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glow briefly surrounded the town, and then vanished.
    ***
    When the lights went out, Esther Laudry had finished brewing hot water in her electric tea kettle. She’d just poured some into two dainty, porcelain tea cups decorated with red and pink roses when the power died.
    “Oh, fiddlesticks . . .”
    She tugged on the teabag strings and left the cups and saucers on the kitchen counter, allowing the tea to steep for a moment. Then she made her way to the laundry room, moving slowly—it wouldn’t do to slip and break her hip in the darkness—and checked the fuse box by the light of a match. Everything seemed normal. None of the fuses were blown.
    “Esther,” Myrtle Danbury called from the sitting room, “do you need some help, dear? Is everything okay?”
    “It’s fine,” Esther said, coming back into the kitchen.
    “The electricity is out.”
    “That’s strange. It’s not storming.”
    “No, it’s not. Maybe somebody crashed into a pole. Or maybe a tree branch knocked down one of the wires. Just give me a moment to call the power company.”
    Esther reached for the phone, but when she tried dialing, she found that the phone lines were out, as well. She placed the phone back in its cradle, went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pink flashlight. When she thumbed the button, nothing happened. Either the batteries were dead or the flashlight was broken. Shaking her head, she picked up the teacups. They rattled softly against the saucers as she carefully carried them into the dark sitting room.
    “It’s chamomile,” she said, sitting the cup and saucer down in front of her guest, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it in the dark.”
    “That’s okay,” Myrtle said, her voice cheery. “I like the ambience.”
    “You would. My flashlight isn’t working.”
    “When was the last time you changed the batteries?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I change mine twice a year, just to be sure. You can never be too cautious.”
    Esther frowned. “Just let me light a few candles.”
    She moved around the room, lighting a series of votive and decorative candles that were scattered among the knickknacks on various shelves and end tables. Soon the sitting room was filled with a soft glow and the competing scents of honeysuckle, strawberry, cinnamon, vanilla and peppermint. Sighing, Esther took her seat, and after an experimental sip, pronounced her tea too hot to drink. ***
    “What did the power company say?” Myrtle asked.
    “Did they give you any idea how long it would be?”
    “I couldn’t get through. The phone lines are down, too.”
    “Well, that’s odd.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Should we check on your boarder?” Myrtle asked. Esther shook her head. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. I imagine the poor man is asleep already. He said he’d ridden all day in that buggy. He was pretty tired when he checked in, and he asked not to be disturbed. You saw for yourself.”
    “I know. But still . . .”
    “You just want to bother him with questions, Myrtle. Be honest.”
    “Well, don’t you? You can’t tell me you’re not just as fascinated with him as I am.”
    “Sure, I’m interested, but I don’t intend to bother him about it. Not tonight. He’s worn out. And besides, it’s not like he’s the first Amish person we’ve seen. There’s a whole colony of them up near Punkin Center.”
    “I thought those were Mennonites?”
    “Aren’t they the same thing?”
    “I don’t think so.” Myrtle shrugged. “People from the Mennonite faith can drive cars and trucks. Only the Amish still insist on riding around in horse-drawn buggies. I think they are different facets of the same faith. Like Methodists and Lutherans.”
    Esther frowned again. She’d been a Presbyterian all of her life and had little interest in other denominations, especially when they were incorrect in regards to interpreting the Lord’s word.
    “But that’s my point,” Myrtle continued. “It would be fascinating to talk to