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That something had eaten her alive before their very eyes. Could a doctor have taken it out so that she could have lived longer? His mother had suggested it to her, as had others, but Agnes had been adamant. What God had sent her way was for her to endure, and endure she did. Breaking her children’s hearts in the process.
    Would his life have been different if Agnes had lived?
    One of those questions without answers. No looking back, he ordered himself. You vowed, no looking back. But your mother acts as the doctor in Blessing . The thought sounded an awful lot like his father Haakan’s voice. But Mother wasn’t a young woman, and besides— He cut off the thought, knowing this was not a topic to bring up with Elizabeth.
    ‘‘Okay, here’s the lemonade. I will see you back here for supper?’’
    ‘‘Mange takk.’’ He looked at the parcels, wondering how he was to carry them all on the bicycle. ‘‘But no, I will be studying from the time we close up until I get done. I’ll just eat the leftovers.’’
    ‘‘Well, don’t blame me if you never fill out. I try to feed you enough.’’
    ‘‘I won’t. Thanks again.’’ He juggled everything to open the screen door and, once outside, set the jug and the cookies in the basket and hooked the handles of the picnic basket over the handlebars. Whistling the catchy tune of ‘‘A Bicycle Built for Two,’’ he pedaled back out the drive and down the street toward town.
    ‘‘Hey, Mr. Bjorklund, that was a right fine article on the abuses of the railroad last week. But why aren’t you running another story like you did last year?’’ Old Mr. Henry Stromme, who lived one block away from the Rogerses, called from his rocking chair on the front porch.
    ‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff coasted to a stop and braced with his feet. ‘‘I had no time to write the story this year, but we’re thinking of one to start in the fall.’’
    ‘‘Good, good. I’ll be looking forward to it.’’ He pointed a shaky finger in Thorliff’s direction. ‘‘You going to run the contest again at Christmastime?’’
    ‘‘We’re contemplating a Thanksgiving contest this year. What do you think?’’
    The old man nodded, his head keeping time with his rocking chair. ‘‘You think folks run outta Christmas tales?’’
    ‘‘No, just something different.’’ Thorliff set one foot up on the pedal. ‘‘Glad you’re happy with the paper.’’
    ‘‘Near’s I can figure, Thanksgiving ain’t nowhere near important as Christmas.’’
    ‘‘True.’’
    ‘‘You ask me, and I’d say stick with Christmas.’’
    Thorliff thought a moment and couldn’t stop the grin. ‘‘You don’t by any chance have a story you’re planning to send in?’’
    The old man cackled like a hen just off her nest, announcing to the world that she laid the best egg ever. He slapped his knees and shook his head. ‘‘You be one smart young feller to figure that out. I might be. I just might.’’
    ‘‘I’ll tell Mr. Rogers your opinion.’’ Thorliff waved and pedaled off. ‘‘Best to you.’’
    ‘‘And you.’’ Another cackle followed him down the street.
    Thorliff parked the bike behind the newspaper office and entered through the back door, hanging his hat on a peg in the wall by the door to his room. He glanced longingly at the bed that had hardly been slept in for the last few days and continued on to the office, where Mr. Rogers was waiting on someone at the counter.
    ‘‘Ah, Mr. Bjorklund, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .’’
    He turned from setting the picnic basket on the desk and smiled in the direction of the woman crowned by a broad-brimmed straw hat that dipped seductively to the right. He couldn’t see her face because the window light threw her in shadows, but he’d recognize the voice anywhere.
    ‘‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Simpson? What can I do for you?’’
    ‘‘I was wondering, are you going to write another story for the paper? We just adored