Posted 10-6-2019
Revised 06-24-2022

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 3

Wednesday, December 20, 1871

At sunup, Aunt Irene rechecked Myra's measurements. Following that, she folded up both party dresses, bagged them, and stowed them on the buckboard for her visit to Teresa Diaz. Myra stated her preference to stay home, and she allowed it.

Looking forward to having several hours alone, the farm girl was hoping that George Severin would not be coming over, that he would instead go with his father into the desert. Why shouldn’t he leap at the chance to ride around the foothills jawing with his fellow hunters, she thought, instead of pitching hog manure at a homestead where he wasn't wanted?

Of all the things she disliked about George, she especially disliked the way he kept talking to her like a girl. Myra could see through his wheedling ways. Boys like George didn’t care about a girl as a person; all that mattered to them was the way she looked. A boy wanted to socialize with a girl only to show her off to his friends, like a fisherman showed off the big trout he’d hooked. Any fetching girl would have served for that purpose. Myron had himself gone after Gilana for no better reason than that she had the prettiest face in Yuma. What she did and what she said didn’t matter a whole lot. What mattered was that he could make the other fellows jealous. It was only later on that he'd found out that she was actually the kind who was fun to be with.

Again Myra found herself glancing up the road, hoping not to see George riding in. To her satisfaction, the approach remained empty.

After feeding the animals, the girl went to milk the cows. Moore than any other farm chore, Myra disliked doing the milking. It just seemed so much like girl’s work. The books always talked about milkmaids, but never milk-lads. On the other hand, Myra fancied horses well enough, though caring for them was both messy and tedious.

It was so frustrating! Myron had become an outlaw to get away from the hard drudgery of farm life. A farmer had to keep scrabbling for pennies until he grew old, sick, and ready to go. Usually, though, he lost his farm to the bank and he’d have to die knowing that his life had been a total waste. If that was how the world rewarded hard work, it surely seemed better to be an outlaw. Wasn't it the outlaw who took his ease and did what he wanted until he needed money, and then he got it with the six-gun without breaking a sweat?

But it hurt to think back on the outlaw life. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to it made Myra’s mood even worse that it already was.

Well, sure, Gilana Hulbard was a girl who seemed to enjoy everything that went with it. Kicking things up in a saloon at least kept away from homemaking.

While doing her chores, Myra found that there was a loose fence rail, its spike having worked its way out of it. But her difficulty in finding a hammer reminded her of her resentment that George had reorganized the farm tools and equipment to his liking. Fine for him, but now she had to waste a lot of time looking for things. After a quarter she found the hammer and secured the fence rail, but it fired her up to go through the sheds and rearrange things according to her own preferences. Myra already knew where to start – at the old feed box. Irene had stopped using it when it had started to leak grain. Since then it had been used for junk storage. Miss Olcott fancied that it should be turned into a hiding place for her own valuables. Maybe down the road she’d find something she wanted to steal and would be in need of a place to hide it.

Inside the large, lidded box, was a mass of mouse nests and scrap wood. Upon digging a little deeper, she hit upon pieces of dry and cracking harness, worn out horseshoes, rusty iron, and broken things in need of repair. She started to wonder how much of it all could be sold to a junk dealer to get it out of the way.

Myra started sorting the refuse into piles upon the hay-littered floor. Near the bottom of the box she touched upon a dusty old wooden case, one bigger and deeper than a cigar box. She remembered it from years before when it was sitting upon a standing shelf beside her parents’ bed. Her mother had saved keepsakes in it – mostly personal letters. She now found that it was still locked and there was no key attached.

The redhead took the case into the light and checked the mechanism. She didn’t think it would be any problem getting it open. Myron had learned how to pick locks from Lydon Kelsey, the local youth who had himself learned breaking and entry from his uncle, a man now away doing time for burglary.

In need of a lock-picking tool, the girl checked the tin can of old nails that she had already found and selected a strong, slender one. As Myra was turning about, she noticed a moving shadow inside the rectangle of sunlight made by the open door.

“George!” she exclaimed.

“Howdy day,” young Severin said. “I was going to start the pen-cleaning again.”

“I thought you’d be going out with your pa looking for Thorn's body.”

“Oh, he asked me if I’d like to trail along. In fact, I wouldn't have minded that one bit, but I'd already told Mrs. Fanning that I'd be back at work today. Also, I just don't think that Pa and the others are going to find what they're looking for.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a hunch.”

“A convenient hunch.”

“Why convenient?” asked George.

“You never liked Thorn. Maybe you'd actually prefer to leave him to the vultures.”

“Did your aunt say I didn't like Thorn?”

“No.”

“Then why do you suppose I didn't? You don’t know anything about what went on. You said you’d never met Myron and that you'd never even gotten a letter from him.”

“Just a hunch,” she said in mimicry.

“As a matter of fact, the two of us weren’t friends,” the boy said. “But I do want him to be found, so this awful thing can be put behind you and Mrs. Fanning.”

“That’ld be nice, but what I want put behind me is all these chores. We've both got things to keep busy at.”

“Before you disappear, Miss Myra, there was something I wanted to ask.”

“What now?”

“Pa said you told him and Mr. Grimsley that you weren't so sure that Myron was dead.”

She shrugged. “I was just thinking out loud. It's not important.”

“How can your cousin being alive not be important?”

“I guess I was saying only what I hoped could be true. But, honestly, how could a person last this long out in the open -- hungry, no water, cold. And people say he’d been gut-shot. He’s got to be dead.”

“Well, I look at it the same way. But what if the outlaws actually did take him away alive?

“They wouldn't have done that.”

“How do you know?”

“Common sense. A wounded man would have slowed up their getaway. Those snakes would rather have finished him themselves than to doddle along with an injured man and get caught. Or so I think.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “By the way, are you still going to the party?”

Myra was glad to change of subject. “Nothing’s changed. Irene is dragging me to it. I just hope that you’re not going to make a pest of yourself while I'm there.”

He smiled. “Sorry, but if you don’t like company, you'll have to put up with more of it today. Dale and Kayley are planning to come over. They’ve gotten it into their heads that you want to get some dancing lessons.”

“Those silly females! I didn't ask for dancing lessons. It was all their own idea.”

“Yep, that’s sounds like the sort of kind of thing that those two would cook up.”

Myra sniffed. “For a lonely old farmstead, this place is getting more than its share of visitors.”

“Doesn’t a little company now and then serve to break up the routine?”

“To each his own,” said the girl, stepping widely around George on her way to the exit.

Young Severin called after her. “If you mind your manners, you’ll end up with a couple friends you can count on.”

Pausing, she looked back. “I’ll say one thing, Mr. Severin. It’ld be better to have a couple of girls chattering at me than have to stand around listening to you.”

“Oh, I'll be nearby, too. I'll be stopping in at the house for a bite to eat. I got accustomed to Mrs. Fanning feeding me up right well.”

“My aunt told me about your bottomless appetite. I hope you don't have anything against cold grub. Just don’t take too much time jawing instead of eating. You got chores to do!”

Myra picked up the locked box as she passed by it.

“What’s in that there little box?” George inquired.

“That’s for me to know, and you to...not find out.”

She left the barn then with the case tucked it under her right arm.

#

Once indoors, Myra checked the clock on the high shelf. It was more than an hour to noon, time enough to throw together a hot meal if she felt like it, but she had another pastime on her mind.

The girl reached into her coat pocket and took out the salvaged nail. Then, drawing up a chair at the table, she rechecked the case’s lock. It wasn't cleverly made and so, using the nail, she got it popped open in just a minute’s time. As expected, the thing was stuffed full of letters.

Myra she took the top letter and saw that it was from Aunt Claudelle. Inside was a card with a brief note wishing her mom well for the Christmas season. Myra couldn't remember ever meeting Claudelle. She had barely known even Uncle Amos.

But as uninformative as the missive was, it felt strange to be reading something written to her mother as if she were still alive. The words on paper seemed like a voice speaking though the long, empty years.

Myra went on to skim a few more of the letters. Addie Caldwell's most frequent correspondent had been Aunt Irene. Irene's letters tended to be long ones, mostly talking about what was going on back East. A lot of what Myra saw had been written during the short period that Irene had been married. One of them, with its ink tear-streaked, told how her husband had died in Tennessee.

Myra looked up at the clock again. The time was passing quickly. Though she wanted to keep on reading, she had to put together some kind of lunch for George. If she didn’t, Aunt Irene was going to make it a binding order next time and she didn’t want that. Also, if he showed up at the door and the food wasn't ready, the lazy cuss would stand around jabbering at her while he waited. The less talking they did, the better. Myra therefore opened a can of beans and spooned some of them into a pair of sauce dishes – one for George and one for herself. Hopefully, she could get hers eaten and be away from the table before he came in. In her opinion, a decent meal had to have meat, so she went to explore the pantry.

Her aunt kept the pantry door shut most of the time during the winter, with the little window to the outside half-open. That turned the small room into a cool space for food. There were some chubs of bologna wrapped in rags and sealed with paraffin. Though Myra didn’t like the task, the fragrant meat brought back positive recollections of Christmas time, when everyone was allowed to eat their fill.

Myra found a chub that Irene had already been cutting from. The farm girl chose to use that one, since sausage left open to the air wouldn't stay fresh for long. She cut a portion for herself and a larger one for George. She might as well fill him up right off, so he wouldn’t hang around waiting for her to serve seconds. Next, she sliced the end off a loaf of bread, put some churned butter into a small dish, and ladled some cooked apples into a fruit bowl from an already-opened jar.

Back in the kitchen Myra took stock and decided she hadn’t assembled much of a meal, not one that she’d enjoy eating herself. One things she had to fix was the lack of a beverage. Therefore, she went into the root cellar to pour a pitcher full of the fresh milk from the can she had started filling that morning. Once back in the house, she filled a pair of tin cups, for herself and George.

Then, deeming the preparations sufficient, the girl gave a sigh of relief.

Myra didn’t think there was time enough to read any more of the letters before George showed up, so she put them into two bundles tied with bits of string – one bundle for those already read, and one for the other ones. Then the girl concealed the box under her aunt's bed, just before a tapping sounded on the door. Expecting it to be George, she called over her shoulder, “Yeah!”

But the voices answering her came from Kayley and Rosedale. They stepped right in, toting along their carry-alls. Myra managed a welcoming smile, though she was scarcely in the mood for company.

“I guess it is lunch time,” said Kayley.

“Yeah. Do you need a bite?” Myra asked, hoping that they weren’t hungry.

“An apple, maybe,” said Dale. “Kayley and I lunched just before we started over.”

“How long can you stay,” Myra asked, meaning in actuality, “How long will I have to put up with you?”

“We don’t need to be home until supper time!” Dale replied.

That's going to be a long time, Myra thought. She sure hoped that they wouldn’t start talking about girls’ bodies. A girl’s body belonged in a fellow’s bed, not in decent conversation.

“Hey now!” exclaimed George, stepping in from outside. “Isn't it nice to be having dinner with three fetching ladies – even if one of them is only my homely little sister?”

“Homely! You mangy coyote!” Dale answered him back.

“It's still five minutes to noon,” Myra reminded the youth.

“I didn't think you'd mind,” the Severin said. “I’m figuring that it'll be best to get the chowing done so you three can get on with those dancing lessons. I know how powerfully excited you’ve been about digging into that.”

Dale shook her head. “Men always make fun of people who are trying to learn something new.”

“Always,” agreed Kayley. “Like, I want to learn to drive the buggy, but my dad talks as if I was asking him to let me break a bronco.”

“I think you could give a bronc a good fight of it,” teased George.

“You talk like a brother,” the Grimsley girl responded, “and that's not a good thing.”

“How come? Haven’t you’ve got Jeremy for a brother? What have you got against him?”

“Nothing. And we weren't talking about Jeremy, not until you brought him up.”

“Don’t worry about what your pa says. I can drive a buggy and I can teach you, Kayley,” broke in Rosedale.

“You would?” the neighbor girl asked.

“I've said it, haven't I?”

“That would be jim-dandy!” said Kayley. Looking back at the boy, she asked, “Why didn't you offer to do the same for me first, George?”

“’Cause I respect your pa. If he wanted you driving, he'd be teaching you himself. A neighbor should mind his own business when it comes to dealing with another person’s family.”

“Myra doesn't seem to care for fussy rules like that.”

“Well, it’s not my business what Myra should or shouldn't be doing. But your folks already think that our Dale is a wild girl for being allowed to drive a carriage horse at such a young age”

“Never mind,” said Dale. “Eat up your meal before your victuals get cold.”

“No rush,” her brother said. “If Myra is a truthful person, they’re already cold.”

“I'm not much of a cook,” the ginger-maned girl explained.

“You can't cook?” said Kayley. “Oh, you have to learn, or else you're not going to find the best kind of husband. Dale and I can teach you cooking.”

“We’ll, see,” Myra hedged. “My aunt’s is already teaching me that. You know what they say about too many cooks.”

“Come on, you gals, don't try to change Myra into a mirror-image of yourselves,” advised George. “I think she's mighty nice the way she is.”

“Listen to you flatter!” teased his sister. “You want to sweeten her up so that she’ll want to dance with you!”

The boy shrugged. “We’ll both be at the dance. Maybe I'll be able to persuade her to dance with me once or twice,” he said.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Kayley. “They always do square dancing. She'll need to get ready for that. Myra, square dancing is the hardest thing to learn. It takes at least four people to teach it right. George, can you stay and help us show Myra some dance steps?”

“I'm not sure I should. I won't get a whole lot done if I don’t get at it quick. Today and tomorrow are the shortest days of the year, you know.”

“If you want to make Myra like you, this is the way to start,” suggested Rosedale, trying to keep from giggling.

“Maybe George is right,” replied Myra.

“Oh, pshaw! You’re just afraid that you won’t be any good at square dancing!” exclaimed Dale. “But a person can do almost anything if he’s willing to learn.”

“Eat up quick, you two. We want to get started right away,” urged Kayley.

George was shaking his head.“This sounds like it's going to take a lot of time, and I don't have much time on my hands.”

“Would you do it if we let Myra be your partner?” Dale asked.

The youth put a sausage into his mouth without answering.

#

When George pushed his chair back from the table, Kayley started wheedling him. “If you just help us with the square dance, Dale and I will be able to teach Myra the simpler dances.”

“I guess I can lend a helping hand,” George conceded. “But if this foolery runs on for too long, I'll be needing to come back to finish up on another day.”

“Aunt Irene isn’t going to pay you for square dancing,” Miss Olcott reminded him.

“Well,” he smiled, “it sounds like Miss Myra is so determined to get my help that I don’t feel like I have much choice.”

“That's perfect!” beamed Dale. “George, let me wear your hat.”

“What for?” he asked.

“So Myra can tell who the men dancers are, or else she'll get confused.”

“I can be one of the men,” offered Myra.

“Don't be silly,” Dale replied. “You’ll need all the time you have just to find out how a girl dances.”

“Let's get on with this, so George can head back to his chores,” the ginger recommended.

“Well, Myra,” Dale said, “if you know any square dancing at all, you'll know that two people start out side by side and end back up together after some other dance movements. Before the dance is over, one person will have danced with everybody else.”

“I wish we had a caller,” remarked Kayley.

“I know a couple of dancing songs!” said Dale. “The hard thing is dancing and singing at the same time! Come on, choose your partners.”

Miss Severin stepped up and took Myra's hand, leaving George and Kayley as the second pair. The two couples took positions facing one another.

“All right then,” Dale continued. “Kayley and George, you start things out with the Salute.”

Kayley obligingly put her right foot forward and turned to face George. After giving him a curtsy, she turned toward Dale and curtsied once more.

“Nice,” said Dale. “Let Myra see it again, but don't move so quickly this time.”

Step by step, Dale led the others through the five stages of the dance, the end of which left even the lively Kayley panting.

“Can I be going back to the pen now so I can do something that’s easier?” asked George of his sister.

“Oh, no,” Dale said. “The lesson won't stick with Myra unless we do the whole thing over again at least a couple more times.”

“Ay yi yi! Where do you girls get so much energy from?” the youth asked.

“Lazy bones!” the younger Severin accused. “How are you going to build up a farm of your own if you don’t have enough energy to dance at a Christmas party?”

“I haven't decided that I’m going to be a farmer yet,” he said. “I've been thinking about going to sea. At least it'ld take me out to where those pretty island girls are.”

“Go to sea?” Dale exclaimed. “You've never set eyes on an ocean in all your born days!”

“That’s right,” added Kayley, “and I bet those island gals aren't half as pretty as they’re made to look in those drawings. There’s probably even prettier young ladies right here in Eerie!”

“You may have a point,” agreed George. “Some of the girls around town are real doozies.”

“Are you talking about those potion girls?” asked Kayley. “They make me nervous. Don't they seem spooky to you?”

George shrugged. “I can’t say. Myra, do you think potion girls are spooky?”

“'Potion girls' again! What in tarnation are you talking about?”

“I'd be glad to fill you in, once we get this foolery done with,” offered George.

The practice went on for a couple hours more and left four of them every bit as tired as bull-riders. Dale, especially, had gone hoarse from having sung “Oh, Those Golden Slippers” so many times.

#

The young people afterwards refreshed themselves with some milk and canned apples. George was finally able to go out to work, but Kayley and Dale remained excited about teaching Myra some other dances. The latter wasn't eager, but tried not to show it.

“Myra,” said Dale, “we're still hoping to see that party dress of yours. It must really be something. George couldn't stop complimenting it. Normally, he’ll laugh at the best dresses that Kayley or I show him.”

“Did you have lots of good dresses before they got lost in the stream?” asked Kayley.

“Oh, I had some,” Myra said dismissively. “But I don't know why people always go on so about clothing. The way I see it, if you’re not naked, you’re pretty much all right.”

“You surprise us, Myra,” said Kayley. “To hear folks tell it, you Eastern women and girls are supposed to talk about clothing all the time.”

“All the silly women and girls, do,” replied Myra. “But good clothes are deucedly expensive. I think there're better things to be talking about, or to spending money on.”

“Like what?” asked Dale.

“Like good meals, maybe.”

“Restaurants? But would you want to go into a restaurant if you weren't dressed your best?”

Myra shook her head. “I don’t usually worry my head about what other people are thinking.”

“I'd still like to see your party dress?” importuned Kayley.

“I can't show you now,” Myra said. “Aunt Irene took it over to that Mexican woman in town to get it fitted.”

“That's too bad,” said Dale. “We came on the wrong day.”

“Isn’t that how it always happens?” added Kayley.

“Myra?” said Dale.

“What?”

“A little while ago, you talked like you didn't know what a potion girl is.”

“No, I don't. Why should I?”

“Everybody around here knows about potion girls.”

“Dale,” broke in Kayley. “I think we should leave it to Mrs. Fanning to explain anything as important as that to Myra.”

“Sure, that's fine with me,” agreed Miss Olcott.

“But it sounds like Irene hasn't told her anything yet,” pressed the Severin girl. “And if Myra finds it out all by herself, she might be afraid, or even have nightmares.”

Myra threw up her hands. “Whatever it is, it sounds unpleasant. If the subject is so all-fired important, I'll make Aunt Irene tell me all about it tonight.”

“That may be the best way to go,” affirmed Kayley. “Just remember, Myra, even though it might sound awful, we don’t have a bad town here. That there has to be potion girls is mostly just sad.”

“Wouldn't a hanging be even sadder?” asked Dale.

“Yes, I suppose it would,” affirmed Kayley. “But it wouldn't be any stranger.”

After that, Miss Severin urged them back into the lessons. Fortunately, none of these other dances were as difficult as square dancing. There was the polka, the waltz, the Virginia reel, something that Dale pronounced as the “quadrilly,” and a dance that was like a slow polka. Even though that one came from Germany, it was called a “Scottish dance.” Myra could only suppose that the Germans misnamed it deliberately because they didn't want to get the blame.

Before too long, Irene's buckboard was heard rattling along the carriage road. Dale and Kayley started gathering up their things. Irene, upon entering, greeted her young neighbors, but because they were running late, they couldn't stay and chat for very long.

“Those are nice girls,” she told Myra after Dale and Kayley had gone outside, “but they always seem to be in a hurry. What did the three of you talk about?”

“I’d rather not repeat that silly stuff.”

Irene regarded her niece with interest. “What is it that you'd rather not talk about?”

Myra knew that she couldn't hold back anything if her aunt really wanted to know it. “They wanted to show me how to dance, in case I went to the Christmas shindig.”

“That's very nice of them. How it it go?”

“Dancing is simple. But it's a big waste of time, if you ask me.”

Without replying, Irene turned her attention to opening the bundle that she had brought back from town. While her back was turned, Myra shoved the box of letters farther under Irene's bed, using her heel.

“Teresa will need more time to finish my dress,” Irene reported, not looking Myra's way. “She said I should come back in the afternoon. Tomorrow morning, in better light, we’ll look at your dress again. If there is anything still wrong, Teresa said she’d be able to adjustment it in time. By the way, did you get much work done before the girls came by?”

“The morning work, sure. But they came in at noon and killed the whole rest of the day.”

“That's fine,” her elder replied. “It's good to be introducing yourself to people. Just don't use visitors as an excuse to neglect necessary work.”

“They wore me out with all that prancing around. I’m thinking that chores would’ave been a lot easier on my feet.”

“That's a good attitude. But now it's milking time again. If you don’t move quickly, the light will be lost.”

Myra drew on her chore coat and went outdoors, happy enough to stop talking about the visit.

George was still out by the pen, packing up for the day. Miss Olcott observed that he hadn't finished the entire job. “You ain't done yet?” she asked.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “Don't worry, I'll get it finished before Christmas. By the way, did the girls show you the waltz and reel?”

“What's it to you?”

He ignored her tone. “You've got a knack for dancing. Maybe you want to show off some of what you learned today. Oh, dem golden slippers...” he began to sing.

“If I had any wants, they wouldn't concern you, Mr. Severin. Now stand aside; I've got a mess of work to get done before dark.”

“Okay, then. I'll be back tomorrow morning, unless something gets in the way. Like if pa and the others found something in the desert.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Myra confided.

#

Thursday, December 21, 1871

Right after breakfast, Irene had Myra model the party dress. Clearly, Senora Diaz had done a good job and the garment didn’t need any more adjusting.

After morning chores, the twenty-first of December became a busy day with Irene making pies, cakes, and biscuits, with Myra helping at every stage. Following lunch, Mrs. Fanning made another trip into town to visit the Diaz house. Myra was left keeping a close watch on the baking so that nothing got burned.

Alone again, Myra sat down. She had had her fill of kitchen work. It wasn't that she disliked good food, but cooking was another of those things that only women should be doing. She was thinking that this situation wouldn't have happened if she had joined up at one of the forts that Myron had passed by on his travels. He’d decided not to do so because federal soldiers only cleared about $15 per month, that being even worse than a cowpoke's wages -- which stood at around $25.

Right after he had left Eerie, Myron had lived as a simple drifter, spending most of his nights out in the open, even in the rain. It was a lucky day when he could run down a stray chicken to eat. But doing that had taught him something: Ever every irate farmer seemed ready and willing to shoot a hen-stealer, no matter what the Good Book said.

He was glad enough to have taken up with Ike and the Freely boys. The selling of an occasional stolen beef or two had been enough to keep them in beans and, occasionally, let them buy a beer and a town meal. That was little enough, but it was something.

If she had a choice, Myra realized, she'd happily go back to the outlaw trail, as hard as it could get. On the contary, what could a woman do that was interesting or exciting? She knew that Irene had worked as a cleaning lady out East, living practically destitute. Cooks earned better wages, but those jobs were scarce. Anyway, Myra was a bad cook and working at getting better didn’t appeal to her.

The only women earning decent money seemed to be the cat house girls. But folks said whores got old old faster than anyone else. In Myra's opinion, it was better to be any kind of male bum rather than an old whore. Even the young ones seemed to have a hard time of it, most of them being pushed around by boy friends who acted like everything they earned belonged to them. Myra just couldn’t imaging any appealing life as a female.

Trying not to thing about the subject, Myra finished her chores and about the same time Irene came back from Eerie with her fitted dress. Then, following a hurried supper, the two of them went back to baking. By eight o'clock they had no choice but to light most of the lanterns and candles in the house to be able to see their hands in front of their faces.

In the midst of all that kitchen work, her aunt suddenly said, “I'll need some rhubarb from the root cellar.”

“Do I have to go out and get it for you?” asked Myra.

“No, I've been on standing in one place for hours; I need to stretch my legs. The floor is a mess of flour, sugar, and dough. Start sweeping it up and I'll be right back.”

Mrs. Fanning bustled outside, leaving Myra with a moment to rest. She looked up at the loft, where she had hidden the letter box that afternoon. She hankered to get back to reading more of those letters, but there just wasn’t time. So she started sweeping, so Irene wouldn’t have anything to complain about when she came back.

TO BE CONTINUED in CHAPTER 4.