““What is it, Inga?” Ingeborg raised her voice to be heard in the parlor. “You’ll have to come here. I have my hands in the cookie dough.” Inga, dragging her Christmas doll by one arm, came to lean against her grandmother’s skirt. “What is it, little one?” “When will Emmy be home from school?” Ingeborg glanced up at the clock. “In about an hour. When the big hand is on twelve and the little hand is on four.” Emmy was a little Indian girl they had discovered in their haymow at the beginning of wi...nter. She’d never said a word, but they knew she was not deaf. “I want her to come home now.” Inga held up the back of her hand. “Kitty scratched me.” Ingeborg glanced down to see a red line on the little hand. “She did at that. Did you hold her too hard?” “No. I dropped her.” “I see.” Ingeborg kept a tight grip on her lips to prevent a smile from escaping. What a scamp. “She ran behind the stove,” Inga said as she pointed. “Why did you drop her?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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