She yearned for her bed—between the ball and staying up to write her letter to Mr. Ackerman, she’d gotten very little sleep the night before. She also yearned for Sunday, when she would see Mr. Ackerman again, would sit beside him in church service, and would exchange a missive with him.As she worked, forcing her tired limbs to perform her given tasks efficiently, she pondered what he would say in his letter. Would it be very short, like hers, or longer? Would he speak of the ball or of chickens or of other things—more personal things? Or would it hold apologies for his impulsive idea and a request to forget the whole thing? The wondering and worry had tangled her insides into knots, and she wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.The clock chimed twelve, alerting her to lunchtime. She set aside her cleaning supplies and made her way toward the lunch counter for her noon meal, but halfway down the hall the intrusive clang of a beckon-me bell brought her steps to a halt. Dinah sighed and changed direction.
