Read Online A Dream to Follow by Lauraine Snelling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauraine Snelling
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are too tall for the picture.” Manda elbowed Thorliff, who was already over six feet tall and still growing.
Thorliff felt his ears go red. “Shh.”
“Now you must hold your pose until I release you. I want a formal expression here.”
“He means smile on pain of death,” Thorliff muttered. Manda sputtered, Anji poked him to be quiet, and Jacob choked on his swallowed laughter.
By the time the photographer had finished with them, families were lining up. A photographer coming to town was indeed a rarity.
“Can we open our presents now?” Jacob looked to Pastor Solberg for permission.
“Of course, although I’m sure you’ve guessed what they are.”
Together they carefully slit the wrapping paper and removed Bibles printed in English and signed by both Pastor Solberg and Hjelmer Bjorklund.
“The women of our congregation insisted that you each needed your own Bible now. Those came clear from Minneapolis.”
Thorliff nodded as he read the flyleaf and inhaled the aroma of printer’s ink, new pages, and the leather cover, on which his name was stamped in gold.
“Mange takk.” He had to swallow before he could talk. “Such a wonderful present.”
“I think that shall become a tradition here. You need to thank Mrs. Valders and Mrs. Lars Knutson. They instigated the whole thing.”
“Ja, I will.” Thorliff looked to the line of people where his aunt Kaaren smiled back at him. So many of the books he owned had come as gifts from her.
As the graduates visited and ate their cake, several people slipped envelopes into Thorliff ’s pockets, always with the comment, “So you have money for college.”
After he had walked Anji back home and had trotted across the field to help with the milking, he pondered the day, bringing each treasure to mind.
Ingeborg had set a lamp in the kitchen window. A verse floated through his mind. “Let your light so shine . . .”
Would he get to attend college like so many wished for him? Where would God have his light shine?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Northfield, Minnesota
“You look tired, my dear.”
“I know, Papa, but exams will be over soon.” Elizabeth toyed with the potatoes and gravy on her plate. The hand holding up her head, braced by her elbow on the table, said as much as her tone. Had her mother been at the table, Elizabeth would be sitting straight and proper. Anything to keep from seeing that pained look her mother put on at similar infractions.
Bosh on Mother. I’m too tired to care .
“You don’t have to put yourself through this torture, you know.” Phillip Rogers looked over his half glasses and shook his head. Smile lines crinkled around his gray eyes, gray that tinged the temples of umber hair kept short to control the curl. No matter how much good food Cook fed him, he could still be called by a childhood nickname— Bean Pole.
“I know. I could go to work at the newspaper full time like you want and still have time to be the social butterfly Mother wants.”
“Many girls—er, women”—he changed his wording at the glare his daughter sent him—“sorry. Many women would be ecstatic to be in your position. You play the piano close to concert quality, you can carry on a conversation with anyone you come in contact with, you are lovely to look at . . .”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Remember, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve seen young men’s heads turn when you walk by.”
Elizabeth thought to the encounter with Hans and his wayward lips at the newspaper office.
“And, lest all that go to your head, you can set type faster than many a journeyman.”
“But I hate dancing, and poor Mother is about at her wits end trying to teach me how to manage a household, and the only needlework I like is stitching up a wound.”
“Which I’ve heard excellent reports on from the Hardesty clan. The father says you can barely see the scar on his son’s arm, besides the fact that the hand still
Thorliff felt his ears go red. “Shh.”
“Now you must hold your pose until I release you. I want a formal expression here.”
“He means smile on pain of death,” Thorliff muttered. Manda sputtered, Anji poked him to be quiet, and Jacob choked on his swallowed laughter.
By the time the photographer had finished with them, families were lining up. A photographer coming to town was indeed a rarity.
“Can we open our presents now?” Jacob looked to Pastor Solberg for permission.
“Of course, although I’m sure you’ve guessed what they are.”
Together they carefully slit the wrapping paper and removed Bibles printed in English and signed by both Pastor Solberg and Hjelmer Bjorklund.
“The women of our congregation insisted that you each needed your own Bible now. Those came clear from Minneapolis.”
Thorliff nodded as he read the flyleaf and inhaled the aroma of printer’s ink, new pages, and the leather cover, on which his name was stamped in gold.
“Mange takk.” He had to swallow before he could talk. “Such a wonderful present.”
“I think that shall become a tradition here. You need to thank Mrs. Valders and Mrs. Lars Knutson. They instigated the whole thing.”
“Ja, I will.” Thorliff looked to the line of people where his aunt Kaaren smiled back at him. So many of the books he owned had come as gifts from her.
As the graduates visited and ate their cake, several people slipped envelopes into Thorliff ’s pockets, always with the comment, “So you have money for college.”
After he had walked Anji back home and had trotted across the field to help with the milking, he pondered the day, bringing each treasure to mind.
Ingeborg had set a lamp in the kitchen window. A verse floated through his mind. “Let your light so shine . . .”
Would he get to attend college like so many wished for him? Where would God have his light shine?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Northfield, Minnesota
“You look tired, my dear.”
“I know, Papa, but exams will be over soon.” Elizabeth toyed with the potatoes and gravy on her plate. The hand holding up her head, braced by her elbow on the table, said as much as her tone. Had her mother been at the table, Elizabeth would be sitting straight and proper. Anything to keep from seeing that pained look her mother put on at similar infractions.
Bosh on Mother. I’m too tired to care .
“You don’t have to put yourself through this torture, you know.” Phillip Rogers looked over his half glasses and shook his head. Smile lines crinkled around his gray eyes, gray that tinged the temples of umber hair kept short to control the curl. No matter how much good food Cook fed him, he could still be called by a childhood nickname— Bean Pole.
“I know. I could go to work at the newspaper full time like you want and still have time to be the social butterfly Mother wants.”
“Many girls—er, women”—he changed his wording at the glare his daughter sent him—“sorry. Many women would be ecstatic to be in your position. You play the piano close to concert quality, you can carry on a conversation with anyone you come in contact with, you are lovely to look at . . .”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Remember, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve seen young men’s heads turn when you walk by.”
Elizabeth thought to the encounter with Hans and his wayward lips at the newspaper office.
“And, lest all that go to your head, you can set type faster than many a journeyman.”
“But I hate dancing, and poor Mother is about at her wits end trying to teach me how to manage a household, and the only needlework I like is stitching up a wound.”
“Which I’ve heard excellent reports on from the Hardesty clan. The father says you can barely see the scar on his son’s arm, besides the fact that the hand still
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