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necessary.”
    “It is to me.” He walked to the door. “Put this bolt on after I leave, Cara.”
    “I will.” But before she could tell him again how unnecessary it was for him to come back in the morning, he stepped back out into the night.
    Cara spent an uncomfortable night on the small cot in the school’s back room. When she awakened stiff, sore, and, most certainly bruised, she vowed never to do it again. She felt as if she’d slept on rocks.
    She padded barefoot in her flannel gown over to the window where she saw the beautiful sky of a beautiful day. She decided to go ahead with herplans for cleaning the school and went off to attend to her morning’s needs.
    Cara had just finished winding her thick hair into a chignon when a knock sounded on the door. She opened it to find Franklin Cooper, the mailman and father of two of her students, standing on the other side.
    “Morning, Miss Cara.”
    “Good morning, Mr. Cooper. What brings you out so early?”
    “Brought your mail. Sophie said you be here cleaning most of the day so she thought you’d like to have it now instead of waiting until you get back home.”
    “Why, thank you.” She took the packet he offered then smiled, recognizing the fine penmanship of her old friend, William Boyd. Receiving correspondence from him after so many months made the day seem even brighter.
    “Sorry I didn’t get it to you sooner,” Cooper said, “but with the Tenth in town and all—”
    “I know, Mr. Cooper, it’s all right. How’s your wife?”
    They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments longer, and then Cooper continued on his way.
    Cara closed the door and took the letter to her desk. The last time she’d seen William had been almost six years ago at Oberlin. He’d been a good friend during her two years of study there, even though his family had been related to prominent abolitionists and she’d been a backwoods Georgia girl related to no one. William had not let class differences stop him from forming friendships.
    As always, the letter began: “My dearest Cara . . .”
    He followed with an apology for the length of time between missives and hoped the followingfive pages would serve as ample penance. He wrote that he no longer clerked in his father’s Boston dry goods store. For the past three months he’d been working for T. Thomas Fortune’s New York Globe. Cara was impressed. A lot of folks, herself included, considered the Globe one of the finest Black newspapers in the country. Mr. Fortune’s editorials regularly and strongly denounced the continuing violence and terror in the South.
    William then brought her up-to-date on his four sisters. The women in his family had always been socially minded. Cara remembered the stories he had told of his grandmother’s work with the Black abolitionists of her era and of his mother’s commitment to securing the passage of the Fifteenth Amendment in 1870. His sisters had allied themselves with many other women across the country fighting to secure voting rights for women of all colors. On a less serious note, William described his impressions of New York, specifically the wonder of the still uncompleted Brooklyn Bridge, reportedly the longest and most innovative structure of its kind anywhere in the world. Construction had begun in 1869, and now after more than ten years of deaths, political wrangling, and scandal, it finally appeared as if the bridge would indeed be finished.
    Another knock on the door broke her concentration and, still reading, she walked over and opened it. “Morning, Miss Henson.”
    Cara blinked at the sight of Chase Jefferson filling the doorway. The pages of William’s letter slid unnoticed to the floor.
    “Sophie thought you might like breakfast.”
    He stood facing her, as beautiful to her as the fine May morning. His uniform looked freshly washed and starched. His shoulders seemed toblock the sunlight. She stammered. “Oh, yes—yes. Do come in.”
    She stepped aside to let