Clara's expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But Samuel knew her well enough to recognize the sorrow that appeared behind her smile.
"What's your name, darling?"
"Annie."
"Well, Annie, come sit with us."
The girl hesitated.
"My mama said not to trouble you."
"You're not troubling us."
Clara stood.
"Would you like something to eat?"
Annie looked at the basket.
Then nodded.
Clara gently took her hand.
"Come along."
Samuel watched them disappear into the kitchen.
Then he looked toward the garden.
The unfinished trellis could wait.
There were more important things to do.
Annie lived with her mother in a small rented cabin below the eastern ridge.
Her father had died the previous autumn after a logging accident, and her mother had been trying to support three children by washing clothes for families in Blackwood.
The work was irregular.
The wages were poor.
And the family had already fallen behind on rent.
Clara learned these things gradually.
Not because she interrogated the child, but because Annie began speaking once she realized no one was going to scold her for being hungry.
Clara placed a thick slice of bread on a plate.
Then added butter, apple preserves, and a warm cup of milk.
Annie stared.
"All of that?"
Clara smiled.
"Of course."
The little girl looked toward the doorway.
"Can I take some home?"
Clara's throat tightened.
"Certainly."
She fetched a clean cloth and wrapped several slices of bread.
Then she added two apples, a small jar of preserves, and a piece of cheese.
Annie watched in astonishment.
"That's too much."
Clara shook her head.
"There's enough."
The girl hesitated.
Then whispered, "Mama says we mustn't take charity."
Clara pulled a chair beside her.
"Well, sweetheart, perhaps we can make an arrangement."
Annie looked up.
"What kind?"
Clara smiled.
"I've been needing help gathering eggs, and my husband is hopeless at sorting lavender."
From the doorway, Samuel protested.
"I heard that."
Clara ignored him.
"If you'd like to help us occasionally, we could send you home with bread and whatever else we have."
Annie's face brightened.
"I can gather eggs."
"Wonderful."
"And I can pull weeds."
Clara laughed.
"Even better."
Samuel stepped inside.
"I can pull weeds too."
Clara looked at him.
"You usually pull up the flowers."
Annie giggled.
Samuel pretended to be offended.
And something changed.
The little girl stopped looking frightened of him.
She smiled.
That small smile became the beginning of a friendship that would shape the final decades of Clara and Samuel's lives.
Annie returned the following Saturday.
Then the Saturday after that.
Soon her younger brother began accompanying her.
Then her mother came to thank Clara for the food.
Her name was Ruth.
She was thirty-three, exhausted, and proud in the way people sometimes become when they have spent too many years needing help they cannot afford to accept.