It is with reverence and a hush of winter stillness that I present to you this series of letters from Mrs. Marian Tate—a young widow dwelling alone in the Kansas Territory during that first long, uncertain season of 1855.

They welcomed me kindly—Mr. James Calloway with his firm handshake and steady eyes, and Miss Sarah Whitmore (soon to be Mrs. Calloway) with a smile warm enough to outshine the fading sun. We spoke in their modest sitting room where a kettle simmered and the shadows grew long across the floorboards.

A Field Note from Miss Sybil Whitlow, Spring 1858 Edition Dearest Friends— It is no small thing to begin again. And yet, here we...