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old coat that she had a fondness for. It was two years old, and she had grown so rapidly that the cuffs struck her six inches above her wrists. She wore black stockings, and her black leather shoes were worn and muddy. Beside her on the bank lay a straw hat with a frayed brim.
    As she stretched higher, her body seemed no thicker than one of the reeds that grew along the banks of the river. Her feet and hands were very thin and delicate. No one had ever called Chantel Fontaine beautiful, for her mouth was very wide and her prominent cheekbones seemed to give her face a fullness that did not match her body. She had good teeth, but her best feature was her perfect complexion: smooth and very fair.
    Baiting her string again, Chantel tossed it out into the water, then tied the free end around the bail of the bucket. She moved up and down the banks looking for signs of turtles and was delighted when a large fish came up, struck at something, and then disappeared about ten feet out from the bank. “I’ll catch you, Mrs. Fish! You wait and see if I don’t. Brutus and I will come back and catch you on a trotline.”
    She began to sing a song as she moved up and down the bank. Chantel sang a great deal, giving her name credence, and her voice, though thin, was clear and true.
    Chantel saw a long, thin stick on the ground and picked it up. She held it for a moment, then grasped the thicker end and held it out as if it were a sword. She began moving back and forth as if parrying the blows of an opponent, muttering under her breath, “Take that, you villain! Oh, you would, would you? Don’t think you’re going to get away!”
    She darted back and forth, turning and wheeling and crying out to her imaginary villainous opponent. Then she suddenly dropped the sword and fell down in a heap. She looked up piteously and held her hand out. “Oh, kind sir, spare me! I am a poor, helpless girl and have no friends!”
    Then Chantel was on her feet and became the man, speaking in as deep a voice as possible. She bowed and said, “Do not fear, mademoiselle, I am Captain Fontaine, and I will save you from the villain that would harm you. Here, let me carry you to safety.” She bent over and pretended to pick up a form and moved away.
    Her game went on for some time as she played many roles in the drama that was birthed in her head. Chantel spent so much time alone that making up games had become her chief entertainment. There were other children in the area, to be sure, but most of those who lived close enough to her home to visit were either older or younger. So she had become a solitary child, creating imaginary worlds.
    Forgotten were the crawdads and the string, which began to pull from one side to another as Chantel moved, speaking lines, peopling the open space beside the stream with unseen companions. She had just finished a speech when a voice from behind startled her.
    “What are you doing here, girl?”
    Chantel whirled, and her face reddened, for her father stood there watching her. As always, he was finely dressed; today he wore a pair of gray trousers strapped under his feet and a gray cloth coat with a black fur collar. A fur cap on his head covered his chestnut hair. There was censure in his eyes, and he shook his head. “Your mama has been worried about you. Why do you run away without telling us where you’ve gone?”
    “I’m—I’m sorry, Papa.” Chantel dropped her head, unable to meet his eyes. She drew a figure in the dirt with the toe of her shoe, then managed to look up. She hated to displease her father, but she saw that his lips were turned down and his brow knit with a frown. “I will not do it again.”
    “If you would study your schoolbooks as hard as you play, it would be well.”
    Chantel had no answer for that, and he had warned her before about her laziness in the classroom. Desperately she tried to find something to say, but this was not unusual when she tried to speak to her father. At times he was