Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder by Catherine Marshall Page B

if Bob Allen’s accident and her fall off the bridge had been signals that coming here was a mistake. It would be nice to have a sign that she was on the right track, but so far, God had not delivered one.
    Christy trudged back and forth along the creek’s bank until the sun began to melt behind the farthest blue-black ridge. In her heart, she’d known all along that the locket was lost. So why was it she couldn’t seem to stop crying?

Twelve
    Y ou’re not eating a thing,” Miss Ida scolded the next morning.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Christy apologized, staring at her eggs unhappily. “I haven’t got much of an appetite this morning.”
    â€œHad plenty of one every other morning,” Miss Ida grumbled, pulling Christy’s plate away.
    Christy got up from the table. “I thought I’d go over to the school a bit early this morning, to get things ready.” Like myself , she added silently.
    â€œMay I have a word with you, Christy?” Miss Alice asked.
    â€œOf course. If it’s about my lesson plans, I know they still need some work—”
    â€œNo, no,” Miss Alice said, laughing. She gestured to the porch. They put on their wraps and headed outside. Their breath hung in the air. The sun was just rising, casting a pink glow over the school.
    â€œHave you ever watched a baby learning to walk, Christy?” Miss Alice asked. “He totters, arms stretched out to balance himself. He wobbles, and falls, perhaps bumps his nose. Then he puts the palms of his little hands flat on the floor, hikes his rear end up, looks around to see if anybody is watching him. If nobody is, usually he doesn’t bother to cry, just balances himself—and tries again.”
    â€œI don’t understand—”
    â€œThat baby can teach us. You can’t expect immediate perfection in your schoolroom. It’s a walk , and a walk isn’t static but ever-changing. We Quakers say that all discouragement is from an evil source and can only end in more evil. Feeling sorry for yourself is worse than falling on your face in the first place.”
    Christy felt unexpected tears sting her eyes. “I came here to do God’s work,” she whispered. “But what if I can’t? What if I’m no good at it?”
    Miss Alice draped an arm around her shoulders. “So you fall, like that baby. Maybe you even bump your nose. So you’re human. Thank God for your humanness!”
    Christy took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ll try, Miss Alice,” she said.
    â€œThat’s all you can do, child. ‘Give, and it shall be given unto you,’” Miss Alice said softly. “You’ll see.”
    Christy squeezed Miss Alice’s hand. As she headed off across the boardwalk toward school, she could feel the woman’s gaze upon her, warmer than the dawn sunlight peeking over the mountains.
    The schoolroom was cold, even though David had already started a roaring fire in the potbellied stove. Christy walked back and forth across the empty room, straightening desks, cleaning off the blackboard, fussing and fidgeting. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her hands were shaking like leaves in a breeze.
    â€œGive, and it shall be given unto you , ” Miss Alice had said. But what if she didn’t have enough to give?
    She heard the thump of little steps and turned to see Little Burl in the doorway. He was wearing a coat two sizes too big for him. One elbow had been patched a dozen times, it seemed. The sleeves were rolled up, yet still his little hands were hidden. His feet, again, were bare. His nose was running.
    â€œTeacher,” he said, “I came early.”
    â€œYou certainly did,” Christy said, trying to force lightness into her voice.
    â€œI was a-thinkin’ all last night.”
    Christy sat down in her chair and motioned for Little Burl to join her. He climbed up in her lap. “What were you thinking