"Let him go, Amos," she pleaded. "He didn't mean it. He's just upset, and he'll come back down to apologize."

"He can't talk that way," Amos said, his voice firm but bearing no trace of anger. "He can't talk that way to you, and he can't talk that way to me. And he'd better understand that right now." Moving around Janet, he, too, left the dining room. The two women watched each other warily, Janet knowing with all her instincts that Anna would back her husband up. But instead, the older woman seemed to sag in her chair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I suppose I should have stopped him, but he believes children should be respectful, and even though I know that's old-fashioned, that's the way he is."

And he's right.

The thought skittered through Janet's mind, an alien idea long ago rejected by herself and her husband, and most of their friends. They were modern parents, ever-mindful of the tenderness of the young psyche, ever-striving to allow their son the same freedom of expression they themselves enjoyed. Mark, she knew, would not have reacted to Michael's outburst as his father had. Mark would have taken the time to explain the situation to Michael, and listened to Michael's point of view. And in the end he (and she) would have decided that the trauma of Michael having to leave his friends with no final goodbye outweighed the expense of that last trip to New York, even though logic dictated that they stay where they were.

But here, away from the city and its environment of advanced thinking and experimentation, the same thought kept drumming in Janet's head: Amos is right.

These people did things as they had always done them, and if they seemed in some ways backward or reactionary, they had other qualities that made up for it. They had a sense of community, of caring, that refugees to the cities had lost. They retained values that people of Janet's own environment had shed long ago and with no remorse.

There was a solidity to Amos, to all the people of Prairie Bend, that Janet was just beginning to realize she had missed in the years of her marriage.

She stood up and moved around to where Anna still sat, and rested one hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you so much for all you're doing."

Anna covered Janet's hand with her own. "Don't be silly, dear. You're family. We're only doing what any family would do. And it's our pleasure. I lost Mark years ago, but at least now I have you and Michael."

Though neither of them could see the other's face, each of them realized the other was weeping, one for a lost son, the other for-

For what? Janet wondered.

If she'd been asked, which she was blessedly not, Janet would not have been able to say exactly why tears had come to her eyes. Partly for Mark, she supposed, though of that she was no longer sure, but partly for something else, something she was only beginning to discover. Mixed with her sense of loss, there was that something else, a sense of something recovered, a sense of values she had once held, but lost along the way, that were now being restored. She squeezed Anna's shoulder gently, then, wanting to be alone with her thoughts, she slipped out into the fading evening light.

Amos Hall stood at the door to the room that should have been Mark's and was now occupied by Michael, about to put his hand on the knob and open it. Then, out of a sense that he owed the boy the same courtesy he intended to demand, he knocked.

"Go away," Michael replied, his voice tight with anger. Ignoring the words, Amos opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He stood still, saying nothing, waiting for Michael to respond. For several long minutes, the room was still. Then, his movement involuntarily exposing the uncertainty he was trying to conceal, Michael rolled over, propped himself up against the cast-iron bedstead, and folded his arms over his chest.

"I didn't say you could come in here," he challenged. "This is my room."

Amos's brows arched. He moved further into the room, seating himself on a wooden chair a few feet from the bed. "If I ever hear you speak that way to me again," he said, in a tone so low Michael had to strain to hear, "or speak to your mother or any other adult the way you did a few minutes ago, I will take you out behind the barn and give you a whipping such as I haven't given anyone since your father was your age. Is that clear?"

"You can't-"

"And when I knock at your door," Amos went implacably on, "I'm not asking for permission to enter. I'm simply warning you that I'm coming in." Michael opened his mouth once more, but Amos still gave him no opportunity to speak. "Now, three things are about to happen. First, you are going to have an experience I'm sure you've never had before. Ever heard of washing your mouth out with soap and water? Nod or shake your head. I'm not interested in anything you might have to say right now." Michael hesitated, then shook his head.

"I thought not. Well, you won't like it, but it won't kill you. When you're done with that, you and I are going downstairs, and you are going to apologize to your mother."

Again, Michael opened his mouth, but this time he thought better of it. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, and his eyes narrowed angrily. In his temples, a dull throbbing began.

"Then, after you've apologized," Amos went on, "this is going to be all over, and we're going to fix some cocoa and forget about it. Do you understand? Nod or shake your head."

For a long minute, as the throbbing pain in his head grew, thoughts tumbled through Michael's mind. His father had never talked to him like that, never in his life. He'd always said what he wanted to say, and his parents had always listened to him. And no one, since he was a little boy, had come into his room without his permission, at least not when he was there. Then why was his grandfather so angry with him? Or was his grandfather angry with him? Maybe this was something else. He watched Amos, but could see nothing. The old man just sat there, returning his gaze, waiting. Michael began to feel sure that his grandfather was goading him, pushing at him, wanting something from him. But what?

Whatever it was, Michael decided he wouldn't give it to him, not until he understood what was really happening.

His head pounding, but his face set in an expression that revealed nothing of his growing fury, Michael got off the bed and walked out the bedroom door, then down the hall to the bathroom. He could feel more than hear his grandfather following him.

In the bathroom he stood at the sink, stared at the bar of Ivory soap that sat next to the cold water tap. He reached out and turned on the water, then picked up his toothbrush. Finally he took the bar of soap. Holding the soap in his left hand, he dampened the toothbrush, and began.

The sharp bitterness of the soap nearly gagged him at first, but he went doggedly on, scrubbing first his teeth, then his whole mouth. Once he glanced at himself in the mirror, and watched the foam oozing from his lips, but he quickly looked away from the reflection of his humiliation. At last he dropped the toothbrush into the sink and rinsed out his mouth, flushing it with water again and again until the taste of the soap had almost disappeared. He wiped his face and hands, put his toothbrush away, carefully folded the towel before putting it back on the bar, then wordlessly left the bathroom, his grandfather still following him.

Downstairs, he found his grandmother in the kitchen. Her eyes were flashing with anger, but Michael instinctively knew her fury was not directed at him. Indeed, as she glanced at him, he thought he saw a trace of a smile on her lips, as if she were telling him not to worry, that whatever had happened upstairs, she was on his side. Feeling a little better, he looked for his mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then, through the window, he saw her sitting under the elm tree. With his grandfather close on his heels, he went outside.