Cold April by Phyllis A. Humphrey

trouble?”
    She only shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Would you like to play a game with us?”
    “ Oh, yes. May I?” Kathleen looked first at Emma, then at Beth and her father.
    “ What kind of game?” Beth asked.
    Emma showed them a peg fastened to a block of wood and a collection of rope circles.
    “ Is that like Ring Toss?” Richard asked.
    The second little girl spoke up. “Me fahver calls it some-fing else. ’e made it for me.”
    Emma said, “This is Josie.” Like Emma, Josie appeared to be about six years old.
    “ Well, Josie and Emma,” Richard said, “I think that would be a fine game, and Kathleen may join you if she likes.”
    Kathleen said, “Thank you, Pa-pa.” The three little girls skipped over to a corner of the room and set up their game. Beth and Richard watched for a short time.
    Richard turned to Beth again. “Did you play games with your sisters and brothers when you were a child?”
    “ Yes, a little. Not as often as we would have liked. We had chores that took up some of our time and then school lessons. My younger brothers are still in school. You?”
    “ The same, but I usually spent any free moments I had reading books.”
    Beth smiled. “I love to read, too.”
    “ Perhaps we enjoyed the same books.” He grinned, as if happy to find another thing they had in common. “I loved Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson.”
    Beth smiled back. “So did I.” Even thinking about them having read the same books gave her a tingling feeling, another coincidence that created a bond between them.
    “ And have you read Dickens—David Copperfield or Great Expectations?”
    “ Of course. I’m thinking of rereading some of his books this year. It’s the hundredth anniversary of his birth, you know.”
    “ I believe I saw that in the Times.”
    Beth paused to think of other books she’d read. She glanced toward the children and found them busy taking turns throwing the rope circles at the target peg.
    “ I loved A Tale of Two Cities,” Richard said.
    “ And The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy,” Beth added, “which was also about the French Revolution.”
    “ I think I missed that one. Did you read books by any American writers?”
    “ I’m sure I did. I just can’t think of them now.” She was surprised she could remember anything at all, when his eyes stared into hers with such admiration.
    “ Probably you’ve read all of Shakespeare.”
    “ Of course. Didn’t you?”
    “ Not all. Only what was required for my English literature classes. Not being British, you know. In addition, you must remember, I had farm chores.”
    “ I’m amazed you could do any reading for pleasure during the days in which you worked on the farm or while at university.”
    He pushed his chair away from the table, leaned against the back of it and stretched his legs forward, while at the same time crossing his arms over his chest.
    “ Actually, I’ve done more reading in the past three years than at any time in my life.”
    “ And why particularly those years?”
    “ Because of Kathleen’s mother.”
    Beth felt herself blush. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have guessed.”
    “ No reason for you to have remembered.”
    But she ought to have remembered. She visualized him sitting alone after his wife died, reading books to take his mind off the reality of her passing. On the other hand, he was right in a way. Since they’d met, he never acted like a man in mourning. Especially not lately, not in his attentions to her. Still, a long time had passed since Kathleen’s mother died, and mourning did end.
    She returned the conversation to their previous subject. “And what books have you been reading these past three years?”
    “ I confess I’ve stooped to stories about Sherlock Holmes.”
    Beth laughed. “Don’t say that. You’ll make me feel guilty. I read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories as well.”
    “ They are a great way to take one’s mind off the present, especially