The door of the house opened.
The girl who came out onto the step was thin and brown-haired and taller than Linnet had pictured, all wrists and elbows in a dress she had nearly outgrown, with an apron over it and flour to the elbows. She had a face that would be handsome in ten years and was only sharp now, and she had gray eyes, and the eyes went to Nehemiah first and then to Linnet and stayed there.
She did not run. She did not cry out, or put her hands to her face, or do any of the things a guilty child does in a story. She wiped her hands on her apron, slowly, one finger at a time, and then she came down off the step and walked across the yard to the side of the wagon where Linnet sat, and looked up at her.
"You came," she said. "I didn't know if you would. I thought you might have found out somehow and stayed home." She swallowed. "I'm Keziah. I'm the one who wrote to you. I expect you know that by now."
"I know it," Linnet said.
"All of them?"
"I don't know yet. I'd like you to tell me."
Keziah nodded, as if that were fair, as if she had expected it. Then she looked at Nehemiah, and for the first time something cracked in her face, and Linnet saw how young she was.
"The tin's empty, Nem," the girl said. "I know you've guessed it. I spent it. All but twelve dollars and forty cents, and I spent eight of that on stamps. I'll tell you everything. But I made biscuits, and there's a hen in the oven that I killed this morning so there'd be something decent, and it's going to burn if somebody doesn't come in." Her chin came up. "So you can whip me after supper if you want. But please come in first. She's come a long way. She ought to have supper."