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bed of the wagon.
    Mercy’s friendship with Mrs. Brent opened up a whole new world to her. Besides introducing her to the Gospel, the former schoolmistress taught Mercy to speak correctly, to read and cipher numbers, to use proper table manners, to embroider, and other little niceties that her mother had never had the opportunity to learn.
    Mercy’s flock of a dozen guineas accompanied her across the yard, clucking their usual pot-rack! sounds. The size of small chickens, they were a dark gray color with light gray speckles. “Go back!” She shooed them away from the gate lest they follow her.
    Alternating the heavy basket from the crook of one arm to the other, she walked the half mile. Mrs. Brent’s stone cottage was in a sad state of disrepair, with weeds choking the garden, a shutter hanging askew beside an upstairs window, and broken shingles on the roof. Mercy hated to think that Elliott was as lazy as her brothers, but she didn’t recall his allowing things to go to pieces when Mrs. Brent was up and about. If she could spend more time here, she would be willing to attempt some of the repairs. But her father already complained enough about her leaving her chores to make the daily visit down the lane.
    Janet, who seemed to be more conscientious than her husband, answered the door. “You’re so dear to visit her, Miss Sanders,” she said, greeting Mercy with a smile. She was a softly rounded young woman with soot-colored hair and a jutting chin.
    Mercy glanced at the staircase and lowered her voice. “How is she today?”
    “The same—perhaps a little worse,” Janet whispered. “Would you like to go on up?”
    “Yes,” she replied and scooped the jar of pickled beets from the basket before handing it to Janet. The first bedroom from the upstairs landing was Mrs. Brent’s. A rock the size of a teapot kept the door propped open so that Janet could listen for her call.
    “I thought I heard your voice, Mercy,” Mrs. Brent said. She lay propped on pillows against an iron bedstead, so frail that it appeared a mild wind could sweep her away like a fallen leaf. Palsy, Doctor Rhodes had diagnosed, had robbed her of the ability to walk and now was moving its way up through her arms.
    “I brought you some beets,” Mercy said, leaning forward to kiss the wrinkled forehead.
    “You did?”
    She held the jar up so that the sunlight slanting through the window would touch the glass.
    “Look how they sparkle like rubies,” Mrs. Brent breathed, lifting a trembling hand to touch the jar.
    “There, there—don’t tire yourself.” Mercy eased the hand back to her friend’s chest and took a seat in the bedside chair. “I just hope your digestion can still bear them.”
    “Oh, I can bear them all right. Do you think there will be pickled beets in heaven, Mercy?”
    “Mrs. Brent … don’t talk that way.”
    “Oh, forgive me,” the gentle soul replied. “I don’t want to cause you sadness. But you must understand that I’m looking forward to that place, dear child. Remember, we weren’t created for this world.”
    A lump came to Mercy’s throat. “It’s just that I’m going to miss you so much.”
    “But only for a little while.” Mrs. Brent’s faded blue eyes were shining now. “But here … hold my hand. We’ve plans to make.”
    Memories of sitting at her dying mother’s bedside assailed Mercy as she wrapped her fingers carefully around the fragile hand. Yes, she knew that a better place awaited her friend, but such talk was so hard to hear. And deep inside she believed, though without rationale, that if plans were not made for the afterlife, then the death could not occur. If she did not love Mrs. Brent so much, she would have made some excuse and left the room.
    “First, my little herd,” the woman said, seeming not to notice her discomfort. “There are six now, counting the two calves born this spring. I want you to have them when I’m gone.”
    Mercy had to shake her head. Mrs. Brent’s