Kristoffersen, so curt, so unable to express anything but disapproval.
But then, perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mr. Murphy. Charity seemed to be a happy, loving child. Surely her father must have some redeeming qualities. Although Felicia didn’t know what those redeeming qualities might be at present—other than his rugged good looks.
The thought brought her up short. Did she truly think him handsome? Well … yes … she supposed she did find him so. But a person’s physical appearance was beyond their control. If they were born with good looks, that was nothing due to them. Their character, on the other hand, was their responsibility. By the grace of God, they could change their less stellar traits into something better.
She felt a nudge in her spirit. Was she judging another when she should be judging herself? Was she pointing at the sliver in Colin Murphy’s eye when there was a log in her own?
“You must grow tired of correcting me, Lord.”
The sun fell warm on her face, like a smile from heaven. Comforting. Familiar.
Those first years in the Kristoffersen home had been especiallydifficult ones for Felicia. She’d often felt sorry for herself. Sorry and completely alone. She’d missed her family so much. It was then, in those early years, that she’d begun talking to Jesus, times when she’d learned to lean into Him when the nights were dark and cold. And He’d sustained her. He’d become her best and dearest friend when she had no other. Then. Later. Now. Forever.
The horse and buggy crested a rise, and a house and barn came into view. A quick glance at the map told her this must be the Anderson farm. Two of her students lived there—Bernard, age thirteen, and Ola, age twelve.
She said a quick prayer for the visit to go well and for both the children and their parents to like her. Then she slapped the horse’s rump with the reins once again, urging him into a faster trot.
Colin carried a large sack of flour and another of sugar to the back of the wagon and dropped them into the bed, next to a box of canning supplies. Brushing his hands together, he turned toward Charity. “You sure you don’t want to come along?”
“I’m sure. I promised Tommy I’d help him with his tree house. We’re gonna build a whole ‘nother level.”
“Charity is quite the tomboy, isn’t she? She could use a woman’s touch.”
He shoved Helen Summerville’s critical words aside and grinned at his daughter. “No falling out of the tree and breaking your arm.”
“I won’t.”
“Tell Mrs. Bryant I’ll be back before suppertime.”
“Okay.”
Colin stepped onto the wagon seat. “You mind Mrs. Bryant.”
“I will, Papa.”
With a nod, he clucked to the team and drove the wagon away from the mercantile. He didn’t make many deliveries. Most folks came to the store and carried out their own purchases. But there were a few customers, like Widow Ashton, who needed some extra help on occasion.
Madge Ashton—not quite five feet tall, with life etched deeply into each wrinkle and line of her face—had lived alone on her forty-acre farm for more than twenty years, ever since her husband Albert’s heart failed him at the age of sixty while walking behind a plow. Fiercely independent, Widow Ashton maintained her home and tended her chickens and her milk cow by herself. The farmland she leased to one of her neighbors. When weather permitted, she walked into town to attend church services or to do some shopping. She no longer owned a horse to pull a buggy.
Which was why Colin was driving out to her place now. The widow had been in the mercantile earlier in the day and bought more items than she could carry. He’d invited her to wait until Jimmy came to work so the lad could mind the store, then Colin could drive her home in the wagon with the supplies. But she’d declined.
“Too much to do at home to dillydally around here,” she’d said. “Besides, it’s good for me to walk. Keeps the blood
But then, perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mr. Murphy. Charity seemed to be a happy, loving child. Surely her father must have some redeeming qualities. Although Felicia didn’t know what those redeeming qualities might be at present—other than his rugged good looks.
The thought brought her up short. Did she truly think him handsome? Well … yes … she supposed she did find him so. But a person’s physical appearance was beyond their control. If they were born with good looks, that was nothing due to them. Their character, on the other hand, was their responsibility. By the grace of God, they could change their less stellar traits into something better.
She felt a nudge in her spirit. Was she judging another when she should be judging herself? Was she pointing at the sliver in Colin Murphy’s eye when there was a log in her own?
“You must grow tired of correcting me, Lord.”
The sun fell warm on her face, like a smile from heaven. Comforting. Familiar.
Those first years in the Kristoffersen home had been especiallydifficult ones for Felicia. She’d often felt sorry for herself. Sorry and completely alone. She’d missed her family so much. It was then, in those early years, that she’d begun talking to Jesus, times when she’d learned to lean into Him when the nights were dark and cold. And He’d sustained her. He’d become her best and dearest friend when she had no other. Then. Later. Now. Forever.
The horse and buggy crested a rise, and a house and barn came into view. A quick glance at the map told her this must be the Anderson farm. Two of her students lived there—Bernard, age thirteen, and Ola, age twelve.
She said a quick prayer for the visit to go well and for both the children and their parents to like her. Then she slapped the horse’s rump with the reins once again, urging him into a faster trot.
Colin carried a large sack of flour and another of sugar to the back of the wagon and dropped them into the bed, next to a box of canning supplies. Brushing his hands together, he turned toward Charity. “You sure you don’t want to come along?”
“I’m sure. I promised Tommy I’d help him with his tree house. We’re gonna build a whole ‘nother level.”
“Charity is quite the tomboy, isn’t she? She could use a woman’s touch.”
He shoved Helen Summerville’s critical words aside and grinned at his daughter. “No falling out of the tree and breaking your arm.”
“I won’t.”
“Tell Mrs. Bryant I’ll be back before suppertime.”
“Okay.”
Colin stepped onto the wagon seat. “You mind Mrs. Bryant.”
“I will, Papa.”
With a nod, he clucked to the team and drove the wagon away from the mercantile. He didn’t make many deliveries. Most folks came to the store and carried out their own purchases. But there were a few customers, like Widow Ashton, who needed some extra help on occasion.
Madge Ashton—not quite five feet tall, with life etched deeply into each wrinkle and line of her face—had lived alone on her forty-acre farm for more than twenty years, ever since her husband Albert’s heart failed him at the age of sixty while walking behind a plow. Fiercely independent, Widow Ashton maintained her home and tended her chickens and her milk cow by herself. The farmland she leased to one of her neighbors. When weather permitted, she walked into town to attend church services or to do some shopping. She no longer owned a horse to pull a buggy.
Which was why Colin was driving out to her place now. The widow had been in the mercantile earlier in the day and bought more items than she could carry. He’d invited her to wait until Jimmy came to work so the lad could mind the store, then Colin could drive her home in the wagon with the supplies. But she’d declined.
“Too much to do at home to dillydally around here,” she’d said. “Besides, it’s good for me to walk. Keeps the blood
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