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  A wagon driven by a tall, thin woman rum-bled around a bend in the road.

  “It’s Mrs. Robertson,” said Mary. “She doesn’t have a husband. She comes to see Ma.”

  I sank down on the stump. The wagon creaked to a stop.

  “Good morning, Mary. Good morning, Trevor,” said Mrs. Robertson. She stepped out of the wagon. “Trevor, be a good boy and look after Ben for me.”

  Mary said, “This is Ellie from England. And Max.”

  Mrs. Robertson smiled. Her teeth were big. She smelled like horses. When she had gone inside, Mary said, “Now we’ll get to have tea. Ma saves it for company.”

  Mary leaned closer to me. “Mrs. Robertson is a widow,” she whispered. “She talked her poor husband to death. It’s true, even though Ma gets mad when you say it. And everyone knows she’s looking for a new husband.”

  Mary gave me a sly look. “Maybe Mrs. Robertson will marry your papa.”

  I clenched my hands into fists. Mary was a stupid girl. She said stupid things. I was glad when Ma called us to come inside.

  Ma sliced a round, dark, plum cake. She set out a teapot decorated with pink roses and pale green leaves, and matching teacups. She poured cups of hot, weak tea.

  I sipped my tea slowly. I could feel Mrs. Robertson staring at me. I tried to think of something to say. “We had tea every day in England. And little cakes with pink icing. Didn’t we, Max?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max through a mouthful of plum cake.

  “We did.” I could hear my voice getting louder. “Don’t you remember Clarissa and her tea trolley?”

  Mary’s eyes flashed. But Mrs. Robertson laughed loudly, showing all her teeth. “I should think you’ll be missing a lot more than fancy cakes and tea trolleys.”

  Mrs. Robertson raised her eyebrows at Ma. They were bushy with hairs growing straight up. Mary was wrong. Papa would never marry her!

  “I hope the children’s father knew what he was doing when he headed off into the wilderness without them,” she said.

  Ma frowned, but Mrs. Robertson went on. “It’s as easy as apple pie to get yourself lost.”

  I sucked in my breath. What was Mrs. Robertson saying? Papa would never get lost!

  “I’ve heard of many settlers who left behind part of their family and never did find them again.” Mrs. Robertson waggled her eyebrows again. “Many settlers. Why — ”

  Crash!

  The pink rosebud teacup slid from my fingers. It smashed on the cabin floor.

  “Mercy,” said Mrs. Robertson. “The girl’s as white as a sheet.”

  I stared at the broken cup. Mrs. Robertson was a liar! A liar! Papa was coming back. He had promised!

  From far away, I heard Ma say, “You’ve frightened her with your talk.” And then, “Don’t cry, Ellie. It’s just a teacup.”

  “It’s not just a teacup, Ma,” said Mary. “It’s the rosebud set you brought all the way from Scotland.”

  Mrs. Robertson’s face tightened with disapproval.

  I hugged my arms to my chest.

  “I never — ” Mrs. Robertson started to say.

  Ma reached for me. I pushed her away. Max stared at us, his eyes like round black pebbles. I lunged outside and slammed the cabin door.

  Chapter 6 A Surprise in the Barn

  I crouched in a corner of the barn. A pointed face peered at me from behind a bucket. It had quivering whiskers and tiny, frightened eyes. A mouse! I held my breath.

  The barn door creaked. Sun streamed across the floor. The mouse scurried into a pile of sacks

  Ma stood in the middle of the barn.

  “Ellie,” she said.

  I squeezed myself into a little ball. I tried to take tiny breaths. I could hear my heart thumping.

  Ma stood very still. She looked like a mountain covered in blue and white flowers.

  “Ellie.”

  I pretended I was the mouse. I pretended I was buried under the pile of sacks.

  “Are you here, Ellie?”

  Go away!

  I was surprised Ma didn’t hear me, the words were so loud in my head.

  Go away! Go away!

  Ma sighed and left. My legs hurt. I stood up and brushed away a few wisps of hay.

  I frowned. When Ma didn’t find me, she would come back to the barn. I needed a better hiding place. I looked around uncertainly. There was a stall with a wooden door at one end of the barn. I hesitated. Then I undid the latch and pulled the door open. The stall was cool and shadowy. The floor was covered in a thick layer of straw.

  Something pounced through the air. And tumbled back into the straw. Something small and black and fluffy.

  “Oh!” I cried. I stepped back.

  A fuzzy brown ball scooted towards me, humping its back and taking tiny bouncy jumps.

  Kittens! I sucked in my breath. I slid into the stall and closed the door. I knelt down.

  The straw was full of wiggly little balls. I counted. One, two, three, four … no, five kittens. I put out my hand and touched a tiny head.

  In England I had a cat for one whole day. The milkman gave it to me. I hid it in my bedroom and Clarissa brought a saucer and cream and some meat scraps. Then Grandmother found it and took it away. She said cats scratched and were dirty and had fleas.

  I cupped my hand and picked up one of the tiny kittens. It was black with a snowy white chest and a tiny pink nose.

  My hand was filled with a soft, throbbing ball. A pink sliver of tongue shot out and licked my finger. The kitten’s tongue felt cool and rough, like Papa’s chin when he didn’t shave.

  I picked up each kitten and cradled it in my hand until I heard its soft purr.

  Then I sat right down in the straw and stuck out my legs. One of the kittens tried to scramble over. He dug his tiny claws into my stocking.

  Whump! He flopped over on his back. Then he gave one huge pounce and landed on my shoe. He grabbed the lace and made little growling sounds deep in his throat.

  I couldn’t help laughing. I scooped him up and held him gently. He was brown with black stripes and a perfect black circle around one eye.

  “I’m going to call you Pirate,” I said.

  I forgot about hiding from Ma. I forgot about Mrs. Robertson. I was too busy playing with the kittens. Pirate was my favorite. He was such an explorer. I buried him in a pile of straw. He kept himself very still for a minute and then exploded like a cannon. Bits of straw dangled from his nose.

  “Me-ow!” Pirate pounced on the black kitten’s back, and they rolled over and over.

  I’ll come every day, I thought happily. I’ll come every day to see the kittens until Papa gets back.

  Then I heard the barn door creak. I heard quick footsteps.

  I froze. I tried not to breathe.

  The footsteps stopped. I heard Mary’s sharp voice. “Those kittens are mine. You can’t have them — not even one!”

  Chapter 7 Wild Animals

  “I don’t want one,” I said.

  I stood up. Mary was blocking the door. I shrank against the side of the stall.

  Mary was holding a small tin jug. She knelt down and poured creamy milk into a bowl. The kittens mewed and squeaked. They tumbled over each other to get to the bowl.

  Mary gave a satisfied smile. “Their mother Patsy was eaten by a fox. So I’m their mother now.”

  A fox! How could Mary sound so calm? I bit my lip. I watched the kittens. They made tiny lapping noises and their tails twitched back and forth. They drank until their chins were white and their tummies were round plump balls. Then three of the kittens curled up in the straw and began to purr. Pirate pounced on the little black kitten’s tail. The two rolled over in a squealing ball.

  Mary laughed.

  Without thinking, I said, “I named him Pirate.”

  Mary was silent. Her freckles looked like yellow polka dots on her pale cheeks. Then she said in a cross voice, “I haven’t given them names yet.” She pulled Pirate away from the black kitten. “Mind
your manners, you bad thing.” I thought Mary sounded like her pa when he scolded her.

  Mary rubbed the black kitten between his ears. She picked up the jug. “I have to get back now. Ma wants me to pick berries.” She sighed. “You’d better come too. After all, it’s not fair if I have to do all the work.”

  Ma gave us a bucket. We walked along a trail that climbed up a wooded hillside behind the cabin. It was cooler in the trees. Patches of sun and shade lay across the ground like stripes on a zebra. I thought about the fox that ate the mother cat Patsy. I stayed close to Mary and tried not to look into the cool green shadows.

  “The best strawberries are at the top,” said Mary.

  We climbed the hill slowly, then stopped to catch our breath. We sat on a fallen log and Mary drew letters in the dirt with a stick.

  Suddenly there was a cracking sound in the bushes. Leaves rustled.

  Mary stopped drawing. We both stared hard at the trees.

  “It might be wolves,” said Mary. She sounded excited. “Are there wolves in England?”

  I swallowed. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  A branch snapped. My heart thumped. I could hear Mary breathing heavily beside me.

  Mary whispered, “Wolves … or a bear. These woods are full of wild animals.”

  My legs felt watery. I tried to shut out Mary’s voice. It wasn’t true. She was just being mean again.

  Then a deer darted into the open. It stared at us with its huge dark eyes. It was so close I could see its black nose quivering. It bounded across the trail and disappeared into the forest.

  “Oh,” I said, weak with relief.

  Mary stood up. “Come on,” she said crossly. We climbed for a few more minutes and then came out into the sunshine. I could see a long way. I could see miles of forest with bits of the brown road showing.

  In one direction was the town where Papa had bought supplies. Somewhere in the other direction was our homestead. I was glad I had come now. I thought that if I stayed there long enough, I might even see Papa coming back.

  We picked strawberries in the hot sun. Plink plink plink. The bucket filled slowly. After that, we sat on a smooth, warm rock and ate some of the berries. They were the sweetest things I had ever tasted. My fingers turned red and sticky.

  Suddenly Mary jumped up. She said, “You carry the bucket first and then I’ll take a turn.”

  Mary walked quickly. Then she began to run down the hill. She ran as fast as the deer. One minute I could see Mary’s yellow dress flashing through the trees. Then she was gone.

  My heart thudded. I tried to run too, but the bucket banged against my legs. “Wait, Mary!” I shouted.

  My feet slipped on the steep ground. I dropped the bucket and berries spilled into the dirt. My knees felt like they were burning. I stared in horror at blood seeping through a hole in my stocking.

  I scooped up some of the berries. My eyes blurred with tears. I began to run again. The trees seemed to grow taller and darker, as though they were squeezing me. Suddenly the forest was alive with crackling and rustling noises.

  I thought, Wolves and bears! Wolves and bears!

  I ran, gasping for air. Mary was waiting a little ways down the trail, sitting on the fallen tree. She looked at me and then she took the bucket.

  She said sulkily, “It was just a joke. Don’t tell Ma.”

  By then I was crying hard. I didn’t say anything. I tried to wipe my face on my sleeve. It made smudgy wet marks.

  We walked silently back to the cabin. Ma washed the cut on my knee where I had fallen. Max watched, his eyes round.

  “It’s more of a scrape than a cut,” said Ma. She thought I was crying because I had hurt myself.

  After supper, Ma made jam with the strawberries. She gave me two gleaming jars. “Put them in your trunk. They’ll be nice next winter for you and Max and your papa.”

  Ma sounded so sure that Papa was coming back. If only I could be sure too. I went outside and looked at the empty brown road.

  There wasn’t a breath of wind. Then I heard a strange noise — an eerie howling that made goosebumps prickle the back of my neck. The dog growled from the shadows.

  The noise came again. I shivered.

  The cabin door opened. “Wolves,” said Mary triumphantly. She stood very close to me. “I told you there were wolves. Does it make you afraid?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Me neither,” said Mary. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  I heard the wolves one more time. Then I went inside. That night, I buried myself deep inside the quilt. I put my hands over my ears. I tried not to think of Papa

  Chapter 8 Chores

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Mary pounded the dasher up and down in the butter churn.

  “Do you know,” she said in a loud, important voice, “that I milked Celery, gathered the eggs and emptied the pail of ashes all before breakfast?”

  Up and down, up and down, went the dasher in Mary’s strong arms.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Lazy, lazy, lazy. That’s what it seemed to say to me. My cheeks burned.

  “Trevor and Max have been picking rocks in the field for days,” Mary went on. “It’s not fair, Ma. Ellie doesn’t do her share.”

  “Hush, Mary,” said Ma. She was kneading bread dough at the wooden table. Her big hands slapped the soft mound.

  I bit my lip. Making butter didn’t look hard. “I’ll take my turn now,” I said nervously.

  But when I took the handle, I felt clumsy. After a few minutes my arms ached.

  “In England,” I stammered, “we bought our butter from Edward the milkman.”

  Mary clicked her tongue. “Ma, that’s all she talks about. England!”

  I bent over the butter churn. I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears in. The cabin was quiet except for the thump of Ma’s hands on the dough.

  “Let me finish then,” said Mary in an impatient voice. She worked the paddle up and down with firm strokes. She began to sing.

  Come, butter, come.

  Come, butter, come.

  Peter standing at the gate

  Waiting for a butter cake

  Come, butter, come.

  Mary stopped churning. “There,” she said. “Done.”

  She glanced at Ma. Ma was bent over the bake kettle, lifting out a loaf of warm, yeasty bread.

  Mary gave me a long, cold look. The look said, “And with no help from you!”

  That afternoon Mary brought the kittens outside. She carried them in her apron skirt. She sat down in the shade of the wild cherry tree and spilled them gently onto the ground.

  For a minute, five furry balls huddled in the grass. Five stick tails twitched back and forth. Then the kittens began to explore. The little black kitten batted his paw at a stalk of grass. A gray and white kitten crouched and pounced at a stick. He made tiny growling noises in his throat and rolled over and over.

  The kittens bounded and crawled and skittered over the ground. When they got too far away, Mary lifted them up and brought them back.

  I sat on my stump and swung my feet. Ma had given me some gray wool for knitting and had got me started. I was knitting a scarf for Papa. I bent over the needles. I pretended not to see Mary.

  Mary lay down on her back. A kitten clambered up onto her tummy. She giggled and gave me a sideways look.

  I frowned and counted stitches. Max and Trevor were playing with pebbles in the dirt at the side of the road. They had lined them up into two armies and were planning their war happily.

  Click, click, click went my needles. Ma had said that by the time I finished the scarf, Papa would surely be back. Click, click, click. I wished I could knit as fast as Ma.

  After a few minutes, I rested my fingers. I looked up. Mary’s eyes were closed. Four fuzzy balls curled up in her apron, their tummies panting up and down, their tiny motors humming.

  Pirate was investigating a bucket. He stood on his back feet and reach
ed up with his front paws. He tried to poke his chin over the rim. Clang! The bucket clattered over. Pirate leaped sideways. He braced his feet and hissed.

  I laughed. I put down my knitting and rescued Pirate. His strong body squirmed in my hands. Then he tipped his face up and licked my cheek with his rough tongue.

  “Give him to me,” said Mary behind me. Her voice was cool. “I’m taking them back now.”

  I watched Mary carry the kittens to the barn, holding her apron in front of her like a basket.

  I thought, I don’t care.

  But I did. When I held Pirate, I didn’t miss Papa so much.

  Chapter 9 Stuck Like Molasses

  I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and stepped outside. For once, I was awake before Mary. I glanced back at the cabin and then ran across the yard to the henhouse.

  The henhouse was dark and full of soft rustling sounds. A hen squawked softly. “Shh,” I said.

  I took a big breath. I closed my eyes and stuck my hand under the smallest hen. I felt soft feathers and scratchy straw and then — a smooth, warm egg! I slid the egg out and laid it carefully in my basket.

  I worked my way from hen to hen, until my basket was heavy with speckled brown eggs. There was one big old hen I left to the end. My secret name for her was Grandmother because she had sharp eyes and a disapproving stare. Quickly I slipped my hand into her nest. I pulled out the biggest egg of all.

  Was it only a few weeks ago that I had been so afraid of hens? Smiling, I hurried back to the cabin. I couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Mary’s face.

  Mary was setting the table for breakfast. Her cheeks were pink. “Pa’s going to town,” she said. “He’s going to get the calico Ma ordered. He’ll be gone for two days.”

  I set my basket of eggs carefully on the table. I couldn’t understand why Mary was so excited. The town was just a scraggly row of cabins with a store at one end and a church at the other.

  “Last time he brought me new hair ribbons,” said Mary. “And peppermint sticks for everybody!”

  I started to say, “In England … ” and then I bit my tongue.

  Mary set a jug of milk on the table. She said, “I heard Pa tell Ma he’s going to ask around about your Papa. See if anyone’s heard anything.”