Duet for Three by Joan Barfoot Read Free Book Online Page A

not being so important, that students just don’t turn up at school if they’re wanted at home.”
    She couldn’t imagine it any other way, but nodded encouragingly.
    â€œSome of them are quite bright, too. Still, I suppose I can try to make them want to learn. There’s nothing to stop a farmer from reading, after all.”
    How ignorant he must find them all, how work-worn and dull, scrabbling at their rocks. For a moment she saw them from his point of view, and was ashamed.
    Still, when he shrugged her attention was drawn to the spareness of his shoulders, and she had a naughty vision of her big healthy head rolling off them.
    â€œAnd you?” he asked politely. “You went to school here?”
    â€œYes, but not very far, only to seventh grade.”
    â€œDo you like books? Do you still read?”
    Of course not. There were far too many things going on to sit with your nose in a book. Reading was a school activity, and leaving school, you closed the books. “Well, we don’t have many here,” she hedged. “Only some school readers, and the Bible.”
    â€œBut are you interested?”
    â€œOh, of course.”
    They said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but she thought that with this man, that was not likely the case. He was just picking at his food, but now he turned to her with interest. “I have books upstairs, you know. Would you care to borrow some?”
    â€œYes, I’d like that,” and she lowered her eyes, well schooled in the maidenly arts, however strong she might in fact be. Why, she could carry pails of ice water or lemonade away out into the fields for her father and brothers to drink; she could twist sheets so hard all the soapy water just drained right out of them. Eyes down and moving her hands a little helplessly, as if they’d never done anything harder than touch a flower, she added, “although I wouldn’t know where to begin, really.”
    â€œPerhaps I could help you.”
    â€œThat would be very kind. If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
    It was not. He came down to the kitchen after supper the next night with a book, and began to teach her. Which, as it turned out, was what he liked to do best. Her brothers giggled, as their mother hustled them out of the way.
    Aggie and he made various kinds of progress. To her surprise, she did rather enjoy the lessons. She could see how there might be something to this, trying to understand, like a game or a puzzle. It was humiliating to know so few words. “Read it to me,” she asked him, and he seemed pleased to do so. By watching closely, she could learn.
    She was released from after-supper housework. “No,” her mother said, “you spend the time at your lessons,” and told the teacher, “Aggie’s so bright, it’s a shame she had to leave school. It’s nice, you helping her this way.”
    Peeling potatoes, Aggie memorized poems. Her brothers teased her. “Eyes on the teacher, that’s what.”
    â€œCall me Neil,” he told her. “This isn’t a classroom, I’m not Mr. Hendricks here.” She thought that gracious and informal.
    He said, “I’ll pick out what you should read,” and handed her small volumes of poems, about flowers and sunsets mainly. “You have to be careful, you know, what things are suitable.” She would have liked stories. After a while, she got a little tired of flowers and sunsets, but he explained they must move cautiously. Some books, some words, he said, should not be exposed to women. Or women to them. She was never clear if his care was for the purity of learning, or the virtue of the female. Possibly both.
    She was pleased that when he read aloud, his voice deepened with authority. He said he was pleased with her progress. It was true that she was a keen pupil, likely the best he had, since she was aiming for more