Northern Light by Annette O'Hare Page B

Elizabeth glared at Margaret before turning back to Mama.
    “Well, did they have any?” Mama asked.
    “I…I…no! They didn’t have any extras today.” She wrung her hands.
    “I think I know where you were, and it wasn’t at the Miltons’ getting eggs. Now…”
    June appeared with Jeremiah in tow. She tugged on Mama’s skirt. “See, Mama, I told you Lizbeth was up to no good, and I was right.”
    “Mama?” Elizabeth stood with her arms opened wide.
    Margaret wanted to laugh at June’s comment, but it wasn’t the right time.
    Papa intervened, taking June by the hand. “Come on, girl. You’re right in the line of fire.” He picked Jeremiah up and then led June into the kitchen.
    “Elizabeth, you’ve lied to me and your papa one too many times. I suggest you suck up those alligator tears, march yourself into your room, and do some serious business with the Lord. I’ll be in later to issue your punishment.”
    “But, Mama—”
    “Not another word.”
    Elizabeth clenched her fists and stomped off.
    “What has gotten into her?” Margaret asked.
    Mama didn’t answer. She smoothed her hair back and released another long breath of air before heading to the kitchen.
    Papa sat at the table with both of the little ones perched on his knees.
    “Mama, I’m hungry.” June fiddled with one of the potatoes still waiting to be peeled.
    Mama looked heavenward. She slid the paring knife out of the little girl’s reach. “June, it’s been a while since I’ve heard any cannon fire. Can you take Jeremiah out on the front porch to play?”
    The little girl slid off Papa’s knee. “I guess so.” She helped the baby down and led him toward the door. “Come on, Jer’miah. Mama wants us out of here so she can talk to Papa about what Lizbeth did.”
    Margaret met Papa’s gaze. He burst into laughter, causing her to giggle.
    “All right, you two. The last thing she needs is you encouraging her.” Mama sat down to finish peeling the potatoes.
    Margaret put her hand over her mouth, not wanting to anger Mama any further. Papa picked up his coffee mug. He placed it in the sink and moved behind Mama. He bent over and put his arms around her. He whispered something in her ear.
    Mama laid her head over on his arm. “I love you too. I just don’t understand why things have to be so hard. Can’t there be one good thing come out of this old war? I don’t know how to deal with Elizabeth. Why is she acting this way?”
    “I don’t know, honey, but I think we ought to pray about it before we talk to her.”
    “I agree.” She resumed peeling when Papa released her.
    “Margaret, you can start the work Papa gave you.”
    “Yes, Mama.” Margaret was deep in thought as she walked outside. What did Papa mean? “She’s acting just like Emma.” Who on earth was Emma? And what was her condition they spoke of? She knew it hadn’t been right to listen to what Mama and Papa were saying, especially after Papa’s remark about Elizabeth’s eavesdropping, but now that she had, she had plenty to ponder. She reached the small garden plot and what she saw made fiery anger well up inside her.

8
    "What do you think you're doing in our garden?" Margaret hiked up her skirt and climbed over the short chicken-wire fence, placed there to protect the garden from small pests, including a few displaced sand crabs. Her leg brushed against a sharp edge, cutting into her knee. She winced in pain and grabbed the wound, spilling her apronful of seeds in the process. She gritted her teeth, unable to determine if she was angrier at the seeds falling or at Thomas Murphy standing in their garden.
    Thomas leaned against the hoe.
    "You should not be here, Mr. Murphy. You need to return to your bedroom before someone sees you."
    "It looks like ye might have hurt your leg, lass. Would ye like for me to take a look at it?" Thomas ignored her angry tone.
    Margaret gasped and clapped her hands down onto her skirt. "You'll do no such thing."
    "Yer papa