Through Rushing Water by Catherine Richmond Page A

are brothers and sisters?”
    No one responded.
    â€œYou are family? With the same mother and father?”
    â€œNo,” Susette said. “Yes. Uncle.”
    All these children lived in one house with just an uncle to supervise them? No wonder they were so poorly dressed. Perhaps the clothing the church ladies sent could be put to use.
    The spring burbled from the bluff behind the house. Marguerite scoured the bucket with gravel, then rinsed three times. The children all drank from the spring, which seemed a good idea until Sophia drenched her skirt.
    â€œFrank. Joseph,” she called to the boys. “Do not leave Marguerite to do all the work.”
    â€œWomen’s work.”
    Apparently their only sentence in English. She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you are not as strong as Marguerite. Your arms cannot lift the bucket, even if two of you carry it.”
    They rose to the challenge, growling and snatching the handle. Half the water splashed out and the lesson on walking in line was postponed yet again.
    Will’s dark eyes lifted from his hammering to watch her return. Would his expression change if he hit his thumb?
    â€œAll right, students. Please take your seats.” She guided Rosalie to the first bench. The older girls sat in the next row and the boys took the last. The teacher she had spoken with in New York—had it been only last month?—recommended starting with the youngest for recitations. But what could this little one know? “Frank, we will start with you. Stand up and—”
    Rosalie tugged her skirt. “Hungry.”
    Sophia consulted her pocket watch. “Yes, it is lunchtime. Did anyone bring food? Is anyone going home to eat?”
    The students stared at the pail. Once again the carpenter was right.
    â€œSince it is a beautiful day, let us eat outside. Form a line.” This they did with a minimum of wiggling, testimony to the motivating power of food. Sophia led them to a shady spot on the opposite side from the latrine project. She swept her boots through the grass. “Are there any snakes out here?”
    Will called, “No poisonous ones.”
    Remarkably good hearing. Quite annoying.
    Sophia distributed the bread and cheese, then hesitated. Should she not say grace? She had heard prayers before every meal at the College, but never had to say one.
    Perhaps she could ask one of the children to say thanks. But no, they were nearly finished.
    Oh dear. What sort of missionary forgot to say grace?

C HAPTER S IX
    T here is a spark of God in everyone.
    Will believed that. And he believed God wanted His people to look for that spark in others. But he hadn’t really expected to find it in Miss Sophia Makinoff, an obvious member of the upper crust.
    Yes, she was pretty, with her pink cheeks and all. Like gingerbread trim on a house—fancy but of no real use.
    Still, she hadn’t quit at first sight of the village. And she hadn’t pulled away when the children touched her. Then finally, this afternoon, as he built her outhouse, he found the spark. He paused in his hammering to listen. She had a voice. She could sing.
    The Poncas sang—with enthusiasm. Although, over the past three years he’d been living here, most of what he’d heard was mourning songs. But the teacher . . .
    She stopped singing to point out a drawing of a lamb in the McGuffey Reader, then the picture in the front of the room of Jesus carrying a sheep. Since the people didn’t have sheep, she had a bit of explaining to do. Which she did with her pretty way of speaking, with pauses as she searched for the right word and different ways of saying her vowels.
    Henry worried the children might pick up some foreign language. To Will’s mind Russian would be a far sight better than what they’d heard from the previous schoolmaster. He had turned the air blue with his cursing, never used polite words, and—
    Yellow Spotted Buffalo passed him a