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David said, “That one was from Ohio.”
    “That’s in Delaware,” Luther replied.
    “The dogtooth violets are out,” David gossiped.
    “Wery nice, dogtooth wiolets,” Luther agreed. “Yellow.”
    At two-thirty Luther jumped up and down and pointed to three cars turning into the drive. “The Quakers is coming!” he shouted. “Got to get our hats!” Long ago he had been told that Quakers did not mind if a man wore his hat to church, and now he tore up the lane so that he would be ready for worship.
    Each Sunday some religious group came to the poorhouse to conduct services. On this Sunday in April the Quakers from Solebury Meeting had come. The Quakers, David had noticed, always came a little early. They talked with the poorhouse people, not bending down a little as others did, but straight up. Women would look right at Toothless and say, “Tom, thy old farm looks very good,” and Tom would say, “How’s the winter wheat?” and nobody looked away in embarrassment because that farm was no longer Tom’s. ThePresbyterians and Baptists were more fun than the Quakers, because they sang, but the Quakers came earlier and looked right at you.
    When church started David and Luther wandered in as if it were to be any Sunday in the world, but this day was to be different. In the first place, Luther forgot to put his hat on until fifteen minutes of silence had passed. Then he glared defiantly at the tall Quaker on the facing bench and slapped his torn hat on his head. This Sunday was different, too, because David had a penny for collection. Toothless Tom had given it to him. And finally, there was a girl at services this day, a young Quaker girl about David’s age. She sat with her father on the facing bench and looked very solemn.
    Marcia Paxson was taller than David, even then, more sure of herself, darker, quicker when she turned her head than he. Through the long service David sat in rich silence, clutching his penny and staring at the girl. Across the poorhouse church she stared back. Twice her father nudged her not to be so rude, but her flashing eyes came again and again to rest upon the snub-nosed face.
    David would never forget that quiet Sunday. Sometimes the Quakers spoke at meeting, sometimes not. On this day no one spoke, and a fly, drowsily awakened from winter, droned more noisily than all the Quakers. A mad woman who spent some days in the mad row and some days semi-free was free this day. She rocked back and forth, and suddenly began to hum a whispery, airy chant. The fly flew past and she was diverted. The ghostly singing stopped.
    Now sunlight from the glowing spring day moved across the hall as it had when Troy burned. The Quakers from Solebury pondered in their hearts the will of God and found no reason to speak aloud, so the pregnant silence continued, and David stared at the strange girl. Finally, after an hour, the girl’s father leaned over and shook hands with a white-haired woman. The meeting was over and men began to talk. Luther said, “Hmmm! No singin’. No sermon. Hmmm!” He tried to drag David out with him, but the boy lagged behind.
    He had no clear reason as to why he stayed that day, but he was very glad that he did, for the girl’s father and mother came up to him and said, “Thee is David Harper. Miss Clapp told us about thee.” They reached down and shook hands with him as if he were a man. The man said, “I’m Richard Paxson. This is my daughter, Marcia.”
    The four of them walked out into the brilliant sunlight and stood between the two gray buildings. Mrs. Paxson said, “Some day thee must come to visit us,” and David felt that a very important thing was happening to him. He was assured of this when Mrs. Paxson went to their car and produced four books:
Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coast
was one of them. He held the books in his hands, but Luther Detwiler, who had been watching, rushed up and took the books.
    “Did he say thank you?” the mad Dutchman