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seems like such a personal thing.”
    “Ah, that’s exactly why I like them!” The librarian’s eyes sparkled, and he spread his thin arms wide with excitement. “All the fiction that’s sweeping the country . . . it’s all very well. But when you compare it with this book”—he paused to nod at the book she held—”why, there’s more life in those few pages than in a hundred novels! The blood and sweat of real men—such adventure and excitement!”
    Sheepishly she asked, “Is there a love story in it?”
    He smiled. “Of course! Gilbert Winslow could have married the daughter of the most powerful noble in all of England, but he chose to marry a poor girl named Humility Cooper—though not before they had endured many hardships, you understand.” He paused and a pensive look crossed his face. “This country has changed, I’m afraid. Gilbert Winslow and the others on that ship suffered a great deal in order to accomplish something they thought was worthwhile: to find a place where they could worship God as they chose. I’m not sure they’d be too happy with what they’d find if they were alive today.”
    “But, people are free to worship in this country!”
    “Yes. And they’re just as free not to worship,” he answered. He looked at her sharply. “If I may be so bold as to ask—are you a Christian, Rebekah?”
    “Why, I’ve been a member of the church since I was ten years old!”
    “That’s not necessarily the same thing, Rebekah,” Mayberry said quietly. “Think of it: the Pilgrim Fathers gave up everything to follow Christ—and most of us today just sit and warm pews! No, Gilbert Winslow would be pretty unhappy with us, I’m afraid.”
    She looked down at the book thoughtfully. It would be wonderful to learn about the Winslows. Raising her eyes, she said, “I’d like to read it.”
    He smiled and said, “Consider it a gift, then. That’s my book, not the library’s.” Ignoring her protests, he bustled off, leaving her alone. She read all morning; when he checked on her at noon she thanked him again, her eyes shining. “It’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever read in my life!”
    “Ah!” he said approvingly, “I knew you’d like it. Who knows—you may meet one of his descendants someday. There are quite a few Winslows around—most of them in Boston, I think. Their family goes back to Gilbert Winslow. The Winslow Fur Company was quite a successful business in its day, I believe.”
    He insisted on taking her to the restaurant across the street for lunch. “I hate to eat alone! Come along, now. You must humor a grumpy old man!”
    They had a pleasant meal; then they went back to the library and she read until nearly four. When she left, he waved her thanks away. “Come again tomorrow. We’ll have tea—and talk some more about the Winslows!”
    The snow had not melted, and there was a hint of more in the steely skies above her as she made her way back to the room. She stopped and spent the money Tyler had given her for a few groceries and wood, then hurried to get home before dark. He was not there, so she built a small fire and read until the flame burned down. As the embers died away, the chill soon penetrated the room, and having no more means of heat, she crawled into bed for warmth.
    For a long time she could not sleep. An unsettled feeling gnawed at her, worse than the icy cold that gripped the room. She tried to pray, but the words seemed to flow into empty air as though she were talking to herself. Are you a Christian? Mr. Mayberry had asked. She had always taken her religion for granted; it had been good enough for her when things were going well, but now it seemed thin and ineffectual. She thought of Winslow’s journal, and of the Pilgrims who had fled in a small boat on the open seas, risking their lives for the privilege of worship; she knew they’d had something she did not possess.
    She drifted off to sleep, awakening when Tyler came in. He did not speak,