Sycamore Hill by Francine Rivers Page A

feeling is mutual.”
    The gray eyebrows went up. “How do you know that?”
    “He makes it as plain as day,” I told her.
    “He doesn’t usually show his feelings. You say he doesn’t like
you? Does he have some reason to feel that way?” Her gray-blue eyes were
studying me again.
    “I don’t think so, but then perhaps he does,” I admitted. “Our
first meeting wasn’t very cordial.”
    “Tell me about it,” Ellen ordered, sitting forward and leaning on
her cane. She was very curious and not attempting to hide it.
    "I’d rather not. That’s one episode I would prefer to
forget.”
    “You just make me all the more interested.”
    “The story would disappoint you, believe me.”
    “Then we’ll shelve Jordan for the moment... along with those
guardians of yours,” Ellen Greer decided, but pointed a warning finger at me.
“We’ll get around to all of them sooner or later, my dear. Mark my word. I may
be eighty, but I’m not ready for the boneyard yet, nor is my brain. When
curiosity dies, the rest of you might as well follow right along.”
    “Well, I think you have more than your share of curiosity,” I
observed with an amused laugh.
    “If you were really truthful, you’d call me nosy.” Ellen chuckled.
“But you’re more polite than honest, it seems. We’ll have to work on overcoming
that handicap if you’re planning to make Sycamore Hill your permanent home.”
    “That is going to be up to Mr. Olmstead, I’m afraid,” I told her
ruefully.
    “No. That’s going to be up to you. Forget Tattle-Tommy and just do
what you think is best for the children. The rest will fall in line. Now, when
are you going to come and visit with me again?” she demanded.
    I was pleased she wanted me to come back, and answered, “As soon
as I have a spare moment.”
    “Well, I can’t wait that long, Abby,” she muttered impatiently.
“I’m an old woman and could die at any moment.”
    “Oh, no! Don’t say such a thing,” I gasped.
    Ellen chuckled again. “I’d better warn you, my dear. I’m not
beyond the use of coercion. And I know exactly how to make your conscience
smart the most if you stay away too long.”
    “You’re an old harridan,” I told her with humor.
    “And you, young woman, are very astute. Now be off with you!” She
dismissed me like some six-year-old child. “My niece will be in here any minute
now reminding me it’s time for my afternoon nap.” She shook her head in
disgust. “You’d think I would have a little peace at my age, but still I have
to follow rules!”
    I started for the door, but Ellen Greer called my attention back
again. “Come for coffee and cake Wednesday at five.”
    “I will if I can,” I promised.
    “I’ll expect you,” Ellen said, a flicker of loneliness appearing
before it was squelched. “And, Abby,” she went on more gently, “it’s been a
pleasure talking to you. I may decide to live a couple of extra years just to
see what happens to you.”

Chapter Six
    My second week of teaching began well. I kept my Wednesday
appointment with Ellen Greer, and on the old woman’s suggestion, decided to
teach Bible stories in Sunday School. I would thus avoid a confrontation with
the Reverend Jonah Hayes. He could hardly object to verbatim reading from the
Bible, and I would have only to pick and choose those stories that best
illustrated God’s love and forgiving kindness. I did not want to subject my
beliefs to ridicule or debate with the fire-breathing reverend, nor did I want
to encourage the children to believe that wrath and vengeance reigned supreme.
    As the weeks progressed, I began to tackle problems other than the
physical appearance of the schoolhouse, testing and lessons for the children.
When Katrina Lane continued coming to school dressed in expensive frocks, which
she was afraid to get dirty, I decided to talk with her mother. I learned from
Katrina that her mother worked in the hotel at the end of Main Street, and that
she finished