W ith Margaret’s things piled around them, before and behind and on her lap, the man Cameron Morrison vaulted (there was no other term to describe the vigorous motion) into the buggy and picked up the reins. Even with her burden, the buggy tilted with his weight. Cameron Morrison was a big man. Big but without an ounce of flesh to spare. Big and healthy and, obviously, filled with the joy of . . . about to say “life,” Margo paused in her assessment, remembering Kezzie’s letters and repeated reference to her family’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Margo was hardly comfortable with addressing the Almighty as God, let alone heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and Holy Spirit. Such familiarity made her uneasy. Thankfully Granny Kezzie seemed to find it as unreal as Margo herself. Surely a man as masculine as Cameron Morrison would find such familiarity with one’s maker as unmentionable as all Margo’s other acquaintances had.

But Cameron Morrison was saying, “Thank God you’re here safe and sound. According to Mam—that’s Kezzie, of course—it’s not proper for young females to travel unaccompanied. And so we all prayed faithfully for you. Other than being a little tired,” the blue eyes looked down on Margo in kindly fashion, “which is perfectly natural, you seem to have come through unscathed. Once in Bliss, with Mam, and our good fresh air and lots of rest, you’ll be as right as rain, I’m sure.”

“How long until we get there?” Margo managed, feeling young and gauche and, somehow, furious because of it.

“Two hours or so. Depends on whether we hurry. And I don’t see why we should. This is one beautiful road. Well, not the road itself, which tends to be rutty after a rain such as we had last night, but look—have you ever seen such green?” Cameron gestured toward the bush that crowded the road, cut back occasionally to accommodate a way into someone’s property.

He was right. It was the new green of spring. Margo became aware of the freshness of the air and found herself breathing deeply.

“Pure perfume,” Cameron said. “No pollution by man. Let’s hope it stays that way. I know it’s pristine—that is, hardly touched—so that it comes as near to Eden as is possible here on this old earth.”

“You sound . . . you sound . . .”

“Foolish?” Cameron asked with a grin.

“I was going to say contented.”

“I suppose I am,” Cameron said. “I like what David said—”

“David?”

“The psalmist,” Cameron responded, and Margo felt herself flush at her ignorance. She hoped this man—so strong and vital and masculine—would not be a spouter of religious banalities. Would that be his one flaw? For that he was near perfection in all other ways Margo was blindingly certain. She hoped rather desperately that she would immediately discover a human frailty and that it would, once and for all, still this strange tumult in her heart.

“The psalmist?” she asked now, and waited for his trite and stilted “testimony.”

“It has something to do with fat paths.” Cameron’s grin was fleeting, but it was there. Was he teasing?

“Fat paths?” Margo asked cautiously, intrigued in spite of herself.

“Fat paths, happy hills, and singing valleys.”

And that was all. Margo sat, stewing, in silence.

Finally, “It’s Psalm 65 if you should care to explore it for yourself,” Cameron added.

“Fat paths?” Margo burst out with after a moment’s silence. “That’s the reason you are a contented man? Fat paths ? ”

“Would you prefer shining paths?”

What was wrong with the man! Why couldn’t he just preach to her and get it over with!

“The path of the just,” Cameron all but sang out above the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the occasional creak of the rather ancient buggy, “is as the shining light.”

With these thought-provoking words ringing in her ears, with a strong shoulder pressed occasionally against hers by the jouncing of the rig, with the wind gloriously fresh in her face and the sound of a meadowlark piercingly sweet filling the blue sky, with Granny Kezzie awaiting her coming with loving arms, and with an unknown but suddenly appealing future ahead of her, Margo found herself believing that the path, if not fat, seemed on the verge of plumpness.

“Just ahead,” Cameron said, “is Bliss.”