Lyddie

“No,” she said. “I’d not forgot. I just never expected—”

“I wondered if thee would know me in this strange garb.” He was wearing shirt and trousers of coarse cotton jean—the kind of cloth the Lowell mills spit out by the mile. She would have known him at once in his Quaker hat and his mother’s brown homespun. “I’m fetching some freight from down Boston way,” he said almost in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke. “They tend to look out for Friends on the road.”

“Oh,” she said, not really understanding.

“My pa sent thee this,” he said, handing her a thick brown parcel about the size of a small book. “He didn’t want to risk the post with it, and since I was coming down Boston way—”

She took the parcel from his big, rough farmer fist. “I thank you for your trouble,” she said.

“It was no trouble.” Was he blushing behind that sun- and wind-weathered face? How odd he seemed.

She felt a need to be polite. “Maybe Mrs. Bedlow could find you some dinner,” she said. “We was just coming to eat.”

“I can’t stay longer. I’m due in Boston. But—but, I’m obliged,” he said.

“Well …”

“I’d best be on my way …”

“Well …” She could hear the calls and clatter of the dinner hour even through the closed front door. She’d hardly have a minute to eat her meal if he didn’t go.

“It’s mighty good to see thee, Lyddie Worthen,” he said. “We miss having thee up the hill.”

She tried to smile at him. “Thank you for the …”—wha

tever the strange parcel was. “It was good of you to bring it all this way.” When on earth would he leave?

“Thy Charlie is well,” he said. “I was by the mill just last week.”

Charlie. “He’s doing well? Fit and—and content?”

“Cheerful as ever. He’s a fine boy, Lyddie.”

“Yes. I know. Give him my—my best when you see him again, ey?”

He nodded. “Thy house came through the winter in good shape.” He saw her glimpse the door. “I mustn’t hold thee longer from thy dinner,” he said. “God keep you.”

“And you,” she said.

He grinned good-bye and was gone.

She didn’t have time to open the parcel until after supper. Enclosed in several layers of brown paper was a strange, official-looking document, which at first she could make no sense of, and a letter in a strange hand.

My dear Miss Lydia,

By now you have despaired of me and decided that I am a man who does not honor his word. Please forgive my tardiness. Thanks to the good offices of our friends the Stevenses (true Friends, indeed) as well as your gracious loan, I was able to make my way safely to Montreal. I have now the great joy of my family’s presence. Enclosed, therefore, herein is a draft which can never repay my great debt to you.

With everlasting gratitude, your friend,

Ezekial Freeman

She could not believe it. Fifty dollars. The next day she used her dinner break to race to the bank. Yes, it was a genuine draft from a solvent Montreal bank. Fifty dollars. With one piece of paper her account had bulged like a cow about to freshen. She must find out at once what the debt was. She might already have enough to cover it. Why hadn’t her mother replied to her inquiry? Did her mother even know what the debt was? Did she care? Oh mercy, had the woman always hated the farm? Was she glad to have it off her hands?

Lyddie wrote again that very night.

Dear Mother,

You have not answered my letter of some months prevyus. I need to know the total sum of the det. Writ soon.