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newcomer. “Morning, ma’am. And it’s a grim day to be out. Only the hearty dare face such a day as this.”
    The woman grinned in return, revealing a gap in her tooth line. She gave her umbrella another good shake, then tiptoed gingerly through the mud of the entry to reach her post-office box. “Had to come on down,” she called over her shoulder. “Mr. Clemson is expecting an important letter, and he hisself couldn’t come out ’cause of his gout, you know. So I said as how I’d come on down. Not made of sugar, you know. Won’t melt in the wet.” She giggled in a youthful way. “Some folks shy away from a little wet weather. Me, I was born on the coast of Scotland. Didn’t know there was such a thing as dry until I near reached my fifteenth year.” She giggled again. “Oh well, little rain shouldn’t keep one to home.”
    She fumbled with the latch on her box. “Yes, sir, an important letter. We heard that Mr. Clemson’s old uncle Bernhardt passed on, rest his soul. Mr. Clemson stands to inherit a good deal of the estate. We’re waiting for word from the solicitor.”
    What in the world would Mr. Marshall make of all that stream of chatter? Virginia wondered. Mr. Marshall was holding the battered hat and running trembling fingers through what remained of his hair.
    “Well, I sure hope so,” the old man said when Mrs. Clemson stopped for a breath. “We could all use a bumper crop this year. Do the whole community good. Whose barn did you say wouldn’t be able to hold it all?”
    Mrs. Clemson turned sympathetic eyes toward Virginia. “He don’t hear none too well,” she said in a loud whisper, as though the situation needed explaining.
    The Clemson post-office box yielded no letter. Not even an advertising leaflet or a call to join some force to rout evil and entrench good was found. Mrs. Clemson could not hide her disappointment.
    “My, they are slow, those solicitors. You can tell it’s not their money they’s concerned with. Old Uncle Bernhardt’s been gone for ’most a year already—rest his soul—and we still haven’t had the notice of the will.”
    She shook her umbrella as though she had the solicitor by the scruff of the neck, gave Mr. Marshall a forced smile and curt nod, and left the building.
    “Seems a bit upset,” Mr. Marshall said, turning toward Virginia. “I would think that good crops would make anyone happy, even if they ain’t on a farm themselves. I always said, prosperous farms make a prosperous town. Don’t you think so, missie?”
    Virginia dared not attempt an explanation. Just nodded her head in agreement.

CHAPTER  4
    T he rain was still depressingly steady when Virginia picked her way through the mud of the post-office entry and locked the door on the last customer at the end of the day. She went to get a pail and mop from the storage cupboard. “I don’t know whether to sweep it or shovel it,” she grumbled to herself. By the time she had finished, the hem of her skirt was mud coated from bending over the grimy mess. Eventually the mop and pail of water looked as dirty as the flagstone tiles. She emptied it out the door.
    And I suppose there will be more of the same tomorrow , Virginia fumed with a disgusted sound, peering up at the leaden skies and determining that there was no break in sight. And likely for many more days to come. I wonder how Mrs. Noah ever made it through , she mused. All those days of rain, and all those animals…. At least they weren’t out playing in the rain and mud, tracking up the floors . She shut and locked the front door again.
    Thumping the scrub pail back into the closet, she plopped the mop down beside it. “See you again tomorrow,” she muttered as she pushed the door closed. She stood looking down at her rough, reddened hands. They deserved some of her grandma’s homemade hand ointment. Well, they’d have to wait until she got home. But if this rain were to continue—on and on—she would do well to bring a small