were all going. On their backs they carried great bundles of what appeared to be bedding or clothing, with pots and pans dangling down. Weapons or tools of the field sagged in their weary hands. Children shuffled along, not even lifting their eyes when she passed. That was most unusual because she was normally a magnet for the young. But these families appeared too burdened to look up or speak.
"Where are they going?" she asked Mai Lin.
"The fields are no good anymore. They go to Fenchow-fu or other towns to find work."
"But there isn't any work in Fenchow-fu. There are already too many beggars on the streets."
Mai Lin offered a tsking sound.
"They should just stay put," Grace said. "They'd be better off."
"Robbers now cover the countryside. But robbers also hide in
alleys in the city. They don't care where they slit your throat," Mai Lin said with a chuckle.
"How awful!" Grace said. "You must not say things like that Mai Lin. These good families will surely reach their destinations."
Mai Lin shrugged, and they carried on. Grace thought it better not to dwell upon the fates of the poor Chinese. It was terrible, but what could be done? She had first arrived in Shansi during the drought of 1907, when the Reverend had been mightily preoccupied with famine relief. He worked passionately day and night to secure financial support from expatriate Americans and congregations back home to help the starving Chinese. He quickly raised enough to build the roads that brought in the Red Cross and shipments of food from American companies to the villages. In one of their first encounters, he had described to Grace the grateful Chinese children stuffing wads of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum into their mouths and how he had frantically instructed them not to swallow. Of course other food was delivered as well, and then, when the rain eventually came, those same newly constructed roads then carried crops from the fields to the marketplace more swiftly than ever. It had all worked out in the end. Except that this famine of the present year seemed every bit as bad and appeared unending.
Nonetheless, Grace had admired the Reverend so during that difficult time. Her passion for him had grown tenfold in her breast. When he had finally looked up from his efforts, she had believed it an actual miracle that he professed to feel the same way about her. She hadn't allowed herself to believe he'd even noticed her in the two months since her arrival. The two were married a fortnight later on a gloriously rainy day in the small mission chapel. Falling raindrops had been far better than the usual confetti or rice tossed onto the shoulders of bride and groom. And while some in the mission had been surprised at the sudden nuptials, such was the swiftness and surety of their love for one another.
Grace had never been happier, although her subsequent explanatory letter home took some careful crafting. Her mother's agitated return telegram had brought scalding tears to Grace's eyes, but after several more exchanges, eventually a heavy box of handsome sterling place settings arrived from the best jewelry store in Cleveland, and the rift with her family was mended. Yet further evidence that everything worked out in the end.
Now she gazed at her husband, who remained absorbed in his book. It worried her that he had grown inward since those earlier, more purposeful days. But she supposed that was what personal tragedy wrought. What was the starvation and death of thousands when your own child was lost to you?
Grace tried to shake this sad thought from her mind. She forced herself to speak up in a bright tone. "I believe you must have memorized the Good Book by now, Reverend."
He looked across at her and blinked.
"Don't you think you have studied enough for one day?" she asked. "The Lord is not going to quiz you on each and every chapter and verse."
The Reverend lifted the leather-bound volume in his hand and actually smiled. "This is not the Good Book, my dear, but ancient Chinese poetry."
"Is it really?" she asked. "How absolutely astounding."
"Yes, it is. They have a knack for simplicity that the Romantics
missed altogether. And they do not flinch from the hard things in life. I find their melancholia to be the perfect mirror to this desolate setting. Would you care to read some?"
Grace let out an embarrassed titter but then nodded most gratefully. Her husband was more surprising by the minute. She