“Mary’s home!” Daniel, the youngest of the Moen brood, left off swinging on the gate to the picket fence and leaped up the porch steps to the door. “Mother, did you hear me?” “Only me and half the town. Must you yell so?” Ingeborg Moen made her way down the steep stairs and bustled over to the door. “Did you see her or was it the little bird that told you?” “I saw—” A gloved hand clamped gently over his mouth. “Hello, Mother.” Mary stood in the doorway. At seventeen, she had shed the... little girl and donned the young woman. Golden hair fell in curls down her back, held back from her oval face with a whalebone clasp, high on the back of her head. Eyes the blue of a Dakota summer sky still shone with the direct look that made students in her Sunday school classes squirm, much as her younger siblings had for years. There was something about Mary that not only commanded attention but also made one look again.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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