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1 Rennie sat before the dying fire, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands, hunched over like an old crippled woman. Only her face showed that she was a child of twelve. She was so tired, bone-tired, completely exhausted. Not the kind of tiredness that would go away after a few hours7 rest, but a dullness that enveloped her spirit and soul. Hope had been crushed from her being, leaving only an instinct to survive and an inherited stubbornness to fulfill one purpose: to push all memories of her mother out of her mind. To shut out everything. But she knew she could not allow herself this one comfort. Now, more than ever, she needed to remember everything her mother had taught her. She had paid too little attention to her mother when she was alive. Now her mother was gone, and Rennie had to drag up from her memory all the things half-buried in her mind, to keep alive a picture of her mother to pass on to Sarah Ellen. It would be all Sarah Ellen would ever know of her. Five weeks before, her mother had placed the small bundle in her arms. 'Tm givin' ye this baby fer a birthday present . She jest missed havin' the same bornin' day that you got by one day." This had made Rennie happy, until she saw the tears in her mother's eyes. Looking back, she realized her mother had been trying to tell her that she knew she wasn't going to get well. Her mother had known for a long time; there had been so many things, so many times—unnoticed then—that now came crowding into her mind. Pa thought Ma's death was caused by "that fumblin' old granny woman." Rennie knew her mother's heart had been bad. Too many years of hard work had weakened her body. The extra strain of childbirth had broken it. Today had been a very long day for Rennie—getting up before daylight, fixing breakfast for Pa, washing the dishes, milking the cow, and coming back from the barn to find Pa already gone. He never told anyone when or where he was going or when he would be back. He was a silent man who spent all his time serving his Lord, never seeing his own family's need. Rennie was used to staying by herself, so she didn't really mind. She knew not to question her father's ways. And there was no need to ask for his help anyway. Her first morning chore had been to fill a glass mason jar with milk; this would be kept cool in the spring for Sarah Ellen's bottle. The rest of the milk she put in the churn, tying a nice white rag over the top and leaving it to sit on the hearth so that by the next morning it would be turned, ready to be churned into buttermilk and butter. Just as she got the bottle filled, Sarah Ellen awoke, crying for attention. Rennie put the bottle on the fireboard to keep it warm. With the baby under her arm, she got clean clothes and a diddie from the quilt shelf. "Now here, Sarah Ellen. I know ye're hungry, but first things first. Ye can enjoy yer bottle better if ye have a dry bottom, and believe me, ye're one wet baby." Rennie sat before the fire with the baby on her lap and changed her clothes and held the bottle. She loved to feed the baby. "Poor little thing, asleep agin' her bottle's emptied. Wonder if she sleeps too much. . . . But I hain't goin' worry long as she keeps growin' like a pig." After putting Sarah Ellen in bed, this time in Pa's place, Rennie gathered up all the dirty clothes. First she changed the sheets and pillow slips, then the towels. Some of Pa's socks she found under his bed; she had to use the broom handle to get them out. Today she would wash up all Ma's things and put them away in the small trunk in the loft. Ma had asked that her dresses be cut up and sewn into clothes for Sarah Ellen. Maybe Rennie would do that later, but for now she would just put them away. She spread out one of the dirty sheets on the floor, dumped everything else on it, tied the corners together, and...
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