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miserable.”
    “Miserable?” The word seemed to shock Elizabeth.
    “Yes. Wondering just who Dad was and if he cared at all for you.”
    To Christine’s surprise, Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed. “Well, he did keep me guessing,” she admitted. “I thought he was Lydia’s husband. It annoyed me because he . . . he seemed to . . . to pay some attention to me as well.”
    “But you wanted his attention.”
    “Not if he was a married man, I didn’t.” Elizabeth was emphatic.
    “But you flirted—just a little bit.” Christine couldn’t help but prolong her mother’s obvious discomfort a little further.
    Elizabeth’s face was now rosy with color. “I did not flirt. Well, I . . . I wished him to notice me . . . at first. But when I . . . when I thought he was married to Lydia, I certainly did nothing . . . nothing at all to draw his attention.”
    Elizabeth lowered her eyes and played with straightening her already smooth skirts. Christine could not hide her smile. She had never seen her mother so disturbed. She reached out and took Elizabeth’s hand.
    “Mama,” she said, “if I’d seen him, I think I might not have been as honorable as you. I might have flirted—even if I had thought him a married man. He is so . . . so handsome . . . and in his uniform—”
    “You would not have,” declared Elizabeth, chin lifting. “I have raised you better than that.”
    She must have recognized the teasing in Christine’s eyes and realized she’d been baited. She gave the hand on hers a little shake. “You silly child,” she said with a bit of a laugh. There was no chiding in her tone or words.
    Christine leaned back in her seat again. “Tell me about it,” she invited. “What was it like to live all alone in the teacherage in the country? Was it lonely?”
    The flush left Elizabeth’s face, and in its place Christine could see a thoughtfulness. A looking back on those years with fondness.
    “Lonely? I suppose it was . . . in a way . . . at times. But no, not really. I missed my family. Dreadfully at first. I had never been away from home before. But . . . but even so I always had this strange and . . . and very real sense of peace that I was right where I should be. I’d sit in that lumpy old chair and sip my tea from my china cup at the end of the day and see those faces of the dear children I was privileged to teach and . . .”
    She stopped. A pensive look caused her eyes to shine with unshed tears. “I suppose they are all adults now with families . . . and struggles . . . and rewards of their own.”
    Christine nodded silently.
    “But I . . . I still like to think that somehow . . . somehow I made a difference in their lives. The little I could teach them—the love that I could not help but show them—I like to think that it helped in some way to . . . to shape them into whom they have become.”
    “I’m sure it did.” The words were not more than a whisper.
    They sat in silence for a few moments. Christine assumed her mother’s full attention now was being given to the loading and unloading of goods on the platform of the Lacombe station, so she was surprised when Elizabeth spoke again.
    “I’ve often thought of going back. Of inviting myself to a community picnic or a Christmas program. Some . . . some community event where I could see the most people in the shortest time. Someplace where they gather. But I’ve . . . I’ve never had the opportunity. Nor the courage.”
    “The courage?”
    The train’s whistle blew, long and loud. With a shudder that rattled the adjoined cars, the wheels began to turn once again. They were moving on.
    “Things change so over the years. I guess . . . I guess I was afraid that I might . . . well . . . discover something that would damage my precious memories. Memories are so fragile, you know. Sometimes I feel they are best left undisturbed.”
    Christine thought about the words. At length she dared inquire, “Is that why you have never accepted Dad’s