Delivering the Truth by Edith Maxwell

wasn’t as bad as you feared, I hope?”
    â€œNot at all.” Although I’d certainly enjoyed the company of Herbert more than Clarinda. “Now I must go, though. I’ll speak with thee soon.” I squeezed his hand and then extricated mine.
    â€œNot as soon as I’d like. I’ll wait and convey both of you to the home if you’d like.”
    â€œOh, would thee? That would be a great assistance.” I turned to the house. The man ran down the stairs toward me.
    â€œIt’s me wife.” His face was full of anguish. “She’s screaming something terrible.”

eleven
    I yawned as I turned onto Friend Street at nine the next morning. Last evening’s birth had been well along by the time I arrived with the worried husband via David’s buggy, the three of us squashed together on the one seat.
    The mother, Patience Henderson, had delivered a small but healthy son, despite her screams. Before I left, the father, Hiram, who had a steady job with the railroad, had paid me the full two dollars with a huge smile. They named the child Timothy. I’d seen pneumonia take their firstborn infant son a year earlier, whom they’d also called Timothy; that was why I recognized the father. I saw this in my practice frequently, a family calling a succession of babies by the same name until one lived to wear it.
    I hadn’t achieved quite a full night’s sleep, however, not arriving back home until midnight. The household had been up at the usual early hour to get the children off to school and Faith and Frederick off to work. I helped out with breakfast and with lunch pails, but I did hope to rest for a bit when I returned from my planned visit to see John Whittier.
    I rapped the knocker on the front door of the simple clapboard frame home. While I had shared worship with John more times than I could remember, I had never visited him at home. His housekeeper opened the door and was apparently accustomed to acting as his gatekeeper. She questioned me about my reasons for seeing him. But when I started to explain, John himself peered over her shoulder and beckoned me in.
    â€œMrs. Cate, this is Friend Rose Carroll. I have time for her, of course I do.”
    I found it curious this famous lifelong Friend used a title to address his own housekeeper. Perhaps he felt she would have accepted it no other way. But I didn’t ask him about it. As I moved through the hall, I passed a longcase clock and was delighted by the sight of a peaceful meadow, like the one on my own clock, painted across the top where the days of the month were marked, held up by maps of the halves of the world. A quizzical rosy-cheeked man-in - the-moon peeked out behind the flat globe on the left. He must move across the heavens during the month, one day at a time.
    I followed John into his study, which was warm from the heat of a small stove. The pipe connecting it to the wall glowed nearly red. He sank into his rocker, looking every one of his eighty-one years. On one wall of the study was a chaise much like the one in my own office. A small desk against the wall bore an inkwell, a pen, a rocking blotter, and a folio of blank paper. A black top hat rested next to the paper. The great poet’s writing space was simple and humble, as was its owner.
    â€œThank thee for seeing me, John.” I perched on a small chair. “And for understanding why I needed to leave Meeting for Worship yesterday.”
    â€œI am glad thee uncovered the arsonist in our midst,” he said.
    â€œThere lies a problem. Thee told me of thy friendship with Kevin Donovan.”
    â€œYes, the able detective.” He tented his fingers.
    â€œHe paid me a visit yesterday and said our Stephen Hamilton isn’t the Carriage Hill arsonist because he has a secure alibi for the hours preceding the fire.”
    John raised his eyebrows. “This is indeed news. I had not heard of it.”
    â€œKevin told me