“Is this whole room for you?” I asked, beside myself with shock （along with a shameful, painful stab of envy）。
She nodded, unaware or unconcerned by my gawping expression. She generously showed each of her toys, done in a way that was the opposite of conceited or snobbish. She proudly presented her colorful drawings, her colored pencils and paints.
Finally, she showed me her books.
I remember staring, with a sort of reverence, at that orderly, purple-painted bookcase, delicately decorated with oil-based white flowers. Shelves packed with rows of bright-colored spines.
“Do you like it?” she said, catching me studying the painted flowers along the sides. “My papa made it himself.”
I thought of John Hill, tall and bearded, broad-shouldered and muscled, gently painting each of the fine petals for his daughter. The thought made me want to weep with bitter resentment and self-pity, but my mind was too overwhelmed to dwell on those raw emotions. My thoughts were racing in a different direction.
I was giddy with curiosity. With blatant wonder.
Obviously, the orphanage had books. Bibles, mostly. And there was a broad selection of volumes on history and grammar, biographies of great men. In other words, schoolbooks.
But this . . . this was something else altogether. Titles I’d never heard of, pages filled with images and stories I couldn’t believe.
“What are they?” I asked, not knowing how else to phrase the question in my eagerness, my wonderment.
“They’re books, obviously,” she answered. Not cruelly, but factually, with a smidge of confusion and a larger dose of pride. “Have you read any of these?”
“I mean, I’ve seen books,” I answered shyly, and somewhat defensively. “Father Francis says I read quite well. For my age, anyway . . .”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” she said, nodding along as I stammered.
“Father Francis, that is, Andrew, has me study many subjects. We’re all taught to read by the priests, of course . . .” I caught my tumble of words, looked once more at the bookcase, bursting with colors, with titles I’d never heard of, each one tugging at my imagination. “But these . . .” I shook my head, awestruck. “I’ve never even heard of them. Of any of them.”
Without preamble, she reached out and pulled one from a shelf, turned it to face me.
“What about this one?”
On the cover was a young girl in a blue dress. In the image, the girl was talking to a large rabbit, one that wore a suit and top hat.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . . .” I said slowly, wanting nothing more in that moment of time than to take the book from her hands, find a well-lit corner, and study each page until my eyes could stay open no more.
“It’s my favorite,” she said, and then her cherubic face lit up. “Hey! Do you want to borrow it? You can bring it back the next time you visit.”
She pushed it into my hands, would hear no argument.
And so, my friendship with Grace Hill began.
On that long-ago day, Andrew had kindly extended our stay to last the entire afternoon. A one-time luxury he has rarely repeated since. But back then, while he and John loaded supplies and spoke of adult, worldly things, Grace and I let our imaginations travel through her purple-cased library, me in amazement and she amused, happily giving me summations of each and every story （while being careful not to spoil the endings）。 The more she showed me, the more my veneration for the books grew, until it felt as if an entire new realm of existence had opened inside my mind, a million worlds all aching for me to visit, to meet each and every one of their fantastical inhabitants.
After the tour was over, we were finally put to work. John put us to gathering eggs and milking the cows—the bounty of which was all destined for the orphanage—along with sacks of wheat and flour, crates of vegetables, jars of preserves, cans of fruits in sauce, dried meats; plus an entire side of beef and a sleeve of steaks, near frozen after being stored in the Hill’s gas-powered icebox.
After a few hours of work and quick escapes of play, the wagon was full. By the time it came to say our goodbyes, Grace had shown me every inch of the farm—the massive barn, the pigs and goats and cows and horses, and even their two large mastiffs （it was during an ensuing trip she informed me her father purchased the massive dogs from an Englishman selling a recent litter; having bought two because he feared that the man might kill the ones he didn’t sell, wanting to save those he could）。
As I climbed atop the wagon, Grace’s eyes popped open wide and she yelled at her father to make sure we didn’t drive away. She turned and ran for the house in a dead sprint.
That might have been the moment I fell in love with her. Hard to say.
John and Andrew, bemused, had a good laugh at our expense, but I didn’t much mind, and I know Grace certainly didn’t.
When she came back, she held a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. I looked over to Andrew for approval, and although his brows were furrowed—whether in confusion or disapproval I didn’t know—he nodded.
“Just to borrow,” she said, holding my eyes with her own; a sparkling, brilliant green. “You need to bring it back, you understand? I expect you will comply, Peter Barlow.”
The wording was so odd and her gaze so strong I was momentarily flummoxed. Girls certainly were peculiar, I realized. But I nodded and said, “Of course” and “Thank you.”
Minutes later, we were back on the road and I was waving behind us at Grace and John, the former running after the wagon for a few yards. As she ran out of breath, she yelled out: “Don’t forget!”
Once they were out of sight, I could wait no longer.
I opened up the package.
It was Alice.
I showed it to Andrew, who raised his eyebrows, but smiled. “I suppose that’s all right.”
I stared at the book, mesmerized. “Have you read it?”
“I have. It’s a strange story, but not a harmful one.”
Gratefulness and relief swept through me, and I thanked him repeatedly for letting me hold onto the prize.
He nodded and waved his hand at me, charmed at my exuberance. “Yes, all right.” He gave me a serious look then. “Still, it might be best if you didn’t let the others see it, Peter. Not that I want you to be selfish, but if it causes a stir, Poole might take it away. And we want to make sure Grace gets her book back, don’t we?”
I looked at him and nodded, hoping the inference meant what I hoped it did.
That I’d return with him. That I’d see Grace Hill again.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the chapel later that evening, having escaped from the others under the pretense of a tutoring session with Andrew, that I finally realized what Grace was inferring with her odd behavior while giving me the book.
Stuck within the pages, neatly folded, was a handwritten letter.
Dearest Peter,
I’m writing this quickly while you and Papa load the wagon, so my apologies for being brief, or for any misspellings.
It was nice meeting you today. I already know we are going to be best friends. I’m glad you liked my house and my books. It made me happy to share them with you. I’m also glad you liked my papa, who is a wonderful person. I’m sorry, though, that our dog drooled on your shirt and got it muddy. Those dogs are messy creatures. I hope you enjoy reading the book. As I said, it’s probably my favorite, though there are others I enjoy equally. When you return, I will give you another to borrow, if it’s okay with Father Francis.