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Anderson’s tone, she thought, had sounded quite a bit cooler when she’d admitted her family didn’t know she was here. But he’d authorized those pamphlets. Why shouldn’t she take him up on the challenge he’d issued?
    Bolstered by this thought as well as a much-needed sip of tea, Isobel felt emboldened enough to speak plainly. “I’m here, Mr. Anderson, because I am interested in missions for myself. That is, to become a missionary.”
    Anderson did not speak for a moment, and Isobel took another sip of tea, burning her tongue. She realized she had foolishly envisioned this to be easy; she’d imagined Rufus Anderson welcoming her into the mission fold with delight and gratitude. Clearly she had been reading too many romantic novels.
    “I see,” he finally said, and his voice sounded regretful. “I’m afraid I did misunderstand your intent, Miss Moore. I assumed you had requested an appointment to discuss a donation.”
    “Oh .” Mortified, Isobel looked down. “I see. Of course, my family—my father would be delighted—”
    “No, no, it is my own mistake.” He waved her stammering protestations aside, smiling ruefully. “I made a wishful presumption. However...” His expression softened into sympathy as he continued, “I’m afraid, Miss Moore, that we no longer accept unmarried women into the missions field.”
    She bit her lip. “But I read about Betsey Stockton—going to the Hawaiian Islands—”
    “Yes, yes, that is true.” He nodded, but the gesture was one of dismissal. “However, that was many years ago now, and since then, based on—unfortunate—experiences, we have chosen only to allow married couples to embark on what surely is an arduous, painful, and often fatal journey.” He regarded her rather sternly, as if he suspected her of wanting to be a missionary out of boredom rather than zeal. And really, Isobel thought miserably, wasn’t that at least partially the truth? Maybe even mostly. She felt her face flush yet again and she stared down at her lap.
    “I... I see.” Taking a deep breath, she placed her cup and saucer back on the table with a rather unsteady clatter. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
    “We do, however,” Anderson said after a pause, “maintain a list of missionary-minded young women who are educated, pious, and of good health, for marriage purposes.”
    Isobel stared at him blankly. “Marriage purposes?”
    “Many young men who wish to enter the mission field are unmarried,” Anderson explained. “And they wish to find a suitable life partner to accompany them on missions. We maintain a list for such men, in order to aid them in seeking a wife. Perhaps you would like to include yourself? Naturally I would need a reference from your own minister.”
    “A reference…” she repeated blankly. She could feel her face redden further and she pleated her fingers together in her lap, nervous and unaccountably embarrassed. Humiliated, even. To put her name on a list…! It was galling indeed. And yet… it was a chance not only for adventure, but perhaps even for happiness. She cleared her throat. “Well, that is a rather different proposition than I was anticipating, Mr. Anderson. I’m not sure I can give you an answer today regarding such a serious consideration…”
    “No, of course not,” Anderson said quickly, clearly sensitive to her embarrassment. “It is, perhaps, an alternative you might wish to consider... if you are indeed serious about entering the mission field.”
    Isobel forced herself to meet his compassionate and far too knowing gaze. “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin even as her face flamed. “I suppose I might consider it.”

    Prince Edward Island, 1838
    The fire cast flickering shadows over the hearth as Allan MacDougall stretched his stocking feet towards its warmth. The children were settled in bed, and Harriet sat across from him in the rocking chair his mother had brought over from Scotland, her face placidly