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John’s direction.
    “I can’t believe you two,” John said slowly. “This letter is a joke. Rebecca is getting no money for marrying me. I really think that.”
    “I think that too,” Isaac said seemingly satisfied. “She’s a good girl.”
    “I guess so,” Miriam agreed. “She did hold up well during John’s illness.”
    “That she did.” Isaac nodded. “You couldn’t ask for better.”
    Silence settled on the room, broken only by sounds of supper. The unmentioned thoughts hung over them.

     
    That night John dreamed he was in the hospital again. He tried to awaken but couldn’t. He swam through a maze of silky white ooze, reaching for air to fill his burning lungs. His legs moved, he knew, because he kicked with all his might. But the feeling just wasn’t there.
    Sounds boomed all around him, and he cried out. Words formed in his mouth, came out of his lungs, but no one could hear them. Terror filled his mind. He saw Rebecca’s face, saw it as if awakened from a dream, all hazy and unfocused. She smiled a twisted smile like she was hiding a deep malice in her heart.
    He awoke with a yell, a groan from the depth of his soul. His body was covered with sweat under the blankets—chilled to the bone.
    “No,” he moaned, “it’s a lie. I won’t believe it. This was just a dream.”
    He lay still and stared at the dark ceiling until he calmed down. He glanced at his alarm clock, but it showed only a little after two o’clock. He would believe Rebecca, he told himself, no matter what happened. Peace came soon after that, and he drifted off to sleep.

C HAPTER N INE
     

     
    C hurch had been held at Henry Hershberger’s place, over in the east district, and John was ready to leave. He had his buggy parked at the end of the sidewalk, a little early, he knew. Some of the young boys, just off the third dinner table, came out of the house, but there was no sign of Rebecca.
    Last night Isaac and Miriam had still looked troubled. He had thought a trip over to the Keim place might be necessary to satisfy them, then had decided against it. What Rebecca would say about the letter, he was already certain of, and there was no sense in making a scene. His rush now was simply because he wanted to see her again.
    He had seen Rebecca in church, from across the room, but that wasn’t the same as when she was in the buggy with him—sitting close, smiling that smile that lit up her face. She had a certain look in her eyes, which she focused on him sometimes in church and would have been enough to make Bishop Martin stroke his gray beard in grave concern.
    John chuckled at the thought. He liked Bishop Martin and had always gotten along with him.
    “You are a gut boy,” Bishop Martin had told him once. “Always have been. No church trouble. You are your father’s son.”
    Words like that would warm any Amish boy’s heart, so John’s liking of the bishop became even deeper. Since from the time he could remember, Bishop Martin’s face had been a fixture. Sometimes he came over on Saturdays or even during the week to talk with Isaac. He came with his wife, Sarah, a soft spoken woman, when the occasion warranted the mixing of church business and a social event.
    There was no doubt John admired the bishop. Perhaps that was part of the reason he never strayed far from the church ordnung, but John supposed there were other reasons. It just seemed the natural thing to him.
    The horse behind him was impatient. If Rebecca didn’t come soon, he would have to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her, with her shawl wrapped tightly around herself and her bonnet pulled forward. He would have recognized her, he told himself, even if she wasn’t coming toward his buggy. His heartbeat quickened as he urged the horse slightly to the right, which made for an easier ascent up the buggy step.
    “In a hurry?” she said, with one foot on the step and the other in the buggy.
    “Yep. Had to see you,” he held on tightly to the