"This is," Danielle's papa commented, "the last harvest of the nineteenth century. When everything's green and new again, it will be really new. The twentieth century, the Christian Century. Isn't this an exciting time, Nellie?"

Danielle didn't feel excited; being new wasn't -- pardon her -- very new for her. Tomorrow, she was going to be the new girl in class once again. She'd be starting the tenth grade in her ninth school. (They'd stayed in Fort Plain two years.)

School was a lot like she'd expected. Miss Blair, the teacher, knew all the other children, and -- worse -- they knew each other. Nellie was 'the new girl' once again. Recess was a chore for her, no more fun than lessons.

The only fun in the day was singing. All the Osbornes could sing. When they gathered 'round for devotions before bedtime, the readings were short, the prayers were short -- Papa said that saying short prayers was the hardest lesson a preacher ever learned -- but they sang three hymns. Both mama and papa played the piano, and mama taught her children as they grew old enough to reach the pedals.

In the Whitesboro school, they not only sang "The Star Spangled Banner" every morning, they had music lessons three times a week. Miss Blair encouraged Nellie to sing as loudly as was comfortable for her. "It doesn't help the others, dear, to hear best the voices which are off pitch."

Frank Granger, who sat behind her, was one of those voices. Miss Blair suggested that he sing more quietly the first lesson. She repeated that, now a direct order, during the second week while they were singing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." This was one of Nellie's favorite songs, and when they got to the "glory, glory, hallelujah" part, she leaned back at her desk and gave it the volume it deserved. Even when she felt a tug on her pigtail, she finished the verse.

"Frank Granger!" Miss Blair exclaimed. The singing died out and there were gasps and giggles behind her. She felt something wet against her shoulder. "Don't shake your head, Nellie," Miss Blair continued. "Mary go out to the pump with Nellie and help her rinse out her hair. Here's a comb. Nellie, if you want to go home and get another blouse after you've rinsed the ink out, you may. Frank, come up here and bend over the desk." Nellie had heard enough to figure out that Frank Granger had dipped her pigtail in his inkwell.

She bent over and held her pigtail in the stream of water that Mary pumped. When the water seemed to be running clear, Mary helped unbraid her pigtail and pumped more water to wash it more thoroughly. Nellie pumped for a minute while Mary rinsed her hands off, and then they undid the left pigtail and combed her hair. "Thanks," she told Mary, as she started towards home.

"You're welcome. I'm only sorry I missed seeing Frank whipped."

Back in class wearing a dress, Nellie exchanged desks with Frank. A boy came up to her at recess. "Sorry for what Frank did," he said. "Not as sorry as Frank will be after Papa hears about it, though. Frank isn't going to want to sit down for dinner for a week. Paul Granger."

"Nellie Osborne. I wish I could see it."

"I know. New Methody preacher's girl. No you don't. If you were in the woodshed with them, Papa would let him keep his pants up. Going to be splinters in him this way. Going to put your hair back in pigtails tomorrow?"

"Sure. It will be dry then, and Miss Blair has me sitting behind Frank. He won't touch my pigtails again."

"Well, do as you please. I think you look nice like that, though."

Girls played in one part of the school yard at recess, and boys played in another. When she wasn't in the girls' games, however, Paul often came over to talk to her. She had wanted so much to be invited into the games of tag; now, when she was, she felt a little disappointed that she wouldn't talk with Paul. Farm kids and town kids didn't get together much out of school. When they did, it was mostly at church-related events, and Paul was a Presbyterian.

Just before the weather turned cold, Paul invited her to his church's last picnic. "I'll have to ask," she said.

"Of course."

She asked Papa, praying silently first. She was a preacher's daughter and she knew what it meant to cross denominational lines. "He the guy who pulled your pigtails?" Papa asked.

"No." Mama had been able to get almost all the ink out of her blouse, but you could still see the stain if you looked hard. "That was his bratty brother. Paul is nice."

"You really want to go?"

"Yes." She'd do anything to go.

"Lottie?"

"Why not?" Mama asked. "I'll help her cook the food."

"You can go, then."

She packed enough food for Paul and herself -- and a little extra if somebody should come by. It turned out that Mrs. Granger had packed enough to feed Nellie as well as the Grangers. Paul's parents sent their children away while they and Nellie repacked the baskets. "So," said Mr. Granger, "you're the gal my sons like."

"Sons?" She couldn't deny that Paul liked her, but Frank was a brat.

"Never pulled the pigtails of a gal I didn't like." She left Mr. Granger with his opinion. She thought Frank was a brat, and he didn't think any better of her.

She cheered for Paul's team in the baseball game. Then, when it was over, they walked apart where nobody could hear them. Some couples moved out of sight, but they couldn't, of course. She was a preacher's daughter, and the story would be all over town as soon as the people got back from the picnic.

Over the winter, they talked during recess. She froze nearly solid standing there instead of running around like everybody else. There was an all-school Christmas party, and they talked there. She was even his partner in the square dances, not that partners danced together awfully much.

When spring came, Paul invited her to three picnics, and she invited him to two. But then planting season came along. Paul wasn't even in school. And, annual conference was looming. Her family would move again, and she'd never see Paul. "Can't you ask to stay here?" she begged Papa.

"It wouldn't do any good."

"The people like you."

"They'll like their new preacher. They're fine people."

On the last Sunday before Annual Conference, Paul showed up in the Methodist church. "Papa," Nellie said after the service was over, "this is Paul Granger."

"Presbyterian, aren't you?" Papa asked. "The talk of my powerful preaching must have reached far to bring you here." Paul, who was unused to Papa's humor, looked startled. Papa laughed and shook his hand.

Then Mama came up, "Paul, Nellie, I want to show you something." They walked out of church and in back of the parsonage until the people getting into their buggies were all out of sight. "Once upon a time," Mama said, "the man I loved was about to be reassigned. I knew I would never see him again. I said I would show you something. This is my back." And she walked away.

While she was still in sight, Paul pulled Nellie into a hug. It was her first kiss from a boy; it would be her last. She would never look at another boy, and she would never see Paul again. "Danielle," Paul said. "You're not a Nellie, you're Danielle. Danielle, I love you."

"Oh, Paul, I love you." And they kissed until the slamming of the kitchen door made them jump apart. They looked over there guiltily, but it was a minute before they saw it open again.

"Paul," mama said from the parsonage kitchen, "I think your family is looking for you. Nellie, get in here."

"Thanks, Mama," she said when she was in the kitchen.

"Parting is always sad."

"Were you really in love with a preacher who you never saw again?"

"He came back and married me. But I didn't know he would, I didn't even know he loved me back, until almost this time of the year."

"Do you think Papa will be reassigned here? The people like him."

"Your Papa is a traveling preacher, Nellie. He'll preach 'til the Good Lord takes him, and he'll travel just that long."

And they were assigned to Second Church, Rochester. It was a step up, with water coming into the kitchen from city pipes; but it was half the state away. She'd never see Paul again. They did write. But Paul didn't write as often as she would have liked.

"You know, dear," Mama said after Nellie came back from the mailbox dejected, "Paul is a nice boy. But there are plenty of nice boys in Rochester."

"I'll never forget him."

"I'm not suggesting that you do. I'm suggesting that you give some of the nice boys in your class, some of the nice boys in the youth group, a chance."

"You just hate him because he's a Presbyterian."

"I don't hate him. I just think you're making too much of this. There are nice girls in Whitesboro, too."

"Oh, Mama." She collapsed into her arms and cried. "Do you think he loves somebody else?"

"I don't think anything. I think you're sixteen, he's what? Seventeen?"

"He's eighteen by now. He's a man. And I'm almost seventeen. How old were you when you were married?"

"We're not talking about me. And you're not married."

"You were younger than I am when you fell in love."

"And the man I loved came back to marry me and took me away to where he lived."

"Oh Mama, do you think Paul will?"

"No. I think that Paul is living his own life, and there is a life right here for you to live." But it wasn't much of a life. There was school, and home chores, and she played the piano well enough by now that she was teaching eleven-year-old Ethel. Two of Ethel's schoolmates wanted lessons, and Mama let her keep a nickel a week out of the quarter apiece that the girls paid for their lessons.

Papa had been assigned to so many places, her only hope was that he would be assigned back close to Whitesboro again. Not to the church in Whitesboro, that was too much to ask, but somewhere close. When the bishop came to visit late that winter, she almost asked him if he would. Papa would whip her if she did, but that wasn't what kept her from doing it; she knew that bishops didn't make assignments for that sort of reason.

"Charles is in high school, isn't he?" the bishop asked at dinner. The Rochester school system was fancy with several elementary schools and a separate high school.

"Yes, sir," her brother said. "I'm in tenth grade."

"Well, I'm a preacher's son, and I know how new schools tear up your education." It couldn't have torn up the bishop's education that much. He was a college graduate, unlike Papa who had gone through the Course of Study. "I can't make any promises, of course. But I'll try to keep your father here for the next two years."

"Why thank you," Papa said.

"I can't make promises."

"Go to now," Papa quoted, "ye that say, 'today or tomorrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain.' Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

"Precisely," said the bishop. "And it's not only my life but a thousand other accidents. We may need you somewhere else, and that is in God's hands." So Nellie prayed that the church would need Papa close to Whitesboro, in Whitesboro -- if you're asking God for a miracle, Papa often said, why ask him for a small one? But, anyway, somewhere within buggy-ride distance.

It didn't happen, though. She delayed answering Paul's letter describing his graduation until after Annual Conference. Then she wrote: "Papa has been assigned to this church for a second year, and I think the members are happy. I know that PAPA is happy. I'm less happy."

He took even longer to reply than she had. "This means you will be able to finish school there. You should be happy. I'm happy for you." Well, she wasn't happy. And she was even less happy that he wrote such nonsense. Mama must be right; he'd found a girl in Whitesboro, and he wasn't interested in Nellie's living close to him.

She was despondent. Mama noticed. "Your life is just beginning, Nellie, don't act like it's over." Well, it might drag on for decades more, but what had made it meaningful was over.

Papa noticed. "Want to talk to me about it?" At her head shake, "Well you have a heavenly Father who already knows all about it. Take your worries to him."

Even Charlie noticed. "What are you dragging around like that for? You look so low you could fit under the rug."

Then, one day, there was a knock at the door. She answered it, looking at the visitor's boots. They were dirty. "Nellie?" he said. It was Paul's voice. It was Paul!

She must have shouted. Mama came running. "Get in here, immediately," she said.

"I'm not really dressed for a parlor," said Paul.

"That's all right. Come into the kitchen if you want to wash up. Tell us why you're here."

Paul explained that he had a job with the traction company, a hostler caring for the horses. "I'm a farm boy. I really know about machinery, but nobody in Rochester will give me a chance. But they'll believe a farm boy can feed horses and clean out the stables. The streetcars run sixteen hours a day, from five to nine, but each horse only work two four-hour shifts a day."

"I would hope so," said mama. "Those horses work hard."

"So, I have to be there when they start out and when they come back, but I only have to be in the barn twelve hours a day. I can ride any streetcar free on my breaks from work, but I don't really know my way around town yet."

"Well, when you're free -- decent hours, of course -- you're welcome here. If you worry about the parlor rug, come back by the kitchen door if you want."

"That's generous of you."

"Not really. Let's not pretend you're here to visit me. If you're in the kitchen, Nellie will be in the kitchen. And if she's in the kitchen, she can peel some potatoes or something."

"I can peel spuds," Paul said.

"No need. You're a guest. Now, if you'll excuse me..." She left, but eight-year-old Mary popped in. She stared at Paul.

"Mary, this is Paul Granger," Nellie said. "He used to live in Whitesboro. Now, mama wants me to peel potatoes. If you're going to be here, I'll get a knife for you, too."

"School work," Mary said and went out.

"Have a seat," Nellie said. She got out the tools and potatoes and sat across from him.

"I can peel spuds."

"You can talk. Tell me about your work. What did your papa say about your leaving the farm in the summertime?"

And they talked until the bell from the grandfather's clock in the parlor told him it was time to go back. They were alone most of that time, but Nellie's brothers and sisters made frequent trips in and out.

"Tell us about Paul," Mama said at supper.

"I'll tell Papa. You already know, and nobody gave us a minute's peace."

"What about Paul?" asked Papa.

"You remember Paul Granger. He's in Rochester. He's working for the streetcars, tending the horses. He came to see me." She told the whole story.

"He's sweet on her," Charlie said.

"You know, Charlie," Papa said, "at John's age," ten, "that is an appropriate way of teasing his playmates. At your age, it's a little silly. And never is it an appropriate thing to say about a guest in our house. Anyway, Nellie, are you happier now?"

"You know, Papa, you say we should thank God for answered prayers."

"Certainly. If somebody -- even little Mary -- does something you ask, you should say 'thank you.' How much more to the Creator of all?"

"And if He doesn't answer prayers? I mean, right now I'm grateful for what He didn't give me."

"Well, I've been told God always answers prayers. Sometimes the answer is 'no.'"

And, at devotions that night, she thanked God for not moving Papa the way she had asked.

With his free pass on the horsecars, Paul visited often. He even made it -- in his good suit and with boots cleaned -- to church some Sundays.

He couldn't come in the evenings, and she moved her piano lessons back to 4:00. Their original times had been set according to when school let out.

When he was visiting, Nellie did what cooking she could. Mama was only in the kitchen when she needed to be. Nellie couldn't say the same for her younger brothers and sisters. Every one of them drank more water, always getting it from the kitchen sink, than when he wasn't there. If they wanted to stay, Nellie put them to work, which most of them avoided. Twelve-year-old Ethel, though, seemed to have a pash on him. Nellie couldn't blame her, though she could be jealous. It was high time Ethel learned more kitchen chores, anyway.

Still, they wanted some privacy and weren't getting any. Then Paul asked if she could walk out with him. Papa said 'yes' on certain conditions. They walked around the neighborhood. Whenever they met somebody she knew, she introduced Paul. Papa might be strict on some things, but he was fair. When some of the women from church commented that a hostler for the streetcars was a poor match for a preacher's daughter who went to high school and taught piano, Papa replied "He's an honest boy doing honest work."

Well, Paul had graduated from high school and wanted to work up to a job as mechanic. She didn't tell the women that, though; they were Papa's congregation, Papa's responsibility. If he wanted to address their snobbery, that was his business.

Paul, when he was in the barns and his own job was done, did help out the mechanics repairing the horsecars. She knew that sparking her was interfering with that. When he was with her, or traveling back and forth, he couldn't help the mechanics. And, since his fellow hostlers took care of his horses when he was out of the barn, he took care of some of theirs other times in return.

Paul told her that all the hostlers got some time off. Since factory workers had to take the streetcars to work by 6:00, the cars had to start their trips at 5:00. So the hostlers' busiest time was between 4:00 and 5:00. Then, they could clean out the stalls for the horses which were gone. From 9:00 to 4:00 the same number of cars were on the street, with -- of course -- the same number of horses, drivers and conductors. Mostly, it was the same cars, but not the same workers or the same horses. In the morning, as in the evening, cars were taken off the routes as fewer people wanted rides. That meant that the hostlers had barely cleaned out the stalls in the morning when the first horses returned.

"The end of the day," said Paul, "is much easier. The last trip is over at 9:00, but cars are coming in all the time. We all help each other so that each of us can go to supper, and I don't think I've ever left the barn later than 9:30."

"You leave at 9:30 and get there at 4:00. That's worse than farm work! When do you sleep?"

"We all take a doze sometime in the day. Most of us sleep there; there's plenty of hay, of course. They tell me that we'll go back to our rooms in the winter. The rooming houses near the barns keep their stoves going all day."

"So, when you visit me, you are giving up on your sleep?"

"But I'd rather visit you. Besides, the conductors know me. I sleep on the cars, and they wake me when we're near the barns."

"And then we go walking; you must get awfully tired."

"But we walk slowly."

She had money from the lessons; Paul could ride the streetcars free. She asked Mama to allow her to ride the streetcars with him. Mama asked Papa and got his consent. So, once or twice a week, she would get on a horsecar and ride south. Paul would meet the car near the barns. Then they would ride to the end of the line, then all the way back to the north end of the line and back again.

She only needed to pay her two-cent fare when she got on the car. The conductors knew Paul, and came to know her. They might have objected to anyone else stretching the rules that way, but they looked kindly on the two of them. One of the conductors even made a point of taking the driver off the car with him at the end of the line to stretch their legs. She and Paul, who usually sat in back and talked quietly when others were on the car, had an opportunity to kiss and hug in absolute privacy.