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is upset.” She ran her fingers over my eyelids, meaning
     I should open them, and when I did, she took up my chin, and tilted my face, so she could look me in the eye. “Are you frightened,
     dear girl?”
    “Yes, Mother, truly I am!” I threw my arms around her waist and began to cry, while she combed my hair with her fingers. The
     touch of her hand pulled the truth from me. “I am afraid it is some evil thing that visits us and I know not what I might
     do to keep it from me!”
    “Elizabeth! What nonsense. There is no evil in this house.” Mother took a step away from me and frowned. “You know not the
     many possibilities of nature. We are greatly concerned with the noises we have heard, why else would your father at this moment
     devote his day to taking the house apart from the inside out?” I saw Mother was most distressed and upset herself, which frightened
     me the more. She turned to stir again the bubbling pot, lest it begin to burn, and I watched her shoulder blade rise up, spooning
     round the thickening beans. She sighed and turned to look at me. “Your father and I will solve this mystery, Betsy,” she promised.
     “With the good Lord’s help. And yours.” She laid her wooden spoon across the top of the pot and placed her hands on my shoulders.
     I could see from the many lines about her eyes, she too was tired. She held my gaze with hers. “Of utmost importance is your
     health and constitution. Go lie in my bed and I will make you a peppermint tea.”
    “No, Mother, I will take the mending and sit in the parlor.” I wanted to prove I too could be strong and brave in the face
     of our afflictions. I sewed all that day, finishing more than half the basket of mending, listening to Father move from room
     to room upstairs, prying up boards and replacing them, looking for he knew not what. I was not surprised when he found nothing
     at all, apart from dust and some old mouse droppings which were clearly unrelated to the noises we had heard. Supper was again
     solemn and silent, as a great heaviness weighted our necks when we bent them in prayer.
    “Dear God, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …” Father’s voice held a somber intonation, “… for Thine is the Kingdom
     and the Power and the Glory. Amen.”
    “We will have a special Bible reading this evening, won’t we, Father?” Mother’s good cheer was out of place and though I did
     appreciate her effort, we remained a sullen group. Only Joel and Richard turned their heads, inclined to abandon their glumness.
    “What story will you read, Father?”
    “Whatever your mother likes.” Father wiped his mouth with his napkin and smiled at Mother acknowledging her courage, but I
     noticed he was merely picking at his food.
    “I should like to hear a story of God’s love, perhaps John fourteen, on the coming of the Spirit, how He will be in you,”
     Mother said, her eyes lit with good humor. She knew the connotations such a reading would bring. All around the table our
     mouths began to curl slightly upward, as each of us pictured Old Kate at the pulpit in her Sunday finery, imbued with the
     glory of the good Lord. Mrs. Kate Batts was called Old Kate by everyone, though she was about the same age as our mother.
     I was happy they shared few other traits, for Old Kate was quite unusual in her affect and appearance. Unpredictably outspoken,
     she weighed over two hundred pounds and dressed without regard to style or fashion. Our entire community took some delight
     in mocking her, and her strange ways were the focus of conversation as frequently as the topic of the weather. She did cut
     a distinct figure, traveling the district up and down the high road, peddling mostly stockings, woven from cast-off scraps
     of wool begged on previous visits from farm to farm, all to create an income. Her poverty was so severe, it was said she spun
     her cat hair into yarn. Mother both donated to her and bought from her. I’d heard Mother say