Samuel and his father waved goodbye to the Perrys, and when they reached Stone Hill Road, Samuel asked, “Did you make a good trade for Mr. Snow’s lanterns?”
“I did—if we find someone in town interested in a book of British and American poems.” He took the book from under his coat. Even under the gray sky, the gilt-edged pages flashed with light.
“Will we keep the book if no one wants it?”
“Your mother would be a little pleased if we did,” said Papa. “But she’d be a little disappointed too.”
Samuel tried to match his father’s pace as they headed into town. More than a few snowflakes fell onto Samuel’s nose and eyelashes, and he brushed them off with his wool mittens until the mittens started to get wet.
It wasn’t too long before they came to a tall brick house, the first one in town.
“The Widow Mitchell’s?” said Samuel.
Papa and Samuel walked up her porch steps. “If she speaks to you, Samuel, you know how to be polite.”
Samuel nodded. He could be polite. Even if no one he knew had ever been in the Widow Mitchell’s house. No one.
He wondered if Georgie Perry would even believe him.
The Widow Mitchell answered the door when Samuel’s father knocked. Her white hair was drawn into a tight bun at the back of her head, so tight it made her eyes look angry. Her dress was black, and a high collar cramped right up to her chin. She carried a black walking stick.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“You might remember me, Mrs. Mitchell. Jonathan Hallett. I repaired your fence last spring.”
“I don’t remember you at all,” said the Widow Mitchell. She pointed her black walking stick at Samuel. “And who is this boy tramping snow onto my porch?”
Samuel thought he had forgotten how to breathe.