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knew he would organize a search for the criminal. But what if the man were crafty enough to elude them? He’d gone uncaught for some time now. She didn’t know where he was getting his food on nights when he didn’t demand it from her. Perhaps other women in the village were as frightened as she was and handing over rations to him, too.
    He has to be stopped, Lord!
    Her prayer seemed futile. If she revealed the man’s demands, he would know it, and he would do something horrible to the pastor’s children.
    Stealthily she took the pastor’s workday trousers from the clothespress. He had two other pairs, his best for Sunday, and the pair he wore most days, when going about the parish to visit his flock. She ran a finger over the neat patch on one knee of the oldest pair. His dear, dead wife had stitched that patch on with love.
    Forgive me, Father. I don’t know what else I can do. I must protect the children. If there is a better way, then show me
.

    He was waiting when she took the food and folded trousers out that night. She sensed his presence before she saw him. Was it an odor, or an influence of evil?
    “What took you so long?”
    “I had to make sure Goody Deane was asleep.”
    He snatched the bundle. “I like to have perished waiting.”
    “Please, I don’t know how I’m going to explain to the parson about his trousers.”
    “You’ll think of something. Just remind yourself that if I get to looking decent, I can show myself and look for work. You’re helping me become an honest man, that you are. I do want to be honest.”
    She wanted to believe him, but his manner and his past actions prevented that. She had managed to get out of the parsonage undetected with a covered dish of stew. He pulled the linen napkin off and dropped it on the ground, then he tipped the bowl up to his mouth.
    “I brought you a spoon.”
    He lowered the dish, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and reached for it.
    Christine shuddered as she put the spoon in his hand.
    “Why ain’t you got a husband?”
    She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard me.” He took a bite of stew and kept talking as he chewed. “It’s true you’re homely, but you seem a fair cook and a hard worker. That counts for a lot.”
    She stared at him for a moment, scarcely able to believe he had spoken to her in that manner. “Put the dishes on the window ledge when you are finished.” She turned and stalked into the house.

    After the eventful weekend, Samuel needed a rest. All of Friday and a good part of Saturday he had spent helping William Heard and the other men build the new pews. Samuel left off on Saturday afternoon to put in more time on his sermon preparations.
    The men had finished the work inside the church by Saturday night. The next morning, the parishioners seemed suitably impressed by the accomplishment. Elder Sawyer had assigned the pews. Of course there were a few minor squabbles over which family should have which box, but Samuel left that entirely to the elders. Roger and Mahalia Ackley tried to corner him to complain about their pew’s position after the service, but he quickly excused himself, since he had to prepare for the marriage ceremony.
    After the morning’s sermon, he performed the marriage rite for Mordecai Wales and Parthenia Jones. This was followed by the usual nooning hour and then the afternoon service, which lasted three hours.
    By sunset on Sunday, Samuel was always wrung out. Christine had prepared a cold supper for him and the children Sunday night and then left them to a quiet evening and early retirement. He slept through the night, hardly stirring from the moment his head hit the feather pillow.
    But now Monday had dawned, and he longed to stretch his muscles and do some physical labor. He climbed out of bed, knelt to pray for his family and congregation, then arose and went to the pine chest where he kept his clothing.
    His shirts, all but the one he’d worn yesterday, were folded