Dawn of a New Day

© 2008 by Gilbert Morris

Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-3994-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All characters, however, are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To Rick and Tracy Lineburger

My joy is to see young people like you two
fall in love with Jesus—then with each other!
You two have been a deep source of joy to me
ever since the old days at Ouachita!

I
don't have any more figure than a
fence post
!”

Prudence Deforge had come to stand before the narrow, full-length mirror her father had fastened to her wall. She was fifteen years old, and now as she stood staring at her reflection, was filled with a combination of feelings: anger, disgust, humiliation. The dress she had on was only two months old, but already she could tell that she had grown—something she had come to dread like nothing else. The dress was a loose-fitting shift dress made of a soft, dark green fabric with yellow geometric designs running throughout. The neckline had a small, green collar, the sleeves came to the elbow and ended in a small cuff, and the hemline fell to about four inches above the knee; the dress was well made and stylish, and her mother had been excited when they had found it at JC Penney in Fort Smith, but now it seemed all wrong.

“I wish I looked like Momma instead of Daddy,” Prue muttered as she tugged at the dress trying to get it to fall somewhat lower. She was exactly five feet ten inches tall and very slender—although she called herself “skinny.” A sense of disloyalty suddenly swept over her, for she loved her father dearly—but of the three Deforge children she was the only one who seemed to have inherited Denton Deforge's genes. Her sister, Lorene, and her brother, Jeff, had inherited Violet Deforge's good looks, both having brown hair, brown eyes, and being small and well knit. Although Jeff was now twenty-six and had his own family, the last time he had come he had hugged her and said, “Why, you're taller than I am, Prue! When are you going to stop growing?” The memory of that had lingered, and the bitterness that only youth could know had caused Prue sleepless nights. Her sister, Lorene, at twenty-four was also married. She was only five feet five inches tall, and Prue found herself having to fight against the resentment, for she longed to be small and shapely like her sister and like
normal
girls.

“Prue! Come on down. Breakfast is ready.”

Her mother's voice stirred the girl, and she quickly gathered her books, shoving them into a maroon canvas satchel. She started to leave the room but paused for one moment again before the mirror. Peering at herself, she took in the lean figure that had not yet developed like other girls her age, and she tried to take some comfort in her face and hair. Like her father, she had hair that was black as a crow's wing that glistened in the sun. Her eyes were dark blue, so blue that at times they seemed almost ebony. She did have eyebrows and eyelashes that would never need any “Maybelline” makeup as the other girls used, for they were black too. She studied the oval face, the mouth that seemed too wide, and the cheekbones that seemed too pronounced, all a gift from her father. Nothing pleased her, and her lips tightened into a pale line, and she muttered, “I'm nothing but a dope!”

Wheeling away from the mirror, she moved down the stairs holding onto the rail, and when she turned down the hall and entered the dining room, she found her father and mother already seated. Taking her seat, she muttered “Good morning” and bowed her head, waiting until her father had asked the blessing.

“That dress looks very nice,” Violet said. She was a pretty woman of forty-five with hands toughened by farmwork, but a clear look, and a pleasing expression on her face.

Looking up from her oatmeal, Prue said rebelliously, “I'm already outgrowing it! It's too short! I'm nothing but an old giraffe!”

Denton Deforge laughed and pointed his knife covered with blackberry jam in his daughter's direction. “You've never even seen one of those things.”

“I've seen pictures of them. All tall, and gawky, and clumsy just like me.”

Denton did not answer for a moment. He had known for some time, both he and Violet, that this younger daughter of theirs was more of a problem than either Jeff or Lorene had been. She had come late in life, and Dent, at sixty, had found a very special love for her. He was grieved to know that she was unhappy. Now as he layered his fresh, crisp biscuit with blackberry jam he wondered,
It's not just her looks she's worried about. It's the bad grades she makes at school. Don't know what to do about this girl.

Violet caught Dent's eyes and shook her head slightly. Ever since Prue had started school she had had trouble with her studies. She was a bright girl able to learn practically anything—except what was written in a book. Violet smiled and said, “I'll let the hem out of it when you get home today, Prudence. Now, eat your breakfast or you'll be late for the bus.”

Prudence gobbled down her oatmeal along with two eggs, three biscuits, and two thick sausage patties. She scooted around, kissed her parents, and left at a dead run, slamming the door behind her. Violet got up and began to clear the table; she noticed that Dent was staring out the window, watching as Prue ran down their long, gravel driveway toward the paved road. She came over and stood beside him and ran her hand over his hair, which was still black with only a few silver threads. “You worry about Prudence, don't you?”

Dent Deforge shoved his chair back, reached out, and grabbed Violet, putting her onto his lap. He was strong and wiry as he had been all his life, and he seemed to elude age effortlessly. “You're still the best-looking woman I ever saw.” He grinned and kissed her firmly. Then despite her protests, he held her pinioned on his lap, his eyes darting toward the window. Prue had reached the road now and was standing beside Mark Stevens. “She worries about being too tall,” he said, “and she worries about her grades. I wish I could do something about it, but I don't know what.”

Sitting on her husband's lap, Violet put her arm around him and whispered, “It'll be all right. She's a good girl, and she'll find her way. God has promised me that.”

“He has?” Dent's voice was muffled, and he nuzzled her neck for a moment, making her squirm. “Well, that's all right then. I just wanted to be sure.”

Prue hurried to the road where she had seen Mark emerge from the other side of the highway. The Stevens' place was just across from the Deforges', and she had never known a time when she had gone more than a few days without seeing Mark. She stood now looking up at him and taking pleasure in it, for so many of the boys were shorter than she. At sixteen years of age, Mark Stevens was six feet three and still growing. He had tawny hair that was long and needed cutting, deep-set gray-green eyes, a wide mouth, and high cheekbones. Prue had always thought he was the handsomest boy she had ever seen, although she had never breathed a word of this to anyone.

Mark had a small transistor radio with an earphone, and grinning at the young girl who had joined him, said, “Here. Have a listen.”

Prue shoved the earphone into her right ear and listened as the song came through clearly from a Fort Smith station. It was “Itsy Bitsy, Teeny Weeny, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” Prue's lips turned up into a smile, and she moved with the beat of it. “That's the silliest thing I ever heard, Mark,” she said, removing the earphone and handing it back to him.

“Why, it was number one on the
Hit Parade
last week. Shows you what kind of music we're going to have in the sixties, doesn't it?” He turned the radio off to conserve the battery, shoved it into his shirt pocket, and then said, “Are you ready for that algebra test?”

“I guess so.”

“You always do good on math and stuff like that,” Mark said somewhat enviously, shaking his head. “I wish I could. That Mrs. Brown is one mean lady!”

“You do well in everything else, and I do awful!”

Mark glanced at the young girl, knowing that she was despondent over her grades. He had spent a great deal of time trying to help her, but somehow, except for math and things involving numbers, she simply could not grasp the other subjects. “Well, you'll do great on this,” he said. “Come on. Give me a little help. Did you get number 7?”

He opened his book, and the two stood there, Prue explaining the problem until the yellow school bus lumbered up, and they climbed aboard. They sat down together near the back of the bus, and as Prue explained the problem, she was very conscious of Mark's arm pressing against hers, and she made the explanation as long as possible to keep him occupied.

“Hey, Prue!”

Prudence felt a hand shoving at her back insistently and dreaded what was to come. She sat directly in front of Leon Dicus, a big, brawny athlete who apparently never once considered studying outside of class. She tried to ignore him, wishing that Mrs. Brown would come in, but her hopes were unrealized.

“Hey, Prue!” A large hand seized her arm, and she found herself pulled around almost bodily. Dicus's grip was hard, and he was grinning at her with his big, fleshy lips drawn back to expose very large teeth. “You gonna do me right on this test, ain't ya, babe?”

Knowing very well that he expected her to help him cheat his way through, Prue said in a strained voice, “I can't do that, Leon! Mrs. Brown will be looking right at us!”

Dicus laughed, not caring who heard him. He liked an audience, and he looked around to see most of the students taking in the little drama. “Aw, she wears bifocals. She can't see two things at once. Besides, she has to turn her back sooner or later. You write the answers down and just slip 'em over your shoulder. Okay?”

Mark Stevens was sitting directly across from Leon Dicus, and he saw the distress in the girl's face. He knew that Prue was too shy to do anything to draw attention to herself, and she hated it when someone like Dicus put her in this position. “Aw, let her alone, Leon,” he said. “Do your own work.”

Dicus turned quickly, his smile fading. “You keep your oar out of this, Mark! We're gettin' along fine without your help!” He turned back, squeezing Prue's arm again, saying, “You do me right, maybe I'll take you out for a party some night. You and me we'll—”

Dicus never finished his sentence, for Mrs. Brown opened the door and marched in, bearing the test in a brown manila folder. She was a small woman with brown hair and direct, brown eyes, and she began the class going through the little ritual: checking roll, making announcements, and then finally said, “Mark, would you pass these papers out, please?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Mark got up, took the folder, and removed the test. Going to the front of each row, he counted the number of students and handed a sheaf to each student in the front seat. When he had distributed them, he went back and found one placed upside down on his desk. He winked at Debbie Peters, who winked back at him. Debbie was the best-looking girl in school, with large, blue eyes, fluffy, blond hair, and a pert figure. She was a little short for Mark, but it seemed that most of the cheerleaders were short and peppy.

“You may turn your papers over,” Mrs. Brown said, “and begin work. If you finish before the bell, turn them over, and remain in your seats. There will be no talking during the test. If you have a question, bring your paper to me.”

Soon the room was filled with the sound of pencils scratching across paper, of erasers being rubbed furiously to erase mistakes, heavy breathing, groans, and sighs. Mrs. Brown walked like a soldier on his post across the front of the room, her sharp eyes going over the students. She was a stringent teacher, always fair, and always ready to give help, but she was death on any form of cheating.

Prue finished her test in ten minutes, turned it over, and sat there looking down and saying nothing. She was praying that Leon Dicus would leave her alone, but she knew that if Mrs. Brown turned her head he would be after her for the answers. No more than five minutes after Prue had finished her test, a student entered the room and handed Mrs. Brown a note. Mrs. Brown scanned it, and giving one final look at the class, walked over to the door. She stepped into the hall to talk with the principal and closed the door behind her; Prue knew what was coming. She felt a sharp pinch in her back that almost made her cry out, and Dicus hissed, “Come on, Prue! Give me them answers!”

Without turning around, Prue bowed her head and shut her eyes. “I can't do it, Leon!” she whispered.

“Sure you can! Come on now!” Dicus caught a fold of flesh on Prue's side and squeezed. The pain was intolerable, and Prue could not keep back the cry of pain that rose to her lips. She could not get away, and the pressure increased; she began to tremble and said, “Please! Don't do that, Leon!”

“Give me them answers!”

Mark had been watching the two, and now he said, “Let her alone, Dicus!”

“Mind your own business!”

Mark saw that the hulking young man had increased his pressure and that tears were running down Prue's cheeks. He was an easygoing young man, Mark Stevens, but under his calm demeanor lurked a temper that could be ignited instantly. This is what happened now, for almost without thinking, filled with anger, Mark raised his right arm, and leaning over, belted Dicus in the ribs, bringing a grunt of pain from the larger boy.