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I stood as far as I could from the old man who disappointed me in so many ways. Why couldn't Grandpa be stronger and stand up for all our rights?

Why didn't he open his silent mouth and put his tongue to good use? Why did all his thoughts come out in the form of charming little wooden figures? He could have told his son he couldn't sell his children. But he hadn't said a word, not a word.

How bitter I felt to think my grandfather went to church every Sunday he could, to sing and stand up and say prayers with bowed head, and then he came back to a home where small children were whipped, starved, brutalized, and then sold.

"We'll run away," I whispered to Tom when Fanny was asleep and Grandpa was in his pallet. "When the snow melts, before Pa comes back again, we'll put on all our clothes and run

to Miss Deale. She must be back from Baltimore by now. She has to be. She'll tell us what to do, and how to get back Our Jane and Keith."

Yes, Miss Deale would know, if anyone did, just how to thwart Pa and keep him from selling us all to strangers. Miss Deale knew a thousand things that Pa would never know; she had connections.

It snowed for three days without letup.

Then suddenly, dramatically, the sun broke out from behind clouds. The bright light pouring in almost blinded us when Tom threw open the front door to stare out.

"It's over," Grandpa murmured weakly. "That's t'way of our Lord, t'save his own jus when we think we kin't live on another hour."

How were we saved? Not saved at all by sunlight, only warmed a bit. I turned again to the old chipped and rickety cabinet that held our pitiful store of food. Again, nothing to eat but a few of the nuts harvested in the fall.

"But I like nuts," Tom said cheerfully, setting down to munching on his two. "And when the snow has melted enough, we can put on our warmest clothes and escape. Wouldn't it be nice to head west, into the sun? End up in California, living on dates and oranges, drinking coconut milk. Sleeping on the golden grass, staring up at the golden mountains . . ."

"Do they have golden streets in Hollywood?" asked Fanny.

"Spect everything is golden in Hollywood," mused Tom, still standing and looking outside. "Or else silver."

Grandpa said nothing.

We lived in capricious country. Spring could come as quickly as a lightning bolt and do just as much damage. Springlike days would warm up the earth in December, January, and February, trick the flowers into blooming ahead of time, fool the trees into leafing out; then winter would come back and freeze the flowers, kill off the new baby leaves, and when real spring came, those flowers and trees wouldn't repeat their performances since they'd been deceived once, wouldn't be deceived again, or at least not this season.

Now the sun turned the mounds of heaped snow into slushy mush that soon melted and flooded the streams, causing bridges to be swept away. . . and trails were lost in the woods. There was no way to escape now that the bridge was gone. Exhausted and exceedingly tired from his long quest to find a way out, Tom came home to report the loss of the nearest bridge.

"The current's running fast and strong, or else we could swim across. Tomorrow will be a better day."

I put down Jane Eyre, which I was reading again, and drifted over to stand beside Tom, both of us silent until Fanny ran to join us. "Let's swear a solemn vow now," Tom whispered so Grandpa wouldn't hear, "to run the first chance we get. To stay together through thick and thin, one for all and all for one . . . Heavenly, we've said this to each other before. Now we have to add Fanny. Fanny, put your hand on top of mine. But first cross your heart and hope to die if ever you let us be split apart."

Fanny seemed to hesitate, and then with rare sisterly camaraderie her hand covered mine, which rested on top of Tom's. "We do solemnly swear. ."

"We do solemnly swear . ." repeated Fanny and I. "To always stay together, to care for one another through joys and suffering . ."

Again Fanny hesitated. "Why do ya have t'mention sufferin? Yer makin this sound like a weddin, Tom."

"All right, through thick and thin, through good and bad, until we have Our Jane and Keith with us again--is that good enough for you two?"

"It's fine, Tom," I said as I repeated his vows.

Even Fanny was impressed, and more like a real sister than she'd ever been as she snuggled up beside me, and we talked about our futures out in the big world we knew nothing about. Fanny even helped Tom and me search the woods for berries as we waited for the swollen river to go down and the bridge to be restored.

"Hey," Tom said suddenly, hours later, "just remembered. There's another bridge twenty miles away, and we can reach it if we're determined enough. Heavenly, if we all have to hike twenty miles or more, we're gonna need more than one hazelnut apiece, I can tell ya that right now."

"Think we can make it on two nuts apiece?" asked I, who'd been holding back just for an emergency like this.

"Why, with all that energy, we could probably walk to Florida," Tom said with a laugh, "which might almost be as good as California."

We dressed in our best, put on everything we owned. I tried not to think of leaving Grandpa all alone. Fanny was eager to escape a cabin where only sadness and old age and hopelessness had come to stay. Guiltily, with reluctant determination, we kissed Grandpa good-bye. He stood up feebly, smiled at us, nodding as if life never held any surprises for him.

In my hand I held my mother's suitcase that finally Fanny had seen, though her excitement had been lessened by the knowledge we were leaving . . . for somewhere.

"Good-bye," called all three of us in unison, but I hung back when Tom and Fanny raced outside. "Grandpa," I said in an embarrassed voice, really hurting inside, "I'm sorry to be doing this to you. I know it's not right to leave you alone, but we have to do it or be sold like Keith and Our Jane. Please understand."