The Richest Heart

Chapter 19

Splinters; that was the only thing left of the shovel's handle. Rotten wood and rusty iron lay completely ruined in Mrs. Winston's garden. Emiline blushed and touched her hot cheek with a muddy hand. It had been all her fault, but she couldn't have helped it. She cringed as she remembered the long garter snake that had startled her so badly when it had slithered close to her feet. It had gotten away unharmed, but the shovel had suffered great damage.

"Can you fix it, Peter?" Emma asked, wringing her hands as the boy picked up the pieces.

"I could try to make a new handle," he said. "But that would take a while."

From a short distance away, Mrs. Winston laughed. "That shovel is too old to serve its purpose anymore," she said, putting a comforting hand on Emiline's shoulder. "Don't feel bad about it, Emma. We'll just have to buy another one. Would you two run to town for me? You can take the buggy if you'd like to." The two quickly agreed.

"But I don't need to take the buggy," Peter said. "We can ride Storm into town."

Emiline gasped in horror. "No we cannot!" she said definitely. "I'm never going to ride that horse again."

Mrs. Winston smiled and pulled some money out of her pocket. "Here, child," she said, dropping the coins into Peter's hand. "That should be enough. If you hurry, I think you can probably finish harvesting these potatoes this evening. But don't worry if you can't. We'll take care of it tomorrow if we have to."

It wasn't long before Peter had gotten the buggy ready. Then he gave his own horse a farewell and drove down the road with Emiline riding beside him.

The weather was getting colder and colder. Down the lane, the leaves were starting to turn gorgeous colors, and the branches of the rose brambles were heavy with bright-red rosehips. Autumn was at its prettiest. But there was one place where beauty would never shine again. At the top of the hill, above the road, Emiline always looked to see the charred tips of the trees which surrounded the ruined house.

"Why would a house catch on fire?" Emma wondered aloud.

"There's lots of reasons," Peter answered, "Someone probably knocked over a candle. Or a spark might've blown out of the fireplace. You never know."

Peter sounded so casual as he discussed the possibilities. Emma didn't understand how he could take the matter so lightly. Didn't he realize that something horrible had happened? That the people's lives had been endangered; maybe even taken?

By that time, they had reached the bottom of the lane. Their buggy had passed Emiline's house, rolled down to the main road, and now they were traveling between large fields.

Emma closed her eyes and shut the country scene out. She liked the pretty fields and the blue mountains beyond them, but today she could imagine that she was driving down a cobblestone road, passing bright store windows and crowds of well-dressed people. She could almost imagine that the country boy beside her was a fine gentleman dressed in a tidy suit and a tall hat. She could almost taste the salty air of the seaside and hear the people's civil voices.

"Emiline, is that you?" a voice shouted loudly ahead of them. Peter pulled the reins back, and the horse almost stopped.

"Oh no," he whispered.

Emma opened her eyes in surprise. What was wrong? The evening sunlight was almost blinding, but behind a picket fence, she could see the silhouette of a plump person waving her hand at them. It was Mrs. Bufford.

Peter gave Emma a nervous glance. "Maybe if I speed up a little, she'll just say hello and let us go on our way," he suggested. "I don't wanna get stuck here forever! Besides," he grumbled, "she doesn't like me."