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his finger trail down the column until he came to a less objectionable passage. He began again. “And lo! In the kingdom of...”
    Rachel looked demurely down at the table. She hoped there was no more than the normal color in her cheeks. On impulse she glanced up and saw Old Rachel looking across the table at her. Rachel, again averted her eyes and prayed her father to hurry.
    After reading nearly a dozen pages, Aram closed the Book and initiated a prayer of supplication to the Creator: “O Maker, in this the season of thy bounty, we beseech thee...”
    Rachel had long since memorized every millimeter of wood pattern in the plastic tabletop. Dear Lord, the Creator, she thought. Don’t let them read my mind and know I allowed Devon to kiss me. Please!
    “... thy servants. Amen.”
    Led by Old Rachel’s still-sweet soprano, they sang three slow, dirgelike hymns. Then a final benediction by Aram and evening prayers were over. Not looking at her parents Rachel bid them a polite good night and followed her sister up the ladder to the loft.
     
    Rachel’s dream:
    They swam in Old Jacob’s millpond, the two of them, Devon and herself. The water in the holding pond, warm with the summer’s heat, caressed her skin as no cloth could do.
    For a moment the dream was rippled by Rachel’s nearly conscious thought that she had never swum with a male. Then the thought submerged like a diving fish and the dream flowed on. With the flats of their hands they splashed each other; the spray made her skin glisten in the sunlight.
    Devon motioned toward the grassy shore. Rachel followed him out of the pond. They climbed onto the bank and lay down in the shade of an ancient cypress. There were no words, only Devon’s gray eyes and the lingering, silken touch of his fingers.
    She did not know what he was doing. There was pleasure, to be sure, but it was obscure and without center. Rachel looked at his face; all Devon’s features, everything she recognized was there. But below his face, everything was vague; the lines of his limbs blurred, except for his hands and feet; other shapes were soft and indistinct.
    She knew he was doing things to her, something to her body. But still she had no visualization or definition. The pleasure continued, intensified. Rachel rolled her head back and forth on the grassy bank.
    She awoke.
     
    Rachel looked sharply across the feather-filled bed. It was difficult to tell in the gloom of the loft; she did not think her sister was awake. Rachel listened intently. At last she decided that the soft, regular breathing had confirmed that Ruth was asleep.
    Rachel slowly rolled onto her side, carefully lifting the comforter away from her sweaty skin. She lay still for a minute, letting her own breathing become regular. Her gown had ridden up around her waist. Gingerly she touched the forbidden place between her legs.
    She felt the wetness and jerked her hand away.
    What has happened? she thought.
    The dream, like most fantasies, had raveled in the short time since waking. Yet some feeling lingered. She remembered something of the pond and the grass and of gentle fingers. Shame swept around her; shame and something else. She recognized the stranger. It was pleasure.
     

FOUR
    The night ended as the sun rose and the cycle began again: twelve hours of work, eight hours of prayer, eight hours of sleep. Each day the same, the regimen unvarying. Devon sat hidden atop his hill, overseeing the busy, hive activity of Cypress Corners. At the noon, he finished the last of the bread and cheese. Afterward, he still seemed to watch the valley, but his gaze was inward, speculating about his dreams. Toward dusk, he visited the futile rabbit snares. Then he returned to the valley overlook to await darkness.
    It was considerably later when Rachel climbed the secret path to the crest. The swollen moon had long since risen; the bell summons to Cypress Corners’ thrice-weekly prayer assembly was hours past. The autumn chill had