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no loft he can sleep in . . .”
    Olivia stood on her tiptoes and peeked in the window, just in time to see Mrs. Brewster grab old Mr. Vance’s cane and pound the floor with it, commanding silence. “Shame on you all! Fighting over who gets first right to exploit the poor child. Give him his dinner, indeed. So is he to go without breakfast and supper? And on Sundays and days when he has no work, he simply will not eat at all?”
    Mrs. Monroe spoke up. “If he wanted to learn to help me with the cooking for my boarders, I could give him a plate out in the kitchen whenever he’s not working anywhere else.”
    “And where’s he supposed to sleep?” Mrs. Brewster pressed.
    “I could let him stay in that storage shed out back,” Reverend Dixby said. “Won’t even charge him anything. He can stay there in exchange for a few simple chores each week.”
    Olivia and Mourning turned to look over their shoulders at the windowless shed. It hadn’t been used for years, had no stove, and looked ready to blow over in the first good wind.
    “That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Carmichael said. “The boy is welcome to sleep in my office.”
    “That wouldn’t be right,” Reverend Dixby retorted. “How could he afford to pay rent?”
    “Who said anything about charging him rent?”
    “Then what do you want of him?”
    “As long as he cuts his own firewood, he is welcome to the warmth of my stove. I’ll ask nothing of him in exchange.”
    “And what if he gets sick?” Mrs. Brewster pressed. “Who’s going to care for him?”
    “Isn’t that what you Christian ladies are good at?” The rowdy voice from the back broke in again.
    “If he’s set on staying, why not give him a chance?” Mr. Carmichael spoke and no one dared interrupt him. “Those good negro families in ‘The Bottoms’ aren’t going anywhere. I understand your concerns, Mrs. Brewster, and they are real ones. I’d like to believe that if the boy fell ill, we would all find it in our hearts to help care for him. If he requires the services of Doc Gaylin, I will commit myself to bearing the cost of those services.”
    “You don’t have to worry about that,” Doc Gaylin said. “There will be no charge.”
    Reverend Dixby soon brought the discussion to an end. He affirmed their collective responsibility for the boy and sent them home smiling. Allowing Mourning Free to stay in Five Rocks and earn pennies doing the menial jobs they didn’t want to do for themselves was the Christian thing to do.
    That night Olivia lay awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking how awful it was for a child to have no parents to stick up for him.
    After that meeting Olivia went looking for Mourning every afternoon and pulled him aside for his lesson. If they had time and it was sunny, they went down by the river. Otherwise school was held in the storeroom of Killion’s General, using the pickle barrel for a desk. One day Mrs. Monroe peeked through the open door while Mourning was studying what Olivia had written on her slate. Then they heard her lodge a loud complaint with Olivia’s father.
    “I heard that girl of yours was teaching him to read.”
    “What of it?” Seborn growled.
    “Well it’s nothing to me, but folks are saying it ain’t seemly. She ought not to keep so much company with a nigger.”
    “They are children,” Seborn said. “He’s only a boy. A boy with enough troubles of his own, I might add, without all you good women piling more on.”
    Olivia listened with her head cocked. It was the kindest thing she had ever heard her father say.
    Mrs. Monroe ignored the insult and persisted. “Well, I fail to see what need a colored boy has of book learning.”
    “Way I see it, make life easier all around,” Seborn replied. “If he could read, whoever he’s working for could leave him a note, tell him what he’s wanted to do.”
    “Well, all I know is that back East women who open schools for darky children go to jail. It said so right in the