"But you are white."

"To you maybe."

Elizabeth looked up at him, her face tight with worry and guilt.

"You can't be responsible for what every man of your acquaintance does," he said easily.

"But what can I do to help?"

There were dark flecks in her gray eyes; her brows arched out, like wings. He inhaled. She smelled sweet, of dried summer flowers and talcum. Above the filmy fabric that was tucked into the neckline of her bodice, her skin was very white; there was a pulse in the hollow of her throat. He knew his nearness was making her uneasy, but he just didn't want to move away.

Elizabeth said: "I have some money. Is there anything at all I can give you that would help?"

Give me your mouth, he wanted to say to her. Maybe she saw this in his face, because she drew in her breath in a soft sound of surprise and froze, like a doe surrounded by torches in the night, her eyes burning furiously.

"This is dangerous business," Nathaniel said. He did not know himself exactly what business he meant.

"It's too late for that," she said with a calm that surprised him. "I'm already in it."

"So you are." Nathaniel murmured.

It was not the first glimpse he had had of the iron core in her, but it was the clearest. Of its own accord, one finger raised itself to touch her cheek. He wanted her to come to him of her own free will, but it was very hard to be here with her and not touch her.

Startled, Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it.

Hannah came streaking into the room suddenly, and they separated, moving to opposite sides of the hearth, as if they had been doing what they had both been thinking of doing. Nathaniel turned to catch his daughter, who threw herself at him and began to climb up one arm, dragging herself up by his hair until he cried out, half laughing, and managed to get a hold of her long enough to disentangle himself. "Finished with the chores," she panted. "That poor old moose is hanging in the beech, and I want to sit by Elizabeth before Otter comes and takes the best spot."

* * *

There was nothing more for it, and so Elizabeth allowed Hannah to pile books on her lap and took the seat she was offered by the corner of the hearth, where Hawkeye had set a pine knot burning on a slab of stone. Its light was clear and bright enough to read by.

"This is my favorite," she said. "And Grandfather is fond of this one, and this is Father's—"

"Enough," said Falling—Day, exasperated. Her hands were full of mending, but she paused to give Hannah a meaningful look. The child sighed, and sat at her grandmother's feet, accepting the bit of sewing that was passed into her hands.

They all had work to do: Many-Doves was piecing leather into a moccasin, Hawkeye picked up where he had left off with the traps, Otter set himself to making bullets. Nathaniel sat on a stool across from Elizabeth, and began to braid rawhide. Only Chingachgook had the leisure to both watch and listen to Elizabeth, but the look in his eyes was anything but critical or judging, and she did not mind him so much.

"Start with some of the Poor Richard," he suggested.

Elizabeth opened the volume and began to read at random:

"It would be thought a hard Government that should tax its people One—tenth part of their TIME, to be employed in its service. But Idleness taxes many of us much more; if we reckon all that is spent in absolute sloth, or doing of nothing; with that by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life  . . ."

* * *

Chingachgook murmured in amusement each time Poor Richard's pronouncements were put forth. When Elizabeth stopped to turn the page, she looked up and saw Falling—Day's look of disbelief and scorn.

"A man who talks so much as that Poor Richard has little time to use his hands to work," she said, to which Chingachgook only smiled, but both Otter and Nathaniel laughed out loud.

Hannah was inching her way across the floor slowly as Elizabeth read, never raising her eyes from her needlework. Eventually she managed to come close enough to lean against Elizabeth's knee. Touched by this sign of the child's affection, Elizabeth was tempted to reach out and stroke her hair, but she felt Many-Doves ' gaze on her and pulled back her hand.

After a while, Elizabeth put aside the Almanac and picked up Gulliver's Travels, a volume more familiar to her. She settled into the story, and read for a good time, the only other sound being the fire in the hearth, and the wind caught now and then in the chimney. When she thought to glance up at her audience, she sometimes caught one or the other looking at her: quite often it was Many-Doves , who seemed to be focused in a thoughtful and reserved way on Elizabeth herself, and less interested in the story. Most often it was Nathaniel's direct but guarded gaze. Twice Elizabeth became flustered, and lost her place, until she forced herself to keep her eyes on the page.

At one point, Falling—Day rose to put more wood on the fire. Elizabeth took this opportunity to take up the last volume.

"Oh," she said, so that her audience looked up. "I'll do my best, but I'm afraid my Scots is lacking." And she opened the Burns.

Here Stewarts once in glory reign'd,

And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;

But now unroof'd their palace stands,

Their sceptre fallen to other hands;

Fallen indeed, and to the earth,

Whence grovelling reptiles take their birth.

The injured Stewart line is gone,

A race outlandish fills their throne: An idiot race, to honour lost—