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thrust into his stomach.  
    â€œBeau,” asked Mary, “Would you kindly hang your coat and go wash?”  Her words lingered in the thick air.  Sam tensed for an assault as Beau turned and slipped past him into the kitchen.  “Please forgive my son, Mr. Dreher,” Mary said.  “Our household voted with the rest of the island to remain loyal to the Union, but I’m afraid his emotions do get the better of him.”  A Rebel sympathizer, then—and here he was, a Union sailor, in his undershirt, visiting unannounced in the family parlor with the man’s mother.  Sam was relieved; returning from this particular mission after a brawl would be most difficult to explain.  
    Mary quickly finished the patch on Sam’s tunic.  True to her word, her work was finely done.  He thanked her.  “While I’m here, ma’am, I might see to some of those loose clapboards in the back of the house,” Sam offered.  Mary was in no position to refuse.  Many times Beau had promised to make those very repairs, but his promises had gone unfulfilled, and cold weather was coming.  
    â€œI would be most grateful,” she replied.  
    As Sam returned to his work outside, Beau re-entered the sewing room.  “How can you have him in our home?” he demanded.  
    â€œHe’s been a nothing but a gentleman,” Mary answered. “and the rain barrel is repaired.”  
    â€œThat would have been finished by Sunday,” he spat, and retreated to his workbench in the kitchen.  
    â€œDid the boat come in early today, Beau?” she asked.   
    â€œIt was a poor day.  Most of us were idle.”  Then, silence.
    At the back of the Daisey house, Sam studied the loose clapboards.  He was in luck; the bad ones were down low where he could reach them if he stood on something.   Near the shed he found a chopping block, rolled it into place, and began to work.  Sam drove the nails with a practiced swing, holding the extras between his teeth.  Moving quickly, he soon secured two clapboards across the whole width of the house.  He could see at least three more that needed attention.  Suddenly, in mid-strike, he paused.  Someone was watching him.  
    Her dress was dark red, long-sleeved, with ruffles framing a white lace collar.  Her hair was parted in the center like her mother’s, swept up into a braid held by a ribbon.  She carried a basket and a clump of pink Meadow Beauty, some of its too-fragile petals already falling at her feet.
    Her eyes were dark, and her gaze was strong under delicate brows and a high forehead.  Her lips were full, and parted slightly as if to speak; indeed, she wanted desperately to speak.  Sam would find out much later that she had stood there for quite a long time, watching him work, waiting patiently for him to notice her.  So intent was he with his hammer and nails that she was afraid she might wait for hours.
    Stepping down from the chopping block with all the grace he could muster, he took the nails from between his teeth and tossed them to the ground.  He removed his cap.  “My name is Sam Dreher,” was all he could manage to say.  
    â€œI am Anna Daisey,” she replied.
    Later Anna would claim that it was his uniform she noticed first: the jaunty flat cap with its elaborate gold embroidery, the smart blue tunic and trousers, and the perfectly shined boots.  It made for a good beginning to the story, for Sam did cut a fine figure in his uniform, but it was not the truth.  What really caught her eye was the young man himself, just a little older than her sixteen years, strong and handsome, so humbly and cheerfully working to repair a home that was not his for the benefit of people he did not know.  It was a sight that she had seldom seen before, and would not commonly see again.
    The pause after their introductions was long