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neatly inside. His Sunday breeches and second-best pair likewise. His stockings and drawers occupied a corner. But his workaday trousers—the ones he wore when gardening or helping one of the farmers with haying—were nowhere to be found. He looked around the room in confusion then put on his second-best breeches, his oldest, most worn shirt, lightweight stockings, a leather waistcoat, and shoes. Then he emerged into the great room.
    Christine had already arrived, and she knelt by the hearth to kindle a cooking fire.
    “Christine.”
    “Yes, sir?” She swiveled on her heels to look at him.
    “Where are my old trousers?”
    She hesitated a moment, and her face colored.
    Of course, under ordinary circumstances it would be considered vulgar for a man to mention his trousers in the presence of an unmarried female. But after all, Christine did his mending and laundry. Indeed, she had sewn some of his clothing, and she handled his most intimate garments almost daily. They ought to be able to discuss them.
    “I am stitching a new pair for you, sir.” She ducked her head and seemed inordinately concerned with coaxing her pile of tinder to catch a flame.
    Samuel cocked his head to one side and considered that. “Did you take the old ones to use as a pattern?”
    After a long moment, she said without turning around, “I might have.”
    “Ah. Then I suppose I must garden in such as I wear now. Permit me to tend the fire for you.”
    “It’s going now. But if you’d care to bring in more water, I won’t say nay. This be my washing day.”
    “Of course.”
    Samuel picked up the two water buckets and emptied them into the largest kettle he owned. As he walked the short distance to the river for more water, he went over the brief conversation in his mind. It didn’t make much sense to him, but he was certain Christine had a purpose. His old trousers weren’t that bad, but they did bear a couple of patches. Neat patches, it was true, but perhaps she felt it an embarrassment to have the minister go about in patched trousers. Still, he wouldn’t wear the old ones if he were going around the village.
    He gave it up and raised a quiet prayer as he dipped the buckets full of water. “Thank You, Lord, for trousers, and for shirts and shoes and hose. Thank You for Christine and the labor she bestows so willingly on our family.”
    Yes, Christine was a blessing to be thankful for. She would make some man a fine wife, if only she were willing to marry. Of course, if she did, he and the children would be lost without her. What a pity for Christine to live a solitary life, never knowing the joys of marriage.
    The sweet companionship of his wife, Elizabeth, had carried him through many a painful situation. He missed her terribly. She’d been gone more than a year now; again the idea flitted through his mind that perhaps it was time to consider marrying again. This was not the first time the concept had occurred to him, but still the thought stabbed him with a dagger of guilt. And yet, scripture allowed it.
    “Ah, Lord, Thou hast said it is not good for man to be alone. Yet whenever I think of replacing my dear Elizabeth, it pains me so much I cannot contemplate it.”
    The sun beat already on his shoulders, foretelling another sweltering August day. He reached his doorstep and went inside. Ruth and the boys were up, and Christine had them seated at the table eating corn pone and bacon.
    He glanced toward the loom and saw that her new weaving was of fine charcoal gray worsted, a mixture of fine linen thread and wool. For him and the boys. She wouldn’t be able to sell it if she used it on clothing for them, and he would have nothing to pay her this month. She didn’t seem to mind.
    She met his gaze, and he noted a slight apprehension in her hazel eyes.
    He smiled as he set the buckets down. “I neglected to say good morning, Christine. Forgive me.”
    Her expression cleared.
    “And good day to you, sir. Will you break your fast