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as toddlers astride the horse and her father holding the reins. Docile meant old, and in the photos his weariness and bewilderment are already visible. But in fact what the photos captured was only the onset, in fact the spring, of a terrible longevity. Even Glory remembered the ancient, moldy horse standing in the barn or the pasture with his legs splayed out as if he expected the earth to tilt abruptly and was braced for it. It was his misfortune to be a horse, with enough persisting horse-like attributes, for example a mane and most of a tail, to have, in the eyes of children, a chivalric dignity and romance. So, year upon year, the matter of bringing an end to the tedium and confusion of his interminable life could not even be broached. Then finally one day he was gone. The boys made horrible jokes about how he had made a run for it, had charged through Gilead overturning matrons and baby carriages on his way to the freedom of the high plains. They took to calling glue and all that was gluelike Snowflake, to the irritation of their father and the bafflement of the younger children. Still, there was something about the fact that there had been a horse in that barn, that his trough still stood by the wall and his bridle still hung from a nail above it, that gave the barn itself a certain melancholy romance. A few motes of straw still managed to scintillate in any shaft of sunlight. It seemed sometimes as if her father must have meant to preserve all this memory, this sheer power of sameness, so that when they came home, or when Jack came home, there would be no need to say anything. In the terms of the place, they would all always have known everything.

JACK STILL HAD A LETTER TO MAIL ALMOST EVERY DAY. HE TOOK the letters to the post office, at the back of the drugstore. He dressed carefully before every venture into town, jacket, tie, and hat. It was a louche sort of respectability he achieved, she thought, but it was earnestly persisted in, with much attention to the shine on his shoes. He would sometimes tell her whom he had met on the street, if he recognized anyone, or, more precisely, if anyone recognized him. He reported brief conversations as if they were heartening, proof of something. Once he said, “I believe I could see myself here. Jack Boughton, honest working man. Little wife at home, little child — frolicking with his dog, I suppose. Not unthinkable.” And sometimes he came back drawn and silent, as if he had been shunned or slighted, perhaps. All those letters, and never a word about whomever it was he sent them to, and never a word of reply.

One day when she was in the parlor, dusting among the clutter of gifts and souvenirs that crowded the mantel, he said, “Well, Glory, I did as I was told. I stopped by Ames’s, paid my respects. Met the wife.” He laughed. “You know, after all these years he still can’t stand the sight of me.”

She said, “He’s a kind old fellow. He was probably just tired, probably up all night.”

“No doubt you’re right.” Then he said, “I’m an insensitive brute for the most part. But if there is one thing I know I can recognize, it is dislike. If he allows himself such thoughts, he was sitting there on his front porch thinking, Here comes Jack Boughton, that son of a bitch.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“The language.”

“Never mind.”

He shook his head. “It’s hard, coming back here.” He opened the piano and touched middle C. “Did somebody tune this?”

“Papa had it tuned when I told him I was coming home. Back. That was the first thing he wrote to me, after his regrets and prayers and so on. ‘It will be wonderful to have music in this house again.’ I haven’t played, though. I haven’t really felt like it.”

Jack slid onto the bench. “I can’t do it without squinting one eye,” he said. He took a sip from an imaginary glass, set it down again, and sang, “‘When your heart’s on fire, you must realize, smoke gets in your eyes.’”

“I hate that song,” she said.

“‘I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places. .’”

“Stop it,” she said.

He laughed. “Sorry. I really am sorry.” He shrugged. “Limited repertoire.”

“How can you even have a repertoire? You never practiced!”

“I thought playing piano had something to do with being Presbyterian. Nobody told me you could get paid for it.”

Their father’s voice rose from the next room, reedy and perfectly pitched. “‘This robe of flesh I’ll drop and rise, To seize the everlasting prize. .’”

Jack said, “I guess that’s a hint,” and he played the hymn through, embellishing a little but respectfully enough. “‘And sing while passing through the air, farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer.’” He knew the words, and he whispered them as he played. Well, that always was their father’s favorite hymn.

“Yes!” the old man said. “And I would also very much enjoy ‘Shall We Gather at the River.’ Or ‘The Church’s One Foundation,’ if you prefer that one. It’s all the same to me.” And he began, rather lustily, “‘Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, beautiful river—’” Jack plunged in after him. “That was rousing, Jack! Yes, the old songs. I believe I’ve worked up an appetite. Four o’clock. Well, I might have a cookie—”

Jack said, “I’ll get one for you. Milk?”

“If you