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line seems to be dying out. Sam's kin have died or emigrated; he is the last to bear the name."
    "He seems quite a superior person," Megan said.
    Miss Mandeville's eyebrows rose. "Superior to what? His father was Papa's right-hand man and helper, though he could neither read nor write. Sam has taken steps to improve himself in the skills worldly people consider important; he is literate, he reads extensively, and he is perfectly well acquainted with the use of a knife and fork. More important in my opinion is the fact that he is his father's son, with all Mr. Freeman's honesty and intelligence."
    "Oh, to be sure," Megan murmured.
    Miss Mandeville did not pursue the subject. The remainder of the ride home was spent in trying to keep Lina from falling out of the carriage, which she seemed bent on doing.
    The days settled into a pleasant routine. Megan's teaching duties were not onerous. Lina was intelligent enough, but she could not sit still for five minutes without wriggling or tapping her feet. As the balmy weather continued, teacher and pupil spent a great deal of time out of doors, exploring the grounds. The child was more receptive to instruction when she was allowed to move about, and Megan took advantage of their walks to introduce French vocabulary, which Lina picked up with surprising facility.
    In the evening, after Lina had been handed over to the nursemaid, Megan sat with Miss Mandeville in the latter's pleasant little parlor, next to her bedroom. There was nothing extraordinary in this—a governess was expected to perform the duties of a companion when her employers required it—but gradually the two girls, so close in age, drifted into something akin to friendship. After a time Miss Mandeville suggested they use each other's first names.
    "We must be formal in company, I suppose," she said with a shrug. "But I am a firm believer in following my own inclinations instead of the stupid dictates of propriety, and I am always thinking of you as 'Megan' now."
    The evenings were quiet ones—Jane never went out and seemed to have few callers—but Megan enjoyed them. Like Lina, Jane could not sit with idle hands, and when she was not working on some garment for the child, who wore them out at an astonishing rate, she was doing Berlin wool work or sketching. One skill she lacked was music; her admiration for Megan's playing and singing was unbounded, and almost every evening ended with a little recital.
    Rapidly as the friendship developed, it was almost a month after Megan's arrival before Jane confided her worry about Edmund.
    "I have written to him every day, but have received only two brief notes in reply," she said, frowning at the unoffending fire screen she was embroidering. "I expected him long before this; I pray he is not worse."
    The same fear had occurred to Megan, but she said reassuringly, "Surely his friends would communicate with you if they had any concern for his health."
    "No doubt you wonder why I don't go to London and see for myself," Jane said. She had a disconcerting habit of making accurate guesses of that sort, as if she could read other people's minds. "I don't because Edmund asked me not to leave Grayhaven. He says his mind is more at ease if he knows I am looking after things here."
    "Perhaps he doesn't want you fussing over him," Megan said with a smile. "Men hate that."
    "Not Edmund. He adores being coddled. Or at least he did when he was young." Jane's hands, holding the needle with its trail of scarlet wool, dropped into her lap. Her eyes took on a far-off look. "Sometimes, when he had no other boys to play with, he would let me play Soldiers and Radicals with him. You may guess, Megan, who was the Radical! When the gallant soldier was wounded, the radical became the nurse instead. I tore up my petticoats to make bandages and stole quantities of sweets and preserves to tempt his appetite. . . . How I was scolded! But I was used to that; my petticoat was often in tatters, for I was a sad