"You must learn well so that one day you can take over the village school," she had preached every day.
"Yes, Miss Pearson," she'd replied, and after she'd done her chores, she ran wild over the meadow high over the cliffs, where the waves crashed into the rocks. She swam in the freezing sea and picked shells on the beach and watched the sand squish between her toes.
No matter the weather.
Then, one day, when returning after such an excursion, her wet hair slapping into her face, she passed the cemetery.
A boy was standing in front of a freshly dug grave. His tattered clothes hung from his lanky frame, and he bowed his head as the coffin was lowered into the grave.
"That's his mother, God rest her soul," muttered Farmer Smith, who was unloading his cart. "One of the kindest, gentlest ladies that ever walked the face of the earth. A real lady, they say. She was of good stock. The world did her much wrong."
"Why did she die?" Mira asked. She could not tear her eyes from the boy's defeated form.
"Typhoid."
"And the boy?" Mira asked.
"Kit. A right 'un, that one. Nursed his sick mother to the end. Dirt poor they were, too. Did all manner of work about town to earn money for the doctor and medicine. Has nobody left in this world now." Farmer Smith sighed and walked on.
Mira went home slowly, her thoughts heavy with illness and death.
She could see the graveyard from the kitchen window as she sat down to eat with Miss Pearson.
The boy was still standing by the grave, his head hanging. When it started to rain, he still stood there, motionless, as if he did not feel the rain.
When it got dark, she saw his dark silhouette still by the grave.
Mira looked at the plates of biscuits on the table. She took some, wrapped them in newspaper, picked up the lantern and left the cottage.
The boy looked like half a spectre himself, standing so immobile at the graveyard. She shivered.
She set down the lantern by the grave, unwrapped the biscuits, and wordlessly held them out to him.
He did not respond at first.
Mira crouched next to him, trying to peek up into his face. Strands of his long, dark hair hung over his forehead.
Just as she was about to give up and walk away, he lifted his eyes.
Mud-green they were, full of despair.
His eyes fell on the biscuits she was still holding out. His hand moved slowly to take them.
Mira gave him a wavering smile, left the lantern by the grave and went home.
A few hours later she heard Miss Pearson exclaim, "Dear sweet heavens, if that boy didn't give me a fright." She pointed out of the window.
He was standing by the garden gate, in the pouring rain.
"What's he doing here?" When she'd heard Miss Pearson's startled cry, Mira had jumped out of bed and run down, barefoot.
"Probably doesn't know where to go, poor mite." Miss Pearson sighed. She opened the door. "Well, don't just stand there, boy. Come on in, then."
He slept in a little cot by the kitchen hearth and took care of odds and ends in the household.
"I saved you, didn't I?" Mira told him one day as they walked across the meadow to pick berries.
He tugged at one of her wild corkscrew curls. "So you did, my Mira."
