Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. Psalm 119:105

I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,

His day is marching on.

— "Battle Hymn of the Republic" by Julia Ward Howe; 2nd stanza; 1861

Hickory Hill, Virginia October 25, 1860

An inquisitive, late-afternoon sunbeam sneaked between the thin muslin curtains of the upstairs hall's west window in Dr. Luke Danielson's modest but spotless home. It roved over plain white walls brightened by occasional watercolor landscapes, and highlighted a cross-stitched sampler that read: How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. The sunbeam danced on until it reached a heavy mirror mounted on the wall next to the staircase leading to the ground floor. There it lingered, for all the world as if it had finally found something worthy of its full attention.

The massive mirror gave the slim, blue-calico-clad figure poised at the top of the staircase an auburn-haired twin, a twin with sparkling blue eyes that often changed to mysterious green, depending on the wearer's gown. Both image and original displayed a few tiny, gold-dust freckles on their lightly tanned, tip-tilted noses — the result of forgetting to shade creamy skin from the sun by wearing tiresome hats.

The gleaming glass also reflected Lucy Danielson's right-hand grasp of the smooth, highly polished banister rail, a definite threat to good intentions. "Young ladies should rest one hand lightly and sweep down the stairs," she muttered.

Knowing she should put aside her childish ways on this, her fifteenth birthday, Lucy loosened her grip. She was almost a woman. Why, some of her friends were married and taking on airs. Lucy grimaced. She would never do so. "I may become a woman, but I won't stop being a girl," she vowed.

She sighed, then with a quick change of mood, curved her left hand, smirked, and took a single mincing step forward. The next moment, she made the mistake of allowing her gaze to linger on the tempting banister. Its beautifully grained surface served as a silent reminder of countless journeys made since Lucy first eluded Mammy Roxy's watchful care and discovered the new, wonderful means of descent. Numerous scoldings and threats (that never materialized) to tell the child's beloved father, "Daddy Doc," hadn't kept Lucy from engaging in the forbidden activity.

She closed her eyes in order to better fight temptation. A girl who had accompanied her father on his rounds ever since she was old enough to sit in the buggy beside him had no business sliding down banister rails. Lucy laughed. The joyous sound echoed in the quiet hall. How many times had Mammy scolded, "It ain't fittin' for you to be takin' that chile into all kinds of unsav'ry places, Dr. Luke. It just ain't fittin'!"

Lucy's big, blond Scandinavian father always just laughed. He usually listened to Roxy, who had become nurse and substitute mother on the day Dr. Luke's cherished wife died while birthing their only child. Yet on this one thing he remained firm. "I don't take Lucy anywhere that will endanger her health," he patiently explained over and over. "It's also the only way I can be with my daughter. Hickory Hill folks run me ragged; you know that." He covered a yawn with the strong hand, which could be gentle as a mother's touch when needed, and smiled at Roxy.

"Those same folks is plumb scandalized," Roxy reminded him. She rolled her dark eyes. "Just last week Miz Tarbell said 'twas plain shockin' to see a girl-chile sittin' on the seat of a doctor's buggy and goin' into sickrooms."

"That was last week." Dr. Luke grinned like an urchin triumphantly harboring a secret weapon. "A few days later, that same Miz Tarbell admitted Lucy's small but firm hands 'do a powerful lot to ease away miz'ry in the head.'"

Roxy threw her voluminous white apron over her head, and the doctor added, "Don't worry, Roxy. Lucy has wanted to be a nurse for as long as either of us can remember." His blue eyes glistened. "She will make a fine one. The child brings light and happiness simply by stepping into a room. She comes by it naturally. Both of our names mean 'bringer of light.'" His face turned somber. "Would that we could bring even more light into the darkness! Doctors and nurses fight ignorance and superstition as much as actual illness."

* * *

The distant slam of a door returned Lucy to the present. She blinked moisture from her uselessly long lashes. A rush of love for her father and Mammy Roxy swept through her. Would she ever be as good as they thought she already was?

Probably not. She had inherited too much of her carefree Irish mother's bubble and bounce.

She glanced at the tempting rail again, intending to overcome its silent invitation. Instead, she recalled the exciting whoosh created by her rapid downward progress — her momentary kinship with birds flying wild and free. Most of all, she remembered the satisfying thud of her slippered feet when she landed in the small, sunlit entryway below.

The memories proved Lucy's undoing. She glanced to her right. To her left. She looked out the sun-touched window and made sure no one was entering or leaving the adjoining single-story building her father used for his medical and surgical practice. October lay over the land like a benediction, warm and soft as the feather bed in which Lucy slept. Good. No one was in sight. Her father had been called out earlier but refused to take her with him. "Birthday girls need to be home getting beautiful," he had teased.

"My stars, who can be beautiful when they have red hair?" Lucy had burst out.

"Your mother was. Fiona means fair. She was and you are. Inside and out."

His words pounded in Lucy's brain but were soon vanquished by the desire for mischief that surged through her. This time she made no attempt to squelch it. The "almost a woman," who planned to never cease being a girl, bundled her wide skirts and many petticoats around her. She catapulted down, down, down in a ride more glorious than any she remembered.

"Honey-chile? Is that you?"

The rich voice, followed by heavy footsteps, drowned out the sound of Lucy's landing thud. She set herself to rights and whispered an unrepentant prayer of thanks for not being caught. An irreverent thought followed. Did God have banisters alongside the heavenly golden stairs Roxy and her caretaker husband, Jackson Way, sometimes sang about climbing?

The door leading to the large Danielson kitchen opened. A massive woman stepped into the hall. The dark face beneath Roxy's spotless white...