It wasn’t right for someone of her station, and she knew it.  He was a gentlehobbit that deserved the word, and he had never meant her any harm, after all.  And if her foolish feelings wouldn’t keep getting in the way, maybe she’d get used to him the way everyone else was.  But they didn’t, and so Rosie was forced to admit it:  she did not like Mr. Frodo, and she did not like Mr. Frodo staying in her home and messing everything up.

And it was silly and it was selfish, and it went against the order of things, but she didn’t care.  He should have been the one to remove to New Row, direct all the work for his house, and Sam should have stayed with her.  It’d start making up for all the time he’d been away, and maybe he’d even get around to asking her.

She’d been sure he was going to ask her that spring—two years ago, it was now!  But suddenly in the middle of it he clammed up, and though he was as tender and loving and heart-warmingly, bashfully handsome as he had always been, there was something different to him and she had got worried.

Of course, she understood it all now, for he told her when he finally returned that it was then that he had learned of his Master’s quest—his “job to do,” as he put it—and business always had to come before pleasure.

But he had taken his sweet time in getting back!  And she knew he would’ve grieved if he hadn’t gone, and from what she understood the world would have been a lot worse off if he hadn’t—not that she was terribly surprised by this—but it still hurt that he had left without so much as a “by your leave.”  And Mr. Frodo had just gone along with it, as if he were the only person in the whole Shire that had a claim on Sam.  She supposed it was his right, but a little apology wouldn’t hurt.  What if Sam hadn’t come back?

But she couldn’t say anything about it, because she knew it was wrong, and he was a gentlehobbit and she a farmer’s daughter, and if Sam ever found out he’d get ever so upset because his Master was very dear to him.  So she sulked and avoided Mr. Frodo (which was not difficult; though he was always courteous and kind he tended to stay shut up in the guest room if no one needed him), and everything would have gone fine had he not taken ill.

She kept away from him for all of the first day, always managing to be right in the middle of something else when it was time to deliver a meal to him, but Mother noticed, and when teatime on the second day rolled around the tray was actually forced into her hands.

“I know that you’re still upset with Mr. Frodo,” Mrs. Cotton said, “but it’s very rude to treat a guest so and I won’t countenance it.  So in you go, and be a good hostess or I will make sure you regret it.”  She sighed and did her mother’s bidding, though she was a grown hobbit and by rights should be married by now.

He was sitting up in bed, a pillow propped up behind his back, reading one of those books of his.  His scarred hand stood out against the leather of the binding, and as she tiptoed in she could not help but stare.

Averting her eyes before he noticed, she set the tea tray on the table beside his bed, and was about to slip out again when she remembered her manners and her mother’s injunction.

“Your tea’s here, Mr. Frodo,” she said, in as cheery a voice as she could muster.

Startled out of whatever he had been reading, he snapped the book shut and tucked his hand under the covers.

“Thank you, Rose,” he said, favouring her with a smile.

She wanted to leave, but instead she spoke to him, regretting each word as it slipped from her lips.  “And how are you feeling today?”

“Much better.  I told your father it was just a one-day spell, but no one here seems to believe me.  Better to be safe and stay in bed, though.  And you?”

“I’m doing very well, sir, thanks for asking.”

There was a brief pause, and Rosie felt herself go all tense.  “I suppose I’d better go now.  Is there anything else you need?”

“Actually, yes,” he said.  “Would you mind sitting down and staying with me for a bit?  It gets a bit lonely in here at times.”

She hesitated.

“Humour me,” he said.

So, after a brief, longing look at the door, she pulled up a chair and sat down next to him while he poured his tea.

“Well,” he said after a few minutes of uneasy silence, “out with it.”

“What?”

“You’re upset about something, and I have the nagging suspicion that it’s me.  Not that I blame you, of course,” he added.  “I’m afraid I’ve made your life very difficult these past couple of years.”

Rosie did not know how to respond to such frankness, so she looked down and twisted her hands in her skirts, saying nothing.

“I am sorry, if it helps.”

“It doesn’t,” she muttered, and immediately went bright red.  If Mother could see her now, talking back to a gentlehobbit as nice as Mr. Frodo…

“Rose, I wish for there to be no rancour between us.  We may be unalike in all other respects, but we do have one thing in common: we both love, and are beloved of, one of the best hobbits in the Shire.  And it isn’t right for us to be set at odds with one another, for his sake as much as our own.”

“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before—”  She cut off, reddening again.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo.  I shouldn’t be speaking to you this way.”

“Before…” he said gently, pressing her to continue.

“No, I won’t say it.  ‘Tain’t proper, and it hardly matters anyhow.”

He laid a hand—the left one, she noticed—on her arm.  “It does indeed matter, if it involves you.  I should hate to see a fair lass grieving, knowing that I am the cause and yet unable to help, especially when she is so very dear to someone I love.  I may not be well acquainted with you, Miss Cotton, but to know that my Sam chose you out of all the other fine young lasses that might have caught his eye tells me you must be very special indeed.”

There was genuine concern in his eyes, and she wished he’d stop looking so sincere about the whole thing so that she could just blow up at him like a teakettle and be done with it.

“And you needn’t be concerned about propriety either; I learned long ago that it is highly overrated.  Better to have it out quickly.”

She sighed, but the will to scream at him and rail against her cruel fate was gone.  “Why does he have to be your Sam?” she finally said, quietly.  “Why can’t he be mine, too?”

“He is, Rose,” said Frodo earnestly.

“Well, he doesn’t act like it.”

“He will when he has the time.”

“When he has the time!  Hah!  He’s never had the time, not since—”  She paused again, but Frodo motioned for her to continue.  “Not since you took him away.”

She looked up into his eyes, expecting to see some sort of rebuke in them, but there was nothing.

“And I know I shouldn’t be angry about it, because as he said he had a job to do, and if he hadn’t gone he’d have been beside himself, and he was needed out there, with you.  But he could have died, and no one even told me what was going on, or asked me if I cared about it—not that what I would’ve said would’ve made a difference.  I was just left by the wayside while he was off with you gentry having adventures, and I couldn’t even say anything about it because he hadn’t spoken, and he hadn’t spoken precisely because of that!  He could’ve died out there, Mr. Frodo, and I wouldn’t even have known!

“Well, I would have, but I didn’t know that at the time.  I knew when he was coming back, you see—when all the danger was gone.  I’d never bought into that ‘lost in the Old Forest’ tripe, I knew his job was bigger than that, and then I knew, last March, that everything was all right.

“But it took him so long to get back after that!  I’d’ve thought for sure that he’d rush home for me, but…”

“I’m afraid I am partly to blame for that,” said Frodo.  “Well, for the rest of it as well, though it really couldn’t be helped; but he’s a hero out there and if we’d just headed back all of the people would have been dreadfully disappointed.  And we did delay, too, for the King’s wedding, and then for my uncle, and I think we had all forgotten that life was going on without us.”

She sighed at this.

“Not that he ever forgot you, Rose.  But I am sorry that we got back so late.  We didn’t know about the Troubles or anything, you see, and—well, what’s done is done.  I should like to make amends for it as best as I can.”

“Well, the sentiment’s very nice, Mr. Frodo, but I don’t see how you can do anything to help.”

“For one thing, I can promise not to take him away from you again.”

“That’d be nice,” she said with a weak smile.

“Well, except perhaps for one journey.  Hopefully not.  I don’t know.  But it wouldn’t last long and he’d be in no danger.  I’ll give you plenty of warning.”

“Thank you.”

“For another, I can strongly suggest to him when he’s back that he take a break from all his labours, just for a few days, and then while he’s here get my cousins to come over and take me on a fishing trip when he isn’t looking.”

“Really?”

“I’ve had him all to myself for a whole year; I think it’s only fair that you get some time with him alone, without him poking his head in my room every few minutes just to see that I’m well.  If you bake some cakes for him I think we’ll consider the thing a done deal.  But all that’s really just common courtesy to a lass who’s been slighted by circumstance.  What I would truly like to do is see both of you happy.  Rose Cotton, how would you like to be mistress of Bag End?”

“What?”  Thoughts whirled through her head.  He’d been talking about Sam and how much Sam loved her; what he was saying now made no sense.  Surely he couldn’t mean—

“Peace!  I meant it not that way.  I’ve been turning the idea in my head for so long that I’ve quite forgotten that no one else knows it.  Rose, I am adopting Sam as my heir, and when my home is prepared I will ask him to share it with me.  I extend that invitation to you, to do with the hole and most all that is in it as you please, for such time when you are his wife.”

Rosie was stunned.  Letting her in as cook, in the servant’s quarters, this she could understand; but giving her charge over all and sundry as if she were a lady?

He chuckled.  “I told you I did not hold much with propriety.  At any rate you must agree with me that Sam deserves far better than what he has had for most of his life.”

“I know, but—”  She stopped, realizing how foolish she would sound.  He was right, after all.  “But he hasn’t even asked me, yet.”

“He will.”

“And what about you?  There isn’t some lady waiting for you to marry her?”

“Me?”  A faraway look came into his eye.  “No, I shall never wed.”  After a few more moments of melancholy reflection he brightened.  “Which is why you’d be in charge of making sure that the hole has all of the comforts that a couple needs.  I’m afraid it’s been a long time since Bag End has had any females to take charge, and though it has the room for it I hardly think it’d be conducive to family life at the moment.”

“Family life?”

“Plenty of room, Rosie.”  He smiled and patted her hand.  “And I have enough to ensure that all will be well provided for.”

She hesitantly smiled back.  Poor Mr. Frodo—he really was going out of his way to say he was sorry!

He sat up and stretched, only just noticing that his tea was only half drunk and it had gotten quite cold.  He set the unfinished tray on the floor.  “If you still have the time for it, Rose, I just thought of something I need to show you, before Sam gets back.  Could you get up and open that chest over there?”

She did as he bade her; inside it was page after page of writing, tied into bundles with bits of string.  “I can’t read, sir,” she said.

“You will,” he replied, not in a commanding sort of way, but rather as if he simply knew that eventually it would be the case and that was that.  “Bring the top bundle over here.”  She did so, going so far as to untie it for him in case his injury made it difficult.

“These are my notes of what we all did when we were abroad.  I’m sure you’ve heard a lot already, and you’ll hear more still, but I want you to tell you a few things now, when we don’t have Sam standing in the corner protesting.  Because I guarantee that you’ll never hear the full extent of his heroics from him.”

An hour later Mother came in to remind Rosie that she was neglecting all of her other work.

“I’m sorry, Mum; he’s been telling me about Sam.”

Mrs. Cotton smiled at this, but nonetheless collected the tea tray from the floor and shooed Rosie out of the room.  On the way back she stole one last glance at Mr. Frodo, who was looking over his notes with an abstract air, and she thought that she just might be beginning to understand just what Sam saw in him.

“He will have nightmares,” said Mr. Frodo.  After he had fully recovered from his spell he had taken to having an extended tea with the rest of the family and sitting with Rosie near the hearth when everyone else had finished.  And they talked, quietly, mostly about Sam, and Rosie knew that he was purposely trying to befriend her.  Normally she would have bristled at this, but he was so earnest and she knew he was doing this for Sam’s sake as much as his own so she tried her best not to mind.

It got easier over time.

In truth she was most grateful that he confirmed what she had already guessed the minute she saw Sam again last November: that, yes, his time Outside changed him, but it only served to make him more Sam than before.  Not that Mr. Frodo put it that way, but the sentiment was there all the same.

This was the first time he had spoken of any other changes.

“Well,” she said after a while, “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised by that.  I took a few frights myself after some of the things you told me.”

He opened his mouth for the requisite apology, but she had gotten comfortable enough around him to silence him with her hand.  “Not that I’m complaining, of course.  I need to know these things and I’m very glad you told me.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.  “In truth it’s not much to worry about—he gets them least out of all of us, and even then they’re not that bad.  I am able to deal with them easily enough, and usually he just needs the assurance that I am alive and well.”

“His dreams are of that?  No spiders, no foul beasts from the Wild World; just you getting hurt?”

“And himself unable to stop it,” said Frodo.

“That’s very like him,” said Rosie.

“It is.”

“Well, then, that’s not too hard to deal with, is it?  As long as you’re there to prove the dream is false, we shan’t have to worry.”

“And if I’m not?”

Rosie’s countenance fell; this possibility had not entered her mind.

“Surely you’re not going to want me around the first nights of your marriage?  And even after that, why, you’ll be the first to know about any dreams that he has, not I.  You should be prepared, Rose.”

“All right,” she said, slowly, “though you oughtn’t talk as if we’re already wed and moved into your home.  He still hasn’t said anything, you know.”

“He has been gone all month, Rosie.  Do you want him to ask by letter?”

She sighed.  “No, but I miss him something fierce, and all your plans aside you still don’t know the future.  I’ve been waiting on him for so long, it don’t feel right for you to act like you know it’s going to happen.”

“I am sorry, Rose.  I did not mean to unnerve you with my talk, but I do not know when we’ll get another chance to speak about this.  But I do know he will marry you, because I know Sam, and I know… things.  Just trust me on this.”

“All right,” said Rosie, though she did not thoroughly trust him, much less understand how he knew as much as he claimed.  “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Frodo.  “Just be aware that they will happen, and then comfort him when they do.”

“He hasn’t had any dreams while he was here, has he?  Or back home, with his Gaffer?  Or even while he’s been off planting trees, all alone in a strange place with no one to help him?”

Frodo smiled.  “I am sure he is too busy to think on what happened to him beyond the Bounds, even in dreams.  And he is not alone in his travels; you know that.”

“Yes, but it’s no one that knows him, or knows him well enough to help.”

“Ah.  Still, I do not think Sam has had any nightmares, abroad or at his home.”

Rosie looked up at this; she had the suspicion that he was leaving something out.  “And when he was staying here?”

Frodo swallowed.  “He had one.  It was minor, and since my room was next to his I was able to help.”

“Well, it’s very good that you have rooms next to each other, though I’d feel better if you had chose the ones near—”  She broke off, suddenly realizing exactly why Mr. Frodo was sleeping so far away from the family.  “And what of your own dreams, sir?”

A guarded look came into his eye.  “What of them?”

“If everything happens as you see it I’ll be sharing a home with you, too, not just Sam.  You know if you try and get away with sleeping out of earshot Sam’ll have your head just as much as I will.  So, as you say, you may as well tell me about them now while we have the chance.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself with such things, Rose.”

“Needn’t I?  What if Sam’s gone on another one of his forestry trips?”

“I meant to spare you the difficulty of—”

“Of what?  Of worrying about what you’re suffering from your Adventures, but never knowing for certain because you’re too stubborn to tell?  Or did you think I’d be thick enough as to think you’d have gone through all you did and still sleep easy every night?”  She stopped, breathing heavily, and the colour rose into her face as she only now remembered her station.  But the mulish look did not leave her eye.

From the next room Mrs. Cotton poked her head in, having heard the raised voices.  Frodo lifted his hand.  “All is well,” he said.  Turning to Rosie, he smiled and said, “I’m beginning to see why Sam picked you.  You’re as incorrigible as he is.”

“So will you tell me?”

“It’s only fair.”  He sighed.  “What do you want to know?”

“Did you pick your room so you wouldn’t worry us with your dreams?”

“Well, Sam did most of the talking to your father, but yes.”

“So he went along with it, too?”

“This was before New Row, my dear.  It made sense at the time, since we both knew what the other had been through, and there’s little that’s more stifling than waking up to a whole brood of hobbits trying to make you feel better without understanding how.”

“But you’ve had dreams when Sam is gone, and no one to help?”

“Yes.  And I’d rather keep it that way.”

“Well, you aren’t.  Too many is better than none at all.  I’ll talk to Mum and Dad and we’ll move you somewhere closer.”  She rose from her chair.

“Rosie, no!”  He stayed her, placing his hand on her arm.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare subject me to that!  They don’t understand at all; you hardly understand—”

“Then how am I supposed to manage with Sam?”

Mr. Frodo buried his head in his hands, though it didn’t work quite as well as it ought for she could see one of his eyes peeping out from where his third finger was supposed to be.  For a few moments he looked heartbreakingly weak.  “I told you, he’s had the easiest time of it.  And you two are so very much in love that I’m sure your mere touch will soothe him.  But I?  There’s nothing you can do for me, Rose, as much as I appreciate the thought.  It’s best just to leave things as they are.”

Rosie sighed and sat back down heavily.  “I can’t not try, Mr. Frodo.  You’ve had such a trying time it’d move a stone to pity, and besides all that you’re very dear to Sam and I owe it to him to see that you’re well.  Stay in your room, but let me sit with you at night.  At any rate it’ll give me an idea of what Sam’s will be like.”

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips.  “That’s not very proper, Rosie.”

“You said you don’t hold much with propriety, Mr. Frodo.”

“When my own reputation is at stake, perhaps not.  But when a young lady’s is, one should err on the side of caution.”

“It’s not erring when someone’s hurting,” Rosie persisted.

“It would be nice if things worked that way, wouldn’t it?  But I am afraid they don’t.  Best not to worry about it—Sam will be back soon anyhow, and Bag End is almost restored to its former glory.  I shall be out of your care very soon.”

“Very well,” said Rosie, but she only said it to keep him quiet.  That night after all were abed she slipped from her own room to the one Sam used when he stayed, and slept there.  And if she wondered why she was being so kind to the fellow who had taken Sam from her for over a year she put such thoughts out of her mind and reminded herself of how much Sam loved him.

*  *  *

Five nights later she was almost beginning to wonder if Mr. Frodo had exaggerated the dreams when she was awakened by a soft cry from next door.  Swiftly she pulled her skirt and bodice on over her nightshift (after reflection she did agree with Mr. Frodo about propriety), and hurried into his room.

The moon’s light fell through the window to his bed, and her breath hitched at the sight of what she saw.  He had half kicked off his blankets, which were now twisted round his feet, and his knees were hugged up against his chest.  He was scrabbling at something under his nightshirt, but she could see something glisten on his cheek and all the while he was frantically murmuring, “Please, don’t let me take it, Sam, please, help me, I can’t stop it, don’t let me, Sam…”

For a moment she stood there watching him, unsure of what to do, but since standing there and doing nothing was impossible she rushed in and knelt next to him on the bed.  Laying her hand on his shoulder, she said, “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo,” but he did not wake.  He found her hand and clutched at it, saying, “Hold my hand, Sam,” but his other arm was still questing for what she realised was that horrid Ring.  With her other arm Rosie lifted him up and held him to her, as a mother would a child, and placed his free hand atop the other.

His breathing slowed as she stroked his hair, assuring him that it was only a dream and everything was quite all right now, until at last his grip on her hand loosened and he woke.  Slowly he turned to face her, haggard and tearstained, and when he realised who she was he wilted.

Before he could turn away, though, she caught him up in her arms again and held him tightly.  “I said I couldn’t not try, Mr. Frodo,” she said.  “I may not be your Sam but I can do what he would for while he’s gone.”

And it took him a little while, but eventually he wept into her shoulder, so bitterly that tears welled up in her own eyes even as she held him.

When he was done she let go of him, and he sat apart from her and drew from his neck a chain, on which was a white jewel of surpassing beauty.  He placed his hand on it, almost unthinking, and dried his eyes.

“Thank you, Rose,” he said after a while.  “Don’t worry about Sam’s nightmares.  You’ll do just fine.”

*  *  *

They spoke nothing of the incident the next day, except when Frodo apologised, briefly, for losing his composure and having had her see him like that.  Rosie would have none of it, as he had expected, but it still needed to be said.

In truth he was not as troubled by the fact that she had seen him in his weakness as he had expected.  After all, she did have the right of it—if she was going to move into Bag End as he had planned, she was going to have to deal with the scars of his wounds.  He hoped that everything would get easier after the twenty-fifth.

No, that was not what troubled him.  What troubled him was what he saw just afterwards, as he touched the Lady’s gift and saw Rosie, tears in her eyes and an almost apologetic smile on her face.

It was just a brief vision, so frustratingly short and vague that he did not know whether to call this new change that was wreaking itself on him a blessing or a curse.  She was holding Sam, much as she had held him, but tears were streaming down her face and Sam was sobbing so piteously that Frodo could not remember a time when he had been this grieved—not even when his own mother had died.

And he knew, somewhere, he knew the reason for all of this, but it was so obvious he could not see it, as if there were a forgotten veil over his eyes, clouding his vision and hiding him off from the rest of the world.  The more he sought it, the more it eluded him, until he finally put the matter from his mind lest it drag him into melancholy.  After all, Sam would be back soon, and his cousins would be here to take him fishing, and though he thought that Sam’s bride was beginning to understand him there was still so much she needed to know.

The afternoon of the twenty-fourth brought a clatter down the lane as a great big cart drawn by a full-grown horse lumbered into view from the parlour window.  It was empty.  Dad got up from where he was sitting and peered out to see who was driving it as it pulled to a stop in front of the door.

“Lily, me dear?” he said.

“Yes?” said Mum.

“Do you know if any of the guest rooms are made up?”

“Why?”

“We may be having company.  Rosie, go and find Mr. Frodo and tell him that his cousins are here.”

Rosie had seen Captains Merry and Pippin, of course, after the battle and the other times that they had come over to visit with their cousin, but she still didn’t quite know what to make of them.  On the one hand they were gentry, much more obviously gentry than Mr. Frodo, with their fine airs and their gallantry and their mail that glinted so bright in the sun (at least Sam had taken his off as soon as things were safe!).  But they behaved in such a free and easy manner with Tom and Jolly, who had nothing but good words for them; and sometimes even with her, even though she had hardly seen them in her life!  And perhaps they could be excused with her brothers, since after all they had fought together, but she was increasingly afraid that this was how they acted around everyone.  They must cut a fine swath among the lasses, she thought.

She had to knock three times before Mr. Frodo answered, and when he did his voice sounded distant.  Hesitantly she opened the door; he was sitting in a chair and had his finger thrust into the pages of a book.

“Please, Mr. Frodo,” she said, “your cousins are here and I was sent to tell you.”

“My cousins?” he said.  He blinked.  “Really?”  A smile spread across his face.  “Whatever for?”

“I don’t know,” said Rosie, “but they were driving a large cart.”

“Did it have anything in it?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Hum,” he said.  “Ah!  They must have taken the furnishings from Crickhollow and moved them over!  That is splendid; it should mean I won’t have to impose upon your family much longer.  And perhaps when I’ve moved back home I’ll be able to start putting more pressure on Sam.”

Rosie wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps Mr. Frodo was taking Sam’s courtship a little too seriously.

“Well!” he said, marking his book with a bit of fabric, “I can’t be seen disappointing such illustrious personages as my two fair cousins, can I?  Would you care to accompany me to the parlour, Miss Cotton?”  He bowed and proffered his arm.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” she said, blushing quite furiously.  “Don’t be ridiculous!”  And she batted his arm away and scampered down the hall to help her mother.

By the time Merry and Pippin actually entered the Cotton home, Rosie was buried in the larder helping her mother find a few morsels to set out for the guests, but that didn’t keep her from hearing the boisterous greetings as they came inside.

“Frodo!”  She could hear laughter; it seemed at times that Mr. Frodo’s cousins did nothing but laugh.

“Heavens, Pippin!  Can’t you learn to hug a fellow without knocking the wind from him?” 

“Oh, don’t tell me the Cottons have softened you up that much, Cousin!”

“No, I think I’ve rather improved for all the peace and quiet, no thanks to you!”

“Fine, I know when I’m not wanted.  Merry, let’s just go back—”

“Actually, I don’t think Frodo raised any objection to my being here.”

“Indeed I did not, Merry.  Pippin, on the other hand—”

There was more laughter; Rosie found herself imagining that Mr. Pippin had contorted his face into some sort of grotesquery in response to his undignifying treatment.  When she came out a few minutes later to set out the plates and pewter the conversation had settled into amiable chatter.

“Really,” Mr. Pippin was saying, “Crickhollow has been such a blessing to us; I can’t thank you enough for letting us have it.  Ah!” he said, seeing Rosie setting a plate before him.  “Miss Rose!  Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I—I don’t know, sir.  What do you think it means?”

“Really, Pippin,” Mr. Merry said, “you should learn how to be a better houseguest.”  He inclined his head towards her.  “Thank you, Rosie.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Merry.”

Merry gave Pippin a smile that would have sat better on a wise and benevolent schoolmaster.  Rosie would have laughed had she not been made a part of the joke—instead she got a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach which she tried her best to ignore as she finished her task.

When she got to Mr. Frodo’s place, he quietly thanked her, and for a moment it was as if his cousins weren’t even there.  Her smile was genuine, then, heartfelt and relieved of she knew not what.  Then the moment passed and Mr. Frodo returned to his kin.

“Tell me, Merry,” he said, “how did things go on the fifteenth?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was anything wrong?”

“Well—I was a bit sad, if that’s what you’re talking about.  But nothing beyond what I rather expected.”

“Good.”

And as Rosie left the parlour, she was able to hear Mr. Merry, with more than a touch of suspicion in his voice, asking, “Why?”

*  *  *

Rosie did not take tea with them, but after supper when the whole family gathered round the hearth Mr. Frodo asked her to pull her chair next to his and she had not the heart to gainsay him.

“Hullo again, Rosie,” said Mr. Pippin.

“Really, you didn’t say ‘hullo’ to her the first time,” said Frodo mildly.

“I didn’t?  I’m terribly sorry, Rosie—that was rather rude of me, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Merry, “you had better be polite to Miss Rose or you’ll never hear the end of it from Sam.”

Rosie blushed a pretty shade and twisted her hands in her skirts.

“He talked about you on the way back home,” said Pippin.  “You’d have thought he was never going to see you again.”

He wasn’t, Rosie thought, for she had heard enough from Mr. Frodo to know, not when he was in the Black Land.

“Has he spoken yet?”

“Mr. Merry!”

“Merry,” said Mr. Frodo, “please.”

“Well, if he hasn’t, I’ll have to pound some sense into him.  With words, of course,” he added at Rosie’s alarmed look.  “I’m just shocked he hasn’t married you already.”

Rosie lifted up her chin and tried very hard not to think of how these gentry folks she had seen so little knew so much about her Sam, and so much about her, nor how much she had wished someone would have done the very same thing Mr. Merry was offering to do to Sam in the past.  “He’s been busy,” she said.

“Very busy, no doubt,” said Mr. Pippin, “and so have we all.  But—”

“And it’s not very polite to go off marrying a lass when the Shire’s still broken.”  She shut her mouth, quickly and firmly, and her eyes darted round to see if Mum or Dad had noticed her misspeaking.

“Be that as it may,” said Merry, “if I were you I’d be getting rather impatient.  First he up and leaves you for a year, and then—”

But whatever else he said Rosie did not hear.  This hit too close to the mark, and she felt a great big something welling up inside her, though it was mixed with so many other things she could not tell exactly what it was.  She durst not let it out, either, not with those two looking on, nor Mum and Dad, nor least of all Mr. Frodo.  Staring at one of the flagstones, she clamped her will down over the roiling emotions, refusing to let them out of heart and gut and into the eyes.

“Rose.  Rosie?  Are you well?”

Slowly she became aware that there was a hand on her shoulder, and a pair of keen brown eyes resting on her face.

She still did not dare to speak, but she gave the tiniest of nods.

“Perhaps it’d be best if you retired to your room for a time.”

Another nod.

“Do you need any assistance?”  And before she could answer, a pair of hands helped her up, and footsteps guided her into the hallway.  As soon as they were out of the company’s line of vision, she felt a little push and turned around, startled.

She did not quite understand the look that he gave her, whether it was sympathy or urgency or irritation or something of all three, but she did understand the one word Mr. Frodo mouthed at her: “Go!”

And so Rosie ran down the hallway into her room, and did not stop until she had landed on her bed, face down in the pillow, and had had a good long cry about Sam and gentry folk and everything.

*  *  *

She had been afraid that after she had had her cry someone—it didn’t matter who—would come knocking and ask her if she wanted to talk about it or if she felt better now.  But no one came, and Rosie sat in her room for a good hour and thought and thought until she had come to the conclusion that it had really been quite foolish of her to get so upset.  If she was anxious for Sam, well, he had been gone all month and all the thinking and wishing wouldn’t do nothing until he came back.  And Mr. Frodo’s cousins had only been trying to be nice, she supposed—after all, they agreed with her about Sam taking his time—and if they talked to her differently than they ought, well, they could do that, being gentry and all

But it was still mighty queer how they acted as if they had known her most of her natural life, and how even if she were able she could never do the same with them, because they weren’t working class.  And, come to think of it, if Sam really had spoken of her they probably knew much more about her than she had ever known of them.  Dear Sam.  How she missed him.

At length she opened her door and stepped out into the hall again.  She did not know how much time had passed, and the house seemed so different, so quiet, that she wondered if everyone had got to bed already.  But, no—it was too early for that, wasn’t it?

There was still light flickering in from the parlour, so someone must have kept the fire up.  Tiptoeing closer, she heard voices and saw vague figures through clouds of smoke.  Quietly she slipped in the room and sat down next to the hearth.

Her father and brothers were there, as well as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, who were regaling them with tales as they all smoked.  Rosie smiled in spite of herself: Mum would have a few sharp words with Dad after all this was done if the room still smelled of weed in the morning.  Nibs was sitting closest, at Mr. Merry’s feet, his face rapt with wonder, but there was outright scepticism on Jolly’s face.

She had really only listened to their tales with half an ear before, thinking that they must have stretched the real events a good deal before they became good tales, but she found herself hanging onto their words now, and almost believing them.  After all, if what Mr. Frodo said her Sam had faced was true, why not these wild fancies of trees and wizards and draughts of water that made your hair stand on end?

When at last the tale-telling was done, the lads all rose and began to put the chairs they had moved from the dining table back where they belonged.  Rosie was pleased to see that her father was, even as he remarked on the queerness of the tales, opening the shutters to air out the room.  She got up and was about to leave when she heard her name.  It was Mr. Merry—he had gone to the hearth to tip out the contents of his pipe and he must have noticed her.

“Rosie?  I didn’t realise you had come in.”

“Was it all right for me to?  I heard your voices.”

“Of course, of course—though I might’ve tempered my words a little if I’d known you were listening in.  Are you—”  He checked himself.  “Might I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Mr. Merry.”

He motioned her to sit back down, and he squatted on the floor next to her.  For the first time he was at her height.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said, “for my behaviour earlier.  I’m afraid I made you feel quite uncomfortable.”

Rosie shrugged.  “You didn’t mean no harm.”

“I know, but I still caused a good deal.  You must understand, with my cousin and me—we’ve seen a great many things out there, and we’ve learned that the Wide World is far too serious for our own liking.  So we often jest, with matters we know are serious, and we tread too boldly where we ought to take more heed—especially when a lass’s feelings are involved.  After hearing so much of you from Sam, I really didn’t know how to treat you and I’m afraid I was more familiar with you than our acquaintance warranted—at least, more than you were comfortable with.  It was a grave error, and it shall not be repeated.”

Mr. Pippin had come over and sat on the floor next to him.  “I think we’d rather forgotten you’re a lass in your own right, and not just the person Sam wouldn’t shut up about.  And as for me—well, there are really no excuses for me—but I’ve been terribly curious about you and what in you could possibly drive him to think on you all the time, because”—here she could see shades of pink on his face, even in the dying light—“well, I haven’t been in love before, and that’s that.”  He shut his mouth firmly.

“You don’t need to say you’re sorry,” said Rosie, “neither of you.  I’m the one as should be apologising, for near losing myself like that—”

“Because we both goaded you to it,” interrupted Mr. Merry.  “No, we’re the ones at fault here.”

“If you say so,” said Rosie.  “Though—if I may be so bold as to say so, I hope this don’t mean you’ll be all formal and deferential-like around me.  ‘Twouldn’t be proper.”

“No, I think just a healthy amount of respect will do, don’t you, Pip?”

“Oh, indeed,” said Pippin.  “Frodo tells me you lay a marvellous spread for tea, and I respect any lass who can do that.”  He kept a straight expression on his face for as long as he could, but presently his lips began to twitch and Rosie found to her horror and delight that she was laughing along with him.

“Did you really mean what you said, Mr. Merry,” said Rosie after Pippin had caught his breath, “about pounding sense into him?”

“Absolutely.  You’re clearly the treasure of his heart—well, you and Frodo, that is—and you’ve waited for him this long.”

“Well, please don’t do anything until a while after he’s come back.  Mr. Frodo’s already got something up his sleeve and I don’t want Sam to be overwhelmed…”

“Frodo’s already got something planned, has he?”

“Yes…” said Rosie.

“Well, I suppose we’d better leave him to it, then!  Though, do ask if, you know, he needs a little more encouragement.”

“I hope it won’t come to that, Mr. Merry.”

“Yes, so do I.”

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

“And we’ve had a busy day behind us,” said Mr. Pippin.  “I do hope Sam comes back soon so we can make sure all of Bag End is in order.”

“We won’t mind putting you up in the meantime,” said Rosie.

“I know.  Still, as you said, it’s getting late.  Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For not being too upset at us.”

“Heavens!  You’re both heroes and good folks.  And Mr. Frodo’s kin.  I’m not supposed to be upset at you.”

“Not even when we deserve it?”

“Not even when you deserve it.”  Rosie sighed.  My, it was odd, having gentry folk around like this!

That night after she had gotten ready for bed Rosie went out down the hallway as usual, to Sam’s room.  It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Mr. Frodo since dinner, which was not at all unusual for him, but she still thought she’d have a peep at him before going to bed.

He was lying down peacefully, his breathing deep and regular.  Good.  She turned back into Sam’s room, and was about to shut the door behind her when she found it wouldn’t budge.  A hand slid around the edge and held it back.  She nearly screamed.

“Hush, hush!”  Mr. Merry came from around the door, and set his hands on her shoulders.  Rosie realised she was still in her shift.  “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Merry, sir; I was checking on Mr. Frodo.”

He sighed, heavily.  “Would you mind terribly if I took up that job?”

“I’m sorry—I know I don’t know him, and I know it’s not my station, but there was no one else as knew about it, and he has these terrible dreams…”

“I know.”  Merry’s voice sounded raw.  “I know, and I know your heart’s in the right place, Rosie.  Thank you.  But if you don’t mind…”

“No, that’s fine.  This room’s all made up if you’d like to use it.”

“It was Sam’s, back before New Row was finished, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And—what, you’ve been sneaking out of your own room to go here?”

“Sam would want someone looking after him.”

“I suppose he would,” said Mr. Merry after reflection.  “Has Frodo had any nightmares since you learned about them?”

“One, yes.  I only realised he had them recently though.”  And she told him all about the dream she saw, and how she had figured out that he was having them, and somehow that spilled into his illness on the thirteenth, and how she really was concerned for the fellow even though she hardly knew him, because there was so much he had been through and he didn’t seem to have gotten over it all, not the way that Sam was, and she didn’t even know half his story nor why he was the way he was.

And when she was done and a couple of tears had been shed, Mr. Merry put his arm around her and said that she was a fine lass that would do Sam proud, and he thanked her for all that she had told him about his cousin, that Mr. Frodo wouldn’t tell him himself.  “I wish I could look after him more often,” he said.  “I hardly ever seem to get the chance, these days.  Someone else always beats me to it.”

“Well, I won’t take your chance from you, Mr. Merry.  Sounds as if you’ll be able to do a lot more to help him, anyway.”

“If anyone can,” said Mr. Merry.  “Goodnight!”

The next day dawned bright and clear, and Rosie awoke with the sun.  After a hasty breakfast she set about to her early morning chores: milking the dairy cow and collecting the eggs from the hens.  By the time nine o’clock rolled around she was helping Mum with baking the day’s bread.

The gentry folk had not yet arisen, which would not have surprised Rosie had Mr. Frodo not been their houseguest for the past few months.  Since she hardly knew his cousins, and they had been moving furniture all morning yesterday, she could excuse them their sloth; but Frodo always rose at eight o’clock on the dot unless he was feeling ill.  And yet as the minutes rolled by there was no sign of him.

By a quarter past ten her misgivings had turned into genuine worry (quite silly of her, she knew) and she got together a tea tray to bring into his room, ostensibly for his missed meal.  But her concern was unfounded.  Just as she was about to take the food in to him, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed and quite himself.

“Good morning!” she said, more out of surprise than anything else.

“Good morning!” he rejoined, smiling broadly, and striding into the kitchen, he actually took her by the arms and kissed her on the brow!—and then went on to do the same to her mother, who was finishing the last touches on their second breakfast.  “It’s a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, and one year ago this very day I stood at the Fire and wanted nothing so much as to let it take me.  But Sam said ‘no’ and we left that place, and so we were found and so we were saved.  And for such a day as this!  It’s New Year’s Day in the lands of Men, you know.”

“Mr. Frodo, are you sure you’re quite well?   You’ve slept in past your wont.”  Rosie went over to where he was now sitting, quite content, at the kitchen table and checked his brow for signs of fever.

“Quite well,” he replied, “and very happy.  Clothes are of little loss if you escape from drowning, eh?”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Mother, “if you’ll just sit tight a few minutes I’ll have some breakfast out for you.”

“And I’ve got a bit to start with,” added Rosie, who was not wholly reassured by Frodo’s reply.  “I was going to bring it into your room, since you hadn’t gotten up yet.  Are you sure—”

“Yes,” he said firmly.  “Nothing’s been the matter.  Heavens!  If this is how you react when I’m in high spirits I’d hate to see—but never mind that.  I should like to celebrate the occasion of my survival if I can: perhaps a fishing trip with my cousins will do?  Have they gotten up yet?”

“No,” said Rosie.

“I thought not—they’d have been pounding on my bedroom door if they’d awoken before I did.  I suppose I’ll have to return the favour, or we’ll never get anywhere.”  And with that he got up and walked down the hallway, taking care to make as much noise as he could.

“Mother,” said Rosie, “has he gone mad?”

“No,” said Mum, “maybe a little cracked, but not enough to do no one harm.  I’d be right glad, too, if I’d’ve seen the things he’s seen and lived to tell the tale.”

And after some muffled shouting from the other end of the house Mr. Frodo returned in triumph, two bleary-eyed cousins in tow in their dressing gowns.  “Now, Mrs. Cotton,” he said, “for that breakfast you so kindly offered earlier!”

Rosie rang the bell and Father, Tom, Jolly and Nibs all came in from the field to eat.  During the meal Mr. Frodo detailed his plans, and Rosie’s brothers were more than willing to lend them their fishing poles and other necessities.  After they had washed and cleaned up, and packed away enough food to last their houseguests the day, Frodo drew Rosie aside and handed her a scrap of paper.  “We shan’t be back till after dark,” he said, “so you’d best give this to Sam when he arrives.  I’d start work on that cake if I were you.”

And before she could ask him to elaborate he was with his cousins again, and then they were off.  Rosie sat down, exhausted, in a chair, and turned the note over in her hands.  She found herself wishing she could read so that she knew what it said.

Then, not knowing quite why she did so (for nobody knew what day Sam would be back from his tree-work) she asked Mum if she would let her free for a day when Sam returned, and might she bake a cake for sometime later today?

And as she got the ingredients together Rosie realised that she was following the receipt for the Midyear’s cake, which rose on egg whites hand-beaten till they were stiff.  It was reserved for special occasions for very good reason, and as Rosie whipped them into a froth she found herself hoping against hope that Mr. Frodo had known something she didn’t know and that today would be the day that Sam proposed.

*  *  *

At one o’clock, just after she had put the cake in the oven, she heard the back door open and shut twice, and two voices in conversation.  Her heart beat just a little faster.

At last Nibs came in the room, dust on his feet and water on his hands, grinning.  “Sam’s back.”

“Really?”  Rosie found a smile spreading across her face in spite of herself.

“Yes, and he’s tired and sore from all the travel.  He’s in the washroom—I just drew his bathwater.  So if you try and get a peep at him I’ll tell Dad and he’ll switch you within an inch of your life.”

Rosie threw a tea towel at him.  Hoping that Sam would not take his sweet time in bathing, she sought out Mother and reminded her of her promise, and then set about gathering together some of the meat, bread, and cheese from the pantry.

After an hour’s nervous waiting he finally showed up in the doorway, hair still damp, in a clean shirt and trousers.  “Hullo, Rosie,” he said.

“Hullo, Sam.”

“I’m back.”

“So I see.”

He walked the rest of the way in and sat down in one of the chairs; Rosie was busy at work on a cold chicken salad.

“Where all did you go this time?” she asked.

“West,” he said, “and North.  I’m right glad you haven’t seen the state of Michel Delving since the ruffians came, though of course it’s much better than it was last autumn.  I just hope I’m doing enough help to make any difference.”

Rosie held back a snort of laughter.  “Of course you are, Sam.  You’re the only one as won’t admit you’re the best gardener in the whole Shire.”

“Well—maybe, but a tree takes an awful long time to grow.”  He sighed.  “I’ve caught myself wishing once or twice that all the damage had been done right here, just so I wouldn’t have to go nowhere.  I’m sick and tired of travel, Rosie, and I’d like to settle at home, where I can keep an eye on my Master and—”  She looked across the room into his eyes, but he was looking at his lap.  “And be near you.  And everyone else, of course, but—”

Rosie wiped off the knife she was using, then walked over to where Sam was sitting and pulled out another chair to sit in.  She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

“I was hoping I could see him today,” he added, “but Tom said he’d gone fishing with his cousins and wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Not till late evening, he told me,” said Rosie.

“Well, then,” said Sam, “I suppose I’ll have to bide here a while waiting for him, or else go home and then come back.  I ought to see the Gaffer, and I’m sure the garden hasn’t been on its best manners while I’ve been gone.”

“All right, but before you make up your mind, you’d better have a look at this.”  Rosie handed him the note.  “Mr. Frodo told me to give it to you in case you came back today.”

Sam opened the note, and read it, his eyes widening as he did so.  He let out a long, slow whistle at the end.  “I guess I’m staying here,” he said.  “Mr. Frodo says he’ll fire me if I do any work afore sundown, and he knows I couldn’t go back home without fixing the garden, even a little.”

“He can’t be serious!” said Rosie, whose alarm at the prospect that Mr. Frodo had both known and planned this all along was rising.

“Maybe he is, and maybe he ain’t,” said Sam.  “Whether he means to sack me or no, he does want me to take the day off, that much is plain.  But I don’t know what I’ll do here in the meantime, not with all of you working.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” said Rosie.  “I asked Mum if she’d let me go the day as you got back, though we didn’t think it’d be today.  All we’d need is Tom to keep an eye on us and make everything proper, and we could go wherever we want.  I’ve been getting a picnic basket ready, just in case.”

“Well, let’s ask him and your dad, then, seeing as I can’t do nothing else.  Where were you thinking we’d eat?”

“I don’t know,” said Rosie.  “Maybe down by Bywater Pool, where we always used to play?”

“Bywater Pool,” said Sam, and a smile spread across his features.  “Yes, I’d like that very much, Rosie.”

It was not hard to secure her father’s permission, nor even to get Tom to come along, though he should have been working too.  Rosie brewed some tea at home, which she poured in a jug and then set down in the water’s edge to cool it off, so they did not miss tea by making their meal outdoors.  There was the cold chicken salad, which they spread on that morning’s bread, and large quantities of farm cheese and cured sausages.  It was early yet for cultivated greens, but on the way down Sam spotted a number of dandelions that hadn’t begun to flower and they made themselves a feast off their leaves.  All the while Tom was clearly enjoying himself and his unexpected break from work, even as he continued to tut at every moment that could be construed as romantic.  Sam and Rosie paid these moments little heed; since Tom was still paying court to Sam’s sister Marigold they both knew he had little room to talk.

As for Rosie herself, she had to content herself with hearing Sam’s voice, and seeing his eyes, for it was unseemly to sit too close to him and not to her brother.  But every few moments as they reached for the tea, or as he passed her the cheese knife, their hands brushed.  When at last, done with eating for a time, she leaned herself upon her hand, it ended up not an inch from his where it rested on the ground, and as she shifted herself just a little bit closer she could feel his warmth radiating out to her.

Eventually she noticed a spider crawling up the hem of her skirt.  She did not say anything at first, because it was quite small and harmless, but the creature brought to her memory some of Mr. Frodo’s tales, and despite the sun’s rays she shivered.

“Sam,” she said eventually, because she wanted to see what he would do, “there’s a spider on my skirt.”

“Is there?” he said.  “Where?”

Rosie pointed it out to him.

“All right,” said Sam, and very carefully he picked it up and let it run down his hand back onto the grass.  “All better now?”

“Yes,” said Rosie, looking keenly into his eyes to see if there were any traces of that dreadful memory in them.

“What, were you worried?” he said, noticing her scrutiny.

Rosie coloured a little.  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, “but I heard a few things from Mr. Frodo—”

“—And likely you were a mite concerned on my behalf because of them.”  He sighed.  “No, I can’t say I was ever fond of spiders to begin with, but it don’t seem right killing them out of doors when their webs don’t catch more than flies.  And anyhow they’re not the same when they’re small like that.  No, I’ve had plenty of baths and plenty of days in the wild—and in the garden—since then to be frightened of a spider that small.  A big one, on the other hand—” and he held his hands apart about two fists’ width.

Rosie’s eyes widened, even as she looked up and saw the spark of genius in Tom’s eye.  “Whatever you’re planning, Tom, don’t do it, or I’ll let Mari know all about that incident at the Free Fair ten years ago.”

“Goodness!” said Tom.  “I was only thinking.  What’s all this talk about spiders, anyway?”

“Sam faced one down,” Rosie said stoutly, “in the wild lands Outside.  Big as a house or larger.”

“Now, come, Rosie,” said Tom, “I thought you weren’t one for all these tales the Captains tell when they’re over!”

“It’s true,” said Sam quietly, “and if you don’t believe me you can look at the mark on Mr. Frodo’s neck.  He was stung by the thing there—poisoned—and I’d say the spot where she did it’s as big as a penny, if not bigger.  Shouldn’t ought to have happened to him.”

And Tom looked at his friend and saw the memory in his eyes.  “Lor bless me, Sam!  What did you get up to while you were away?”

“A lot,” said Rosie, “from what I’ve heard from his master.  And a lot of great things, too, things he’s too shy to speak of himself.”

“Well, I knew they said you was a hero out there, but—”

“And I think he was greatest of the four that left.”

“Now that’s not fair, Rosie,” said Sam.  “You’ve been hearing all your tales from Mr. Frodo, and he’s right bad about not giving credit when it’s due to him.”

Rosie and Tom tried their best not to laugh.  They knew exactly who that reminded them of.

“But he put up with a great deal, and suffered a great deal, and no one thinks much of it because it couldn’t none of it be seen.”

“Then maybe you should tell us sometime, Sam,” said Tom.  “I’m sure you know how it is with Mr. Frodo’s cousins, they make it all seem like a tale and nothing as really happened, but—”

“Well, it was a tale, and no mistake; like walking into one of those great picture-books that Mr. Bilbo used to have.  It was strange finding yourself a part of it, too, as if you couldn’t believe it was you doing all them things and not some great hero; and you kept on wondering, wondering, if folk got sick, or tired, or scared in the old stories just as you were and if they did, however could they go on.”

“Well,” said Rosie, “I think Sam is a great hero, and when he finally has the time to sit down and tell all of us of his adventures—for you will, Sam, won’t you?—I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave nothing of his great deeds out.”

Sam sighed heavily and ignored the compliment Rosie was giving him, though she was aware of his eyes resting on her face.  “Yes,” he said, “I will tell it all, sometime, but please, not today!  It’s too fine a day for such a dark tale, and I’m still worn thin from all my journeying.  We still have afters to eat, don’t we, Rosie?”

“Yes,” said Rosie, “we have cake, and I hope the ants haven’t eaten it with all our talking!”  She drew forth the half she had wrapped up from the basket, and carefully cut it in thirds.  Tom took one look at it, and his eyes widened as he realised which receipt she had used, but she quelled his question with a glance and turned to see Sam’s reaction to the first bite.

He chewed slowly, very slowly, as if (she hoped) to savour the taste as long as possible.  After swallowing he turned and looked at her.  “That’s your mum’s Midyear’s cake, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Rosie.

“What’s it for?  I thought it took an awful load of work.”

“Your return,” she said quietly, twisting her hands in her skirt.

“You couldn’t have known I’d be back today!”

“And Mr. Frodo couldn’t have known to write that note.  He’s a very strange fellow, your master is.”

Sam turned this over in his head for a few moments.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes, he is.  I worry about him sometimes.”

“I know,” said Rosie.  She laid her hand on top of his.

Tom coughed.

Rosie glared at him.  “Eat your cake, Tom.”

Tom took the hint, and another bite.  Sam slid his hand out from under Rosie’s and followed suit.  And Rosie, satisfied that she had done the best that she could, turned to her own bit of dessert and the three of them ate in companionable silence.

When at last all was done Tom lay down on his back and put his hands behind his head.  “Ah,” he said, “that was marvellous.  You need to come back more often, Sam.”

Sam snorted.  “Better not to push my luck.  Your arm’s going to be sore tomorrow, Rosie.”

Rosie shrugged.  Sam took a calculated look at Tom, who was still staring up at the sky, and shifted closer to her and put his arm around her.  When he spoke she knew he did not intend to be overheard.  “I’ve treated you right terrible, haven’t I, Rose?”

She could not think of a suitable reply to that, but he saved her from the need to.  “No, don’t answer that, for I won’t make you lie to make me feel better.  I have treated you terrible, and I’d like to make it up to you, if I can.”  Slowly he lifted his free hand to her hair.

“I’ll have you recall that’s my sister,” said Tom from far away.  Instantly they sprang apart, faces beet-red, to find him sitting up once more and looking at them.  He laughed.  “No, Sam, I know you haven’t been with her in a while; and you’re a trusty fellow.  How about if I turn my back on the two of you for a bit, and as long as I don’t hear nothing I’ll guess accordingly.”

“Thank you,” said Rosie, eyes shining, and then Sam turned to her and looked her straight in the eye; and his face was a mixture of wonder and love.  With only the slightest glance to make sure Tom really did have his back turned, he took her in his arms and clasped her to his breast; she, gasping, clung to him tightly and buried her face in his neck so that every breath she took smelled of him.  Tears pricked at her eyes, though she couldn’t say why for she wasn’t sad, unless it was the way he said her name as he stroked her hair over and over again, or the way he squeezed her even tighter as she held onto him.  “Oh, Sam,” she said, “you know I can’t stay angry at you, not for long.  I love you too much.”

He leaned his head down to rest on hers, and when he spoke his breath tickled her ear.  “Then all the more reason to make it up.  I can’t say as I understand why you’ve stuck with me all this time, but at least I’d better try and deserve it, even if I can’t.”

Rosie laughed at this, though she did not lessen her hold on him.  “Don’t be a ninny, Sam.  I’d have been a fool to let go of you when you went off and I’d be a greater fool to do it now.  Besides, whatever would you do without me?”

He laughed, too.  “Likely die of a broken heart,” he said.  “I don’t know what I’d have done if—no, there’s time for that later.  And anyhow we don’t know when your brother’s going to turn back round and see us like this.”  Rosie reluctantly nodded; somehow she had managed to slide onto Sam’s lap when he had pulled her to him.  Hugging her one last time, he whispered, “I love you” in her ear and they parted.

Tom must have been listening quite closely, for he turned around just afterwards and together the three of them walked down to the water to wash up.

“D’you remember,” said Tom, “when we used to go wading here, when we were little?”

“All the time,” said Sam.  “I never did think water tasted so sweet as it does here.”  He cupped some of it in his hands and drank.  “Well, maybe that’s just memory talking.”  He had another drink.  “Light, and water,” he said, more to himself, Rosie supposed, than anyone else, “and—”  He turned and looked at her, and for the briefest moment Rosie thought she could see somewhat of Mr. Frodo in his eyes.  A chill ran down her back.

“Tom,” she said, “why don’t you see if Jolly and Nick and Nibs can spare a few minutes and come over?  It’s been years since we’ve all played here.”

“Why would—”  The light of comprehension dawned in Tom’s eyes.  “Oh, I see.  You just want me to leave the two of you alone for a little while longer, is that it?”

“No!” she said.  “Only, it’s been so long since those days—and I’ll bet it feels even longer to Sam.  I’ll bet he never thought he’d get to go wading here again while he was Outside.”

“Hum,” said Tom.

“And we shan’t do anything improper, neither; you know us both well enough for that.  Please, Tom?”

Tom sighed and headed back towards the farm.  “Dad’ll have harsh words for all three of us when he finds out about this,” he said.

“Thank you, Rosie,” said Sam when Tom was out of sight.

“You haven’t been able to come back here much?”

“No.  I’ve been too busy.  Did Mr. Frodo tell you?”

“Did he tell me what?”

“How much I’d longed for Bywater Pool again, under the Shadow.”

“No,” said Rosie, “not as such, but he said you needed light, and water, and that you kept on remembering in spite of yourself all the times you’d seen and tasted them.”

“There were a lot of them,” said Sam, “but that was the one that came up most.  Funny places your mind can go in a land like that.  It helped, even if it hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I knew I couldn’t have none of those things again, but at the same time I knew they were still there, untouched, and I’d had them once upon a time and maybe that’d be enough to keep me going.”  He sighed.  “Light, and water.  And you.  I don’t think I missed you so much as when I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sam—”

He rolled up his trousers and inched forward until his feet were in the water, worming them as far down into the mud as he could.  After a few moments she did the same, though she was careful to keep her distance since she had promised Tom.  The sunlight sparked on the rippling water and it hurt her eyes somewhat, but Sam did not seem to notice as he looked into its depths.  At length, a little smile playing on her face, she dipped her hand into the water and flicked it over at him.

He looked up and over at her, startled.  She demurely studied the hairs on her feet, until all of a sudden one of them kicked up and sent water spraying all over his legs.

“Rosie—”

“Yes, Sam?” she said, calmly splashing at him with her hands.

“I thought I said I liked the pleasant memories of this place.”

“Yes, and you said you liked water, too.”  Another splash.

“You know, one of my dearest memories from this place was that day when we kept on dunking your head under, just to keep you from talking so loud.  Why don’t we relive that one?”  Suddenly he got himself up, and she nearly slipped as she tried to run away from him.  Hitching up her skirts, she was in about knee deep before he caught her and began tickling her most mercilessly.

“Sam, you brute!  I—”  She wrenched herself away from him, but in doing so lost her footing and the water closed in over her head.  When she resurfaced, wet and sputtering and incredibly cold, Sam was looking down at her solicitously, the sun shining from behind his head.

“Rosie, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for you to fall—”

“Sam Gamgee, if you ever do that again you can think twice about my ‘sticking with you’ or however you want to call it!”

Sam, looking duly contrite, held out his hand to help her up.  Rosie took it, and yanked hard, and down he fell next to her with an enormous splash.  He lifted his head back up, shaking the water from his hair like a dog, and he was laughing and she was laughing too.

“Rosie,” he said when they had caught their breath.  “We should stop and get out of the water.  We’re neither of us children no more.”

She slowly nodded and stood up, for he was right and she knew it.  He was in his shirtsleeves, and she could see the muscles in his chest through his sodden clothing.  Belatedly she looked down at her shift, also soaked through, and she turned bright red.  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said.

“Well,” he said slowly, “there's no real harm done, right?  Not if we can convince Tom that nothing untoward happened.  And I’d say it’s another good ten minutes before he and the others come back.  That should be enough time for us to give them a nasty surprise, shouldn’t it?”

Rosie nodded.

And so it was that when the Cotton brothers came to meet them they were greeted by bowlfuls, platefuls, and bottlefuls of the icy water of the pool dumped upon their heads; and with all six of them together sporting in the water the years melted away in their minds and hearts, and Sam’s was considerably lightened.

“By the by,” said Nick, when lounging on the meadow in the sun had done enough work to make them only damp, “Mum says we’re to have honeycakes with supper tonight.”  As if on cue his stomach rumbled.

“What time is it anyhow?” said Tom.

Sam rolled onto his stomach and looked at the westering sun.  “Save us!  It’s almost six o’clock!”

With a cry Nibs sprang up from the grass and began jogging his way back home.  “Last one to the table’s got a goblin’s nose!”

Jolly and Nick were almost immediately behind him, but Sam and Rosie made their way home, hand in hand, at a much more leisurely pace.  Tom made a point of matching it.

“Third time pays for all, Tom,” said Rosie, more to see what he’d say than anything else.

“Hah!”  Tom held his hands behind his back and strode alongside them, looking almost patriarchal.  “Don’t think that your little surprise threw me off one bit.  You were both of you a good deal wetter than you ought to have been, ambush or no.”

“She splashed me,” said Sam, matter-of-factly, “so I got even, as you know I used to when we were young, only she slipped and fell and when I offered to help her up she pulled me in after.”

“She pulled you in after and—”

“And nothing,” said Rosie.  “Heavens, Tom, we’re not married!”

“I wasn’t saying that you were,” said Tom smoothly.  “I just wanted to know what happened, is all.  And, by the way, Sam, I do believe that you owe me one, if not several, for my behaviour today.”

“Do I, now?” said Sam.

Supper buzzed by beautifully for Rosie, and with all the gentry gone it was almost as if the past two years had never happened.  Mother seated Sam at Rosie’s left, for which she was most grateful, and when all had eaten their fill there was more talk at the fireside, and eventually since it was such a fine day the lads decided to go outside to smoke.  There was still a good deal of washing up to do, but when she moved to help her mum out she said, “No, Rose, dear; why don’t you go outside and see if you can find Sam?” and she gave her such a significant look that Rosie’s heart soared.

So she did, and she managed to pry him off the group well enough that they could sit apart and gaze at the beauty of the Shire in the half-light.  They spoke only a short while before settling into silence, he puffing away contentedly on his pipe and she resting her head on his shoulder.  When at last all the stars were alight, he knocked the weed out onto the grass and stood up.  “I’d best be going,” he said.  “My master’s not back yet, and I haven’t even stopped at home yet to see the Gaffer and Mari.  I’ll need to get Bill, of course, from the stables—”

“Of course,” said Rosie.

“Do you want to come with?”

“Certainly.”

So she did, and she sat and watched as he saddled his pony—imagine that, Sam Gamgee having his own pony—and saw him walk off down the road to Hobbiton.  “Good-night, Rosie,” he said as he left.

And it was only when he was out of sight that it dawned on her that he had still not asked her to marry him.

Her heart plunged down into her stomach with the shock, and her hands went cold.  For a few moments she stood there, staring down the road, fists clenched so hard at her side that her thumbs hurt.  Then, almost too calmly, she turned around and went back into the kitchen.

“Well?” said her mother.

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t—”

“No, he didn’t.”  Rosie sat down heavily.  “I don’t even know why I thought he would.”

“Well, Sam Gamgee can have a rather thick skull when it suits him.  The next time I get my hands on him…” and she scrubbed particularly hard at a stain on one of the pots as if she had her hands on him right then.

“No, Mum,” said Rosie.  “I’d rather have him ask of his own wanting than for fear of you.  Or Dad, or Tom, or Mr. Frodo’s cousins, or anyone.  I had hoped—”

“You know, he did just get back today.”

“I know.  I’d hoped a good deal too much.”  She sighed.

“Would you like a cup of tea, love?”

“That’d be nice.”

Mother got out the teakettle and put it on the hob.

“The thing is,” said Rosie after a few minutes, “it’s just like last time, those months before he went away; and I knew—I knew—each time he was going to ask, only he never did.  And then he knew he was going away, and then he really never did, though he wouldn’t tell me why he was keeping me hanging on, nor why things had changed, and I was so angry each time and then he came back and it started all over again.”  She sighed.  “I’m not making particular sense, am I?”

“He’ll come round in time, love.”

“I don’t want time,” said Rosie, looking up almost guiltily.  “I want now.  I want two years ago, and a nice little garden of our own, and a fine strong lad and maybe a little lass on the way.  I want children, and I want his; I—”  She broke off, reddening.

“I know, sweetheart,” Mother said, quietly.  “Though you might rethink that when you’re carrying them.”

“If I ever do.”

“Now you’re just being silly, dear.”  She came over to sit next to Rosie, took her hands in her own, and patted them.

Just then the front door opened and shut again, and they could hear voices and footsteps drawing near.  “Well, there’s the lads come back in,” said Mum.  “I’ll tell them what happened if you’d like.”

“That’s all—” right, Rosie was about to say, but just then the kitchen door opened and she found herself staring Frodo Baggins face to face.  It was too much to bear.  She burst into tears and swept past him, through the open door, and ran into her room.  She slammed the door behind her and sat against it.

She could hear voices from the hall, and it burned as much as the tears running down her cheeks to know that everyone knew that she had been expecting Sam to ask her and he had not.  She could almost imagine Tom making threats, real and fictional; Dad promising to give a stern talking to; Nick handing two precious farthings over to Jolly for a lost bet; and then Mr. Frodo’s cousins, shocked and then joining Tom to plot revenge on her behalf.

Eventually the bustle died down, and it was then that she heard and felt a knocking at her door.  “Rose?”  It was Mr. Frodo.

She said nothing.

“Rose?  I’m terribly sorry for what happened; I—”

“Go away,” she said.

“I have the tea your mum made for you.”

“Please go away.”

“She said I wasn’t to leave till you’d gotten it.”

“Then you can open the door a hair and put it on the floor.”

She could feel him pushing at it.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to move a bit for that to work.”

Sighing, Rosie shifted forwards a few inches.  Frodo opened the door and set the teacup inside, then closed it.  “Better?”

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

“I trusted you!  I held onto your note, and I even made that fool cake for you, just because—”  She paused to wipe her nose on the back of her hand.  “I wish I’d never talked to you,” she said.  “I wish I’d never talked to you, and I wish you’d never talked to Sam, nor even met him.”  She sniffed and gulped in air.  “Maybe then things would have turned out normal, the way they ought to be.”

There was a pause from the other side of the door.  “I hope you do not really mean that, Rose,” came the reply finally, calmly, “for then you would be wishing my death.  And I, too, thought that he would speak to you today.  Forgive me that I was wrong.”

*  *  *

As Frodo walked back down the hallway to rejoin the others, the words of the Lady echoed in his head: Some never come to be, unless those that behold the visions turn aside from their path to prevent them.  Could it indeed work the other way, that in his eagerness to fulfil what he saw he had actually condemned Rose, if only for one night?

His cousins made to greet him, but he waved them off.  “Leave me be,” he said.  “I have much to think on.”

*  *  *

Rosie sat on her bed, sipping at her tea and sulking.  There it was again, that little niggling feeling that told her she should have been kinder to Mr. Frodo—only it had been his idea after all, and she had been so sure it would work!  But why trust him, after all, him whom she hardly knew, who was trying to win her over simply for Sam?

There was a pounding at the front door.  She didn’t know who it was at this hour (she didn’t even know the hour) and she didn’t care, though it did register as a mild annoyance.  She heard footsteps, the door opening, then shutting, then silence.  Good.

Five minutes later the pounding started again, and this time no one came to answer it.  She stopped up her ears, but it helped little.

“Somebody get the door!” she heard from the kitchen, but there was no response.  Which meant it probably meant, “Rosie, get the door!”, as if someone was trying to lure her from her chambers and make her more sociable.  With a vexed sigh she opened her door, about to head over to the kitchen for a nice talking-to, but the pounding really was insistent and if it kept up she feared she’d get a headache.

Grumbling to herself all along the way, she stalked down the hallway to the main door, and opened it.

It was Sam.  He was in a clean-pressed shirt and trousers, and he was holding a large bunch of flowers, freshly picked from his garden.  Nervously he thrust them into Rosie’s yielding hand.

“Marry me, Rose,” he said.

For a second or three she stared dumbly at the bouquet in her grasp, crocuses and hyacinths and one early daffodil, all large and beautiful.  Then she nearly dropped it as she leapt into his arms.  They tightened about her instinctively, and she could feel from the comfort of his embrace the world and the proper order of things falling back into place.

And all was forgiven.

“You know,” Mr. Frodo said, “if you hadn’t dragged your feet so much you’d have saved yourself a lot of work, Sam.”

The sigh Sam heaved was so huge that Rosie’s arm, tightly linked in his, was lifted up a full two inches.  This was about the fourth time that Mr. Frodo had brought this up.  “Begging your pardon,” Sam said, “Master, but I weren’t quite expecting you to invite me and Rose in to impose upon you.”

“It’s hardly imposition!” said Frodo merrily.  “You certainly deserve it, and by default that means Rose does, too, and at any rate I’ve lived all alone for a very long time and maybe I just felt like the company.”

“Not getting into the argument of deserts again, but even if I’d have thought of that I’d hardly expect that to mean you’d ask us to be so improper as to redecorate Bag End!”

“And why not?  I’ve already told you I’m adopting you, and—”

“Will the two of you be quiet?” said Rosie.  “No offense intended, Mr. Frodo, but you sound about as bad as those two cousins of yours, and Sam, you’re only encouraging him!  And you’re making me interrupt you, and I’m sure as Shiretalk that Mum would take me to task if she knew that, because if you keep this up I shan’t be able to think straight for half a minute!”

There was a brief pause.  “Well,” said Mr. Frodo, “that’s that, then.”

“And there’s no need to chide Sam for dragging his feet.  That’s my job.”

Sam took the hint and pulled Rosie closer.  They had reached Bag End’s door, and Mr. Frodo pulled a key from a chain in his pocket.  Rosie raised her eyebrows.  “You’ve got a  lock, Mr. Frodo?”

“It’s rather necessary when half the Farthing’s convinced your home’s founded on dragon gold.”  He unlocked the door and ushered them inside.  “Never mind that Bilbo’s father dug the place long before he was born!”

Rosie had to smile at that—but two days ago, Sam had taken her aside and told her very quietly of the gold Mr. Bilbo had given him in Rivendell, expressly for them.

“Come to think of it,” said Mr. Frodo, “I hadn’t given any thought to keys.  I suppose there’d be a way to copy this one, but who knows when there will be Dwarves in the Shire again.  I shall have to write a letter.”

“You know,” said Rosie, “afore you left, I’d have called you daft for that.  We had to resort to barring the farm shut when the Troubles came.”

Mr. Frodo sighed.  “I hope that won’t be necessary for anyone’s peace of mind a few years hence.”

“I imagine it won’t be,” said Sam.  “After all, we’ve already torn the locks from the tunnels in Michel Delving, and folks are using them again.”

“Good.”

Sam gave her a reassuring smile, but Rosie wondered if he’d ever feel safe without a lock.

The sun was bright outside, so Rosie had to blink a few times to adjust to the dark panelling of the smial.  “Right,” said Mr. Frodo, taking off his coat and hanging it on a peg.  “Where shall we start?”

“The kitchen, I suppose,” said Rosie.  Truth be told, she was actually looking forward to getting a closer look at Bag End’s kitchen.  Once, around five years ago, her family had stopped by to wassail at Bag End and her hands had been enlisted to move a platter of biscuits into the parlour.  She knew she oughtn’t have, but her eyes had gone so wide at the shiny brass stoves—two of them!—that she had to dawdle a little…

How much had it cost to replace them?  Or were they somehow spared the sorry fate that the rest of them had had to watch, helpless—the lingering death of Bag End?

The kitchen smelt a little different, but otherwise it was just the same as when she had idled in there, so long ago.  The two stoves sat cheerily in the back, and between them was a table with gleaming white stone, and above and below and all round were oaken cupboards with little white porcelain knobs.  On the other side of the room was a small, surprisingly simple, kitchen table, laid out with placemats.  Under the window, raised so you could do the washing-up standing, was the washbasin, so that she could look outside while—

“Mr. Frodo?”

“Yes, Rose?”

“Why are the kitchen curtains so thick?”

“I don’t like being looked at while I cook.  Especially from outside.”

Sam frowned.  “You didn’t seem to have any trouble on the Quest…”

“Because I was being cooked with, not being… nosed after by half a dozen prying neighbours!”

Sam swallowed.  “Was—was I one of them?”

“No!  Well, yes, but—”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Rosie.  “What I mean to say is, I’d like these curtains to be replaced with some nice yellow gauze.  If it’s no inconvenience to you, of course.”

“Of course not!” said Mr. Frodo.  “Why?”

“I like the sun,” said Rose.  “Yellow tablecloths might be nice, too.  And a rug, under the washbasin, so if you spill, you won’t slip.”

Frodo nodded to himself, looking around the kitchen.  “Well, I did say you could change things, and—so you can.”

“Should I get a bit of paper?” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Mr. Frodo.  “It’d be good to write these down.”

They went through all the rooms, except for Mr. Frodo’s and the study.  Rosie tried her best to remember where each room was, if she was going to be living there, but there were so many, it made her head swim!

“Now,” said Mr. Frodo, when they were done, “have you given thought for which room you’d like to be yours?  You needn’t worry about the bed, or any of the other furnishings—I’ll have those moved around before you’re married.”

Sam and Rosie looked at each other.  “We want one within earshot,” said Sam.  “Just in case.”

“I had thought you might say that,” said Mr. Frodo.  “That’ll have to be the guest room next to mine, then—the walls of Bag End are quite thick.”  They walked back to that room, which was outfitted with a longer foot.  Had Mr. Frodo gotten that done for his gentry cousins, then?

“Are you sure you won’t mind?” said Frodo.

“Mr. Frodo,” said Rosie, “you know yourself that Sam wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he thought you was hurting and he didn’t know!”

“Well do I know it,” said Mr. Frodo.  “But that wasn’t quite what I meant.  I mean, you know my hearing’s sharper now, and I shouldn’t want to pry, but…”

What?

Oh!

Rosie went bright red, and she looked at Sam again.  If anything, he was redder than she was, and she could see the fluster in his eyes.  “Rosie, if you want—”

Rosie swallowed and looked at Mr. Frodo.  “We’ll make it work,” she said.  “Plenty of folks round the Shire living with a wedded couple, in a lot tighter space, and no harm come of it yet.”

“As long as you’re certain, Rose.”

Rosie nodded, before she could talk or think herself out of it.  Sam took her hand and squeezed it.

“That’s settled, then,” said Mr. Frodo.  “I’ll have the bed moved in, and then you can come back and choose any furnishings you’d like.”

Sam went over to the window, opened it, and looked down.  Rosie followed him.  “Sam, what are you doing?”

Sam stood back up, face shining in the sunlight, and smiled at her.  “Planning our garden,” he said.