelytouchingtothematronsofthetown,whofoundatearforthefemaledeadareassuringtributetothanklessmotherhood. Even should they die in childbed, somemale soul would weep years after. Wonderfulconsolation. I used to wonder what she'd been like,thatdocilewoman,andwonderatherweaknessandmyawfulstrength.Fatherdidn'tholditagainstmethatit had happened so. I know, because he told me.Perhaps he thought it was a fair exchange, her lifeformine.

Thegilt-edgedmirroroverthemantelisfromtheCurriehouse.Itusedtohanginthedownstairshall,where the air was astringent with mothballs hiddenunder the blue roses of the carpet, and each time Ipassed it I would glance hastily, not wanting to beseen looking, and wonder why Dan and Matt inheritedherdaintinesswhileIwasbig-bonedandhuskyasanox.Yetthere'sthepictureofmeattwenty.Doriswantedto take it down, but Marvin wouldn't let her — thatwasacuriousthing,nowIcometothinkofit.Iwasahandsomegirl,ahandsomegirl,nodoubtofthat.Apity I didn't know it then. Not beautiful, I admit,notthatchinafigurinelooksomewomenhave,allgold

andpinkfragility,awondertheircorsetsdon'tsnaptheirsparrowbones.Handsomenesslastslonger,Iwillsaythat.

Sometimes these delicate-seeming women can turnouttobequiterobustafterall,though.Matt'swifeMavis was one of those whose health had always beenprecarious.She'dhadrheumaticfeverasachild,andwasthoughttohaveaweakheart.Yetthatwinterwhenthe influenza was so bad, she nursed Matt and nevercaught it herself. She stayed by him, I'll say thatforher.Inolongerwentintotownveryoften,soIdidn't even know Matt was ill until Aunt Dolly cameout to the farm one day to tell me he had died thenightbefore.

"Hewentquietly,"shesaid,"Hedidn'tfighthisdeath, as some do. They only make it harder forthemselves.Mattseemedtoknowtherewasnohelpforit,Mavissaid.Hedidn'tstruggletobreathe,ortrytohangon.Helethimselfslipaway."

Ifoundthishardertobearthanhisdeath,even.Whyhadn'thewrithed,cursed,atleastgrappledwiththe thing? We talked of Matt, then, Aunt Dolly andmyself,anditwasthenshetoldmewhyhe'dsavedhismoney as a child. I've often wondered why onediscoverssomanythingstoolate.ThejokesofGod.

IwenttoseeMavis.Shewasdressedinblack,andseemed so young to be widowed. When I tried to tellher how much he'd mattered to me, she was cold. AtfirstIthoughtitwasbecauseshedidn'tbelieveme.Butno.Itwasnotmyaffectionforhimthatshefoundhardtobelievein.Shesattheretellingmeoverandoverhowfondshe'dbeenofhim,howfondhe'dbeenofher.

"Ifonlyyou'dhadchildren,"Isaid,meaningitinsympathy,"you'dhavehadsomethingofhimleft."

Mavis'seyeschanged,becamelikebluesapphires,clearandhard.

"It wasn't surprising that we didn't," she said,"although I wanted them so much." She began to cry

then, and spoke retchingly through her tears. "Ididn't mean to say that. Please, don't tell anyone.Oh,Iknowyouwouldn't—whydoIevenask?I'mnotmyself."

I could find no words that would reach deeplyenough.Afteramomentshecomposedherself.

"You'd best go now, Hagar," she said. "I've hadall I can take for now. I'm glad you come, though.Don'tthinkI'mnot."

AsIwasleaving,MavistouchedahandtothefurmuffIwascarrying.

"I never heard him speak harshly of you," shesaid. "Even when your father talked that way, Mattnever did. He didn't dispute what your father said,but he didn't agree, either. He'd just not sayanythingonewayoranother."

AyearlaterMavismarriedAldenCatesandwenttoliveonthefarm,andintheyearsthatfollowedsheborehimthreeyoungstersandsheraisedRhodeIslandReds and took prizes at all the local poultry showsandgrewplumpasapulletherself,sothankgoodnessfatedealsafewdecentcardssometimes.

AuntDollythoughtthatFatherwouldwanttomakeitupwithmeafterMatt'sdeath.Iwouldn'tgotothebrick house in Manawaka, of course, but when Marvinwas born I gave Aunt Dolly to understand that ifFatherwantedtocomeouttotheShipleyplaceandseehisgrandson,I'dhavenoobjections.Hedidn'tcome,though.Perhapshedidn'tfeelasthoughMarvinwerereallyhisgrandson.Ialmostfeltthatwaymyself,totell the truth, only with me it was even more. IalmostfeltasthoughMarvinweren'tmyson.

There's the plain brown pottery pitcher, edgedwith anemic blue, that was Bram's mother's, broughtfrom some village in England and very old. I'dforgotten it was here. Who got it out? Tina, ofcourse, She likes it, for some reason. It alwayslookedlikeanordinarymilkpitchertome.Tinasaysit's valuable. Each to his taste, and my

granddaughter, though so dear to me, has commontastes,alittle,Ithink,alegacynodoubtfromhermother. Yet Doris never cared a snap about thatpitcher, I'm bound to admit. Well, there's noexplaining tastes, and ugliness is pretty nowadays.Myself, I favor flowers, a leaf sprig or two, ameasureofgracefulnessinanungainlyworld.Inevercould imagine the Shipley's owning anything ofaccount.ButTina'sfondofit—I'llleaveittoher.Sheoughttohaveit,forshewasbornaShipley.Ipray God she marries, although the Lord only knowswhereshe’llfindamanwho'llbearherindependence.

Thatcut-glassdecanterwiththesilvertopwasmyweddinggiftfromBram.Itshouldbeonthesideboard,but Doris always puts it on the walnut spool-table,thefool,andneverputsathinginsideit.She'sdeadsetagainstdrink.Ioughttobetheone,ifanyone,who feels that way, but I'm not hidebound. I neverthoughtmuchofthatdecanteratthetime,butnowIwouldn't part with it for any money. It was alwaysfilled,inmytime.Chokecherrywine,mostoften,theberriesgatheredbymeinpreferencetopincherriesor any others that could be made into cordials, forthechokecherriesweregatheredsoeasily,hanginginclusters,andI'dtearoffwholeboughsandeatwhileIpicke