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Judith was silent, disconcerted.

“Once he sees Maud, he’ll go back to Pennsylvania.” Victoria sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as well as Judith. “He doesn’t know anyone in Hawthorne Grove. He may not tell. It’s the best we can hope for, Judith.”

Maud risked a look at Judith’s face. “Very well,” Judith conceded. “You may see him.”

Maud felt that Judith expected to be thanked, but the words would not come. Before she could speak, Victoria seized her hand and led her out of the room.

Maud followed in a daze. On the stair landing, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She stopped, staring at herself. Her face was white, and the tie on her sailor suit hung crooked. Maud reached up to straighten it.

“Maud,” Victoria said gently, “this is no time to primp.”

Maud finished straightening the tie and gave her hand back to Victoria. She hoped that Victoria would go with her into the parlor. But Victoria opened the parlor door and stood aside. There was nothing to do but to walk past her.

The first thing Maud noticed was that the man who stood waiting — for somehow her brother had become a man — was ill at ease. Samm’l’s hands were in his pockets and the cloth over them was taut, as if his fists were clenched. Maud tried to recognize him, but all she could think of was the photograph of Samm’l as a baby.

“Maud?” he asked her. His voice had a funny creak in it.

“Yes,” she croaked back, “it’s me.”

They gazed at each other with an alertness, even a skepticism, that a spectator might have thought funny. “I wasn’t sure you were really here,” Samm’l said warily. He added, “You look well.”

“I am well,” answered Maud, raising her chin. She knew he was not speaking of her health. She was suddenly conscious of the shine on her new boots, the crispness of her petticoats, the dainty cleanliness of her whole person. She inspected him in turn. His clothes were drenched with rainwater and looked too wide for him. He was tall and lanky, and his sandy hair had darkened to mouse color.

“I’m glad you’re well,” he said awkwardly.

“So’m I,” said Maud. She looked away from him. Her eyes passed over the furniture she dusted every day, the gold-framed pictures and wax flowers under glass. Samm’l was out of place in this parlor. He knew it, too.

“Won’t you sit down?” asked Maud, as stately as Judith herself.

“No.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. “That is, yes. Maybe I will.” He looked at the needlepoint chairs with their spindly legs and the rococo settee. “I’m kind of wet. You’re sure it’s all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

He lowered himself to the settee and took his hands out of his pockets. He held them between his knees and stared down at the carpet. Hold your head up, Samm’l! Maud almost jumped; her mother’s voice was so clear in her mind. Throw your shoulders back! It’s the cheapest way to tell the world you’re somebody!

“Maud,” Samm’l said hesitantly, “I wanted to see you — well, I wanted to see you before I said good-bye.”

Maud felt as if he had punched her in the stomach. For a moment she could not breathe. Then she spoke. “We already said good-bye,” she reminded him.

“I know.” Samm’l’s face was pale. “That day — at St. Anne’s. That’s part of what I wanted to say — how sorry I am about that day.” He looked up again. His eyes were like hers — blue-gray, but so deep set that they looked darker. “I’ve been sorry for six years.”

“Then why are you going away again?” argued Maud.

Samm’l flushed, tweaking Maud’s memory a second time. As a child he had reddened easily: with anger, with embarrassment, with laughter. “It’s not my fault,” he said. “The Vines are going west. The last few years, the harvest hasn’t been good, and they can get cheap land out there.” He seemed to sense that he was getting nowhere, and began again. “I asked Mr. Vine if we could take you with us, seeing as how we’re starting out fresh, but there isn’t much money. But I’ll be grown-up soon.” He leaned forward. Something kindled in his eyes. “I’ll get my own farm, and when