She had eight of them, each more well behaved, attentive, and hardworking than the last. Each with some talent, small or large, that she could clearly see and lovingly encourage. Each with problems small enough to address carefully after long contemplation. And five of the eight were girls, two of whom—Dolly Smythe with her painfully crossed eyes, and her own Hannah—showed real curiosity and intelligence. This final blessing she kept to herself for she did not wish to discourage the other children by showing favoritism.

Now they worked with heads bent over precious paper, quills held tightly in curled fingers. Once a day they put aside their hornbooks to practice penmanship, and they copied today's sentence from the board exactly as she had put it there:

No man is an island, entire of itself —

John Donne

Elizabeth watched Ruth Glove chewing her lower lip almost ragged in concentration as she carefully dipped the quill in the ink pot she shared with her sister. Behind Ruth and Hezibah, Ephraim Hauptmann had put down his quill. No doubt he had rushed through the sentence and produced something barely legible.

"If you are satisfied with your work, Ephraim, then sit quietly until we are finished," Elizabeth said to him. "However, if you think you could do better, you might try again."

He picked up his quill with a resigned sigh. Ephraim was a good boy, but his mind did tend to wander from the task at hand. Not so Ian McGarrity, who would fill the whole paper if she let him. Elizabeth watched Ian squint at the board even from the spot closest to it, and wondered once again when she should speak to his parents about his eyesight. The McGarritys had no money for spectacles, but Elizabeth could and in fact intended to buy some for the boy when she was next in Johnstown or Albany. First there would need to be some arrangement; she would have to accept half of a pig, or a keg of maple syrup, or something that the McGarritys could spare as payment, to suit their sense of equity.

The only sounds in the room were Henrietta Hauptmann's labored breathing, the scratching of quills, and the ticking of Elizabeth's little clock on the desk in front of her. Absent—mindedly, she paged through the bible, searching with only half her concentration for tomorrow's penmanship verse. This half hour was one of the few times she had for her own thoughts in an otherwise busy school morning, for all the children were needed at home in the afternoon and she was determined to fit not only reading, writing, and arithmetic into each day, but also some rudimentary history and geography. Many-Doves could no longer spare the time to help, and thus Elizabeth could not conduct extra lessons with the older and more advanced students: Dolly, Hannah, and Rudy McGarrity needed more complex arithmetic and they were ready to start French. Perhaps in the fall. Elizabeth closed the bible and turned and looked out the window.

The haze on the lake had not yet burned off: it would be a hot day. She suppressed the urge to pull at her bodice, which was uncomfortably tight these days, and especially uncomfortable in the heat. As she did many times every day, she wished herself back in Kahnyen’keháka dress. Her students wore loose—fitting over shirts of airy muslin and light, high—wasted summer full frocks. Her own summer clothing was made for the damp, cool mornings of Oakmere. She would have to have some dresses made, and soon.

Elizabeth sighed again, and tried to focus on a suitable verse for the next day's lesson. For some time she had been considering "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself," but each time she came across the sentence Moses Southern's scowl rose in her mind's eye and she felt incapable of adequately defending this choice. And when she thought of Moses, she must also think of his daughter. She could not deny it was a relief not to have Jemima in her classroom, but neither could she deny that this was a guilty pleasure. The little girl needed the experience of school, even if Elizabeth did not especially enjoy the challenge she presented. Once again she thanked God for her sweet—natured and biddable students.

"Miss?"

The small voice startled her out of her daydream. Ephraim Hauptmann stood before her desk, his hands folded in front of himself. His usually pale seven—year—old face was flushed the color of ripe strawberries, and under the luxuriant fringe of hay—colored hair his eyes darted this way and that, unwilling to meet hers. The classroom went suddenly even more still than it had been.

"Yes, Ephraim, what is it?"

"Please, miss," he said in a whisper that was heard in every corner of the room. "My winkle's got stuck."

Elizabeth blinked. The little boy blinked back at her, his eyes as round as pennies, his color deepening to plum. She looked more carefully at his grubby hands, crossed so primly in front of himself, and saw the glint of dark glass between his fingers. His ink pot

Biting her lip, she looked down at her own hands, at a fading scar on her thumb. Elizabeth looked at anything and everything that might keep her from laughing out loud. From the corner of her eye, she stole a look at the class. Each child sat there completely engaged, waiting for her to solve this problem, as if it were an everyday occurrence for little boys to try ink pots on for size. Which, Elizabeth mused to herself, might be the case. She wondered what other mischief she had overlooked.

"I said, I've got my——”

“I heard you, Ephraim," Elizabeth interrupted him. "I'm thinking."

The first hushed giggles came from Ephraim's sister Henrietta, with Hannah fast behind. Elizabeth sent them what was meant to be a firm look, but which she thought probably came closer to a grimace.