M olly tossed her hat aside, ran a free hand through her springing black hair, and felt it lift and blow free in the breeze caused by the increase in the horse’s gait. With her other hand, she jockeyed the reins, urging speed from the surprised mare.

Not that there was any need to hurry. But life, to Molly Morrison, was a joy to be experienced, and she faced it head on, eager and fresh and tending to be impatient with caution and deliberation.

But Parker Jones was deliberate, if not cautious. The young minister was undoubtedly still feeling his way in this, his first pastorate, learning as he went. But where things of the heart were concerned, Molly felt there should be free rein, a glad embrace, not the earnest thoughtfulness that Parker Jones exhibited!

Having made up her own mind—where love and marriage and Parker Jones were concerned, and with a nature that tended toward impulsiveness—Molly was submitting to some hard lessons.

I know he loves me—I can tell , Molly thought now, and it was such a happy thought and sent such a surge of pure joy through her vibrant young body that she laughed aloud, and the trill equaled the spring birdsong for joy. There was no one to hear, and the mare, trotting at a clip to keep pace with her mistress’s heartbeat, flicked her ears and quickened her step.

Then, realizing that hurrying wouldn’t bring a faster resolution to her frustrated love life, and settling for it, Molly accepted that Parker Jones must be allowed his own time and way in what was obviously a matter for serious consideration to him. She grimaced and resigned herself to more patient waiting.

“Do you think,” Parker Jones had asked just last week, strolling on a Sunday afternoon, relaxed after delivering his sermon, and content after a good meal with Molly and her family, “that you could settle for the life of a pastor’s wife?”

Settle into it, he means, Molly supposed, knowing herself well. Would it mean wearing her hair in a bun? If so, forget it! Her riotous curls might be tied back and pinned down, but be obedient to decorum? Never. Dress soberly? Watch what she said? Molly sighed, even now biting her tongue and stifling the impetuous response that surged in her thoughts, eager to be voiced.

Could she settle for it? Molly knew she could. Any price—to be the wife of Parker Jones! Seriously though, Molly felt honestly—and prayerfully, having taken this important matter to the Lord many times—that not only could she take on the role required of her if she married Parker Jones, but she could also feel a sense of the rightness of it . . . feel fulfilled, even as did Parker.

Passing the woodsy acreage on which the small log “parsonage” had been built—land donated for that purpose by her own father from his own homestead—Molly cautioned herself not to fly in at the gate, which was her natural impulse. No, she had already embarked on the pathway to self-control and maturity, which would be her lot should she indeed win Parker Jones. A hard path, for Molly Morrison, but one that would make a woman of the girl, a wise woman of the unformed girl; a loving, giving, caring, serving woman whose spontaneity would never be completely dimmed and whose bright outlook would never fade, no matter the hardship or trial.

No, she wouldn’t automatically turn in, but if Parker Jones should beckon. . . .

Sadly, Parker’s buggy was gone from the yard. Making calls, no doubt . . . perhaps on Grandmam. Molly had, on more than one occasion, shared her burden for the salvation of her Mam with Parker Jones. And more than once he had stopped by the Bliss place, to share a cup of tea and an oat cake, and to—cautiously, Molly supposed—introduce the subject of Jesus Christ and His love.

“You’ll have to be—” Molly had wanted to say “pushy,” but knowing Parker Jones and her own anxiety to see Mam saved soon in the face of her old age and declining health, she had substituted “persistent.”

“You won’t hurt her feelings,” Molly had assured her friend and pastor. “We’ve all been very earnest with Mam . . . we can’t bear to think that she might . . . might die, and not be ready. We couldn’t bear an eternal separation.” And Molly’s eyes had filled with tears that spoke more eloquently than her words.

But Parker Jones’s buggy was not at the Bliss . . . Galloway place. Molly could hear Cameron whistling somewhere in the dark depths of the barn as she reined to a halt and, with her usual zest for life, tumbled from the buggy. Going to the back of the rig, she gathered up the mail and the box of supplies she had picked up for her granny and her brother and turned to the house.

Kezzie stood in the open doorway, obviously enjoying the spring weather and the hint of lilacs from the bush budding at the corner of the house. She opened the screen door, relieved the burdened girl of the mail, and returned with it to her rocking chair.

Molly stretched her young body, her arms over her head, once again gathering up her hair into some semblance of order. Kezzie’s head of frizz, duplicated in her daughter Mary even to its original color—red—was tamed to a tight curl in her granddaughter and black as a crow’s wing, like Angus’s. Molly’s eyes were the same blue as her grandmother’s, but in her the sparkle had not faded, nor the dance slowed. Had Kezzie, Molly sometimes wondered, subservient and loaded with responsibility all her life, ever been free to sparkle and dance? She, Molly, was so blessed! Not remembering the old home and the old ways, still she counted herself fortunate to be free . . . to be all that she could be. That women were still severely hampered in many ways was not a serious drawback to Molly. Rarely had she been thwarted; instructed, guided, trained—yes, but always free. The word, so important to her father, rang in her heart. Free from bondage, in this new and brave land; free, in Christ, from the bondage of sin. Molly Morrison was a liberated woman!

But Mam, darling Mam, whom she had missed knowing for the first half of her life, was certainly bound by . . . something. Free to be free, the only freedom she knew was from the old bonds of servant and master where this world’s values were concerned. She still went in bitter bondage where her soul was concerned, a source of sorrow to her loved ones.

Kezzie’s eyes were riveted on the expensive envelope in her hand. That it was expensive Molly knew from her perusal of the catalog and the “Papeteries” section. Hurd’s Irish Linen, she supposed, or Royal Superfine, or Crown Imperial, or Harmony Stationery, and all “cream wove or with superfine cream finish” (Molly wondered what that meant—the only cream she knew anything about came from cows or was rubbed into dry skin). As Kezzie drew the single page from the envelope, Molly identified it, to her own satisfaction, as “Gold Edge Papeterie,” with its vaunted “tinted ruled octave paper and fine gold edges, round corners, baronial envelopes to match.” That it came from a tinted box, Molly knew, too. Why would one need to own it, when looking at it gave one such satisfaction? Contemplating her proposed life as a minister’s wife, Molly happily settled for the latter and felt none the poorer for it.

But what, this time, had the faraway object of her Mam’s devotion written? That it wasn’t bad news she could surmise from her grandmother’s face. But neither was it good news. Perplexed for the moment, Molly watched the aged face and its conflicting play of emotions.

“Good news?” Molly finally asked.

“Yes . . . I guess so. Yes, of course. She’s comin’.”

“Coming . . . to Bliss?” Molly was dumbfounded. The rich, pampered, stylish Margaret Galloway was coming to Bliss?

“For goodness’ sake, why?” Molly asked bluntly.

“This land—the Bliss place,” her Mam said, “it’s hers now.”

“Well,” Molly said, perplexed, “so are dozens of other properties, if what I’ve heard is correct.”

Molly knew Hugh Galloway had died; Margaret’s letter had been sent immediately confirming that. Now, apparently, she was writing to tell of the will’s disposition. But come to Bliss? With so many other options, so many more important responsibilities? Besides, there was her marriage. . . .

“Do you mean after the wedding?” Molly asked, small alarm bells ringing. It would be one thing to entertain Miss Ritzy Galloway, another to include a husband, a man unknown even to Mam. And on their honeymoon? What a honeymoon! A train trip, a bush hideaway—

“Apparently there’s been no weddin’,” Mam said and seemed a little confused. “Listen, I’ll read it to you. It’s verra brief.”

Lifting the “linen wove” stationery to her fading eyes, Kezzie read, “‘Things here are such that I’ve made up my mind to make a change. This is no longer home. I’ll explain when I arrive, for it seems the only’”—here the writer had struck out the word only and substituted best —“‘the best option, to come to Bliss. My father’s property there, the will says, is mine. I understand it’s under the caretaking of your grandson Cameron Morrison. There is no time to write back, Granny Kezzie, for my plans are made, and I will leave as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements.’

“She’ll be here . . . two weeks from tomorrow, if there are no delays. Bein’ summer and all—or nearly so—the train should come straight through.” Kezzie looked blankly at the letter in her hand.

“Is this troubling you, Mam?” Molly asked gently. “Isn’t it something you’ve longed for?”

“In a way . . .” Kezzie quavered, swallowed, and continued. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ve dreamed of holding my angel girl in my arms again before I die. On the other hand—”

“You’re afraid we’re not fancy enough for her. That’s it, isn’t it, Mam?”

Kezzie hesitated. “No, no, of course not—it wouldn’t matter to Margo.” She hesitated, glanced at Molly, down at the letter, back to Molly. “Well, yes, maybe that’s it,” she added lamely, and Molly knew instinctively it wasn’t the problem at all.

“We’ll all pitch in and help,” Molly promised, brushing her Mam’s soft cheek with a kiss. “Now, I’m off home. Don’t you worry about a thing, you hear?”

Kezzie blinked, brought her thoughts and attention back to Molly, and managed a smile. But it was an uncertain smile, and Kezzie’s eyes looked strained. Perhaps even alarmed?

Molly met Cameron in the yard.

“Hey,” he said, knowing his sister well. “What’s the trouble? Things not going well with . . . you know who?”

Molly smiled faintly. “They’re not going particularly swimmingly, to my way of thinking, if you mean Parker. But that’s not it. Cameron,” Molly lowered her voice, though there was no chance of Kezzie’s hearing the conversation, “that girl—Margo—is coming.”

“To Bliss?” Cameron sounded unbelieving. It was a development he had not foreseen. That someone—a representative of the Galloway estate—should eventually come by, he half expected. That he would need to be prepared to give a reckoning, he expected. But that it would be to the “heiress” herself, now that was a surprise. Cameron whistled.

“My future looks a bit uncertain,” he said. “I knew there had to be a change sometime, however. Well, I’ll take it a day at a time. She’s welcome to get someone else to run this for her . . . or, better yet,” Cameron’s tanned, square face lit up, “maybe she’ll sell. I could meet her price, I believe, or her terms. Say, wouldn’t that be great?”

Molly mounted the buggy with much less zest than she had alighted from it and drove home thoughtfully: Mam troubled and uncertain; Cameron building hopes on the faint possibility that the Bliss place might yet be his. Loving them both, Molly laid aside her own uncertain future to take on the burden of prayer for her grandmother and her brother.