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from a mere woman.’’ Elizabeth batted her eyes.
    ‘‘You don’t simper well, so forget it.’’
    ‘‘Thorliff, you are the most insufferable—’’
    ‘‘Miss Elizabeth.’’ He loaded extra emphasis on the Miss . ‘‘I am too tired to argue with you or even carry on a decent conversation, for that matter, so sniff your posy, and we’ll go at it again tomorrow.’’
    ‘‘Or the next day when I finally wake up.’’ Elizabeth stifled a yawn. ‘‘I never did simper well.’’
    ‘‘Not enough practice.’’ He held the back door open for her and followed her into the kitchen, which seemed huge for its emptiness. ‘‘Where’s Cook?’’ He set Elizabeth’s satchel down on one of the red-cushioned chairs by the turned-leg table. A vase of roses nodded in the center of the red-and-white checked tablecloth.
    ‘‘I have no idea.’’ She saw a note on the counter and crossed the room to read it aloud. ‘‘Thorliff’s dinner and supper are in a box in the icebox. There is salad for your own dinner. Your mother is at the ladies social at the Lutheran church, and I have gone to the market. There are extra cookies in the cookie jar if Thorliff cannot make it to his room without food. Cook.’’ Elizabeth pointed to the cookie jar. ‘‘Help yourself.’’
    Thorliff did and, leaning against the counter, devoured three in close order while Elizabeth fetched his string-tied box. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He took it and headed for the door.
    ‘‘Remember, add more women.’’ Her advice trailed him outside as he picked up the pace to his usual half-trot, and with legs the length of his, he passed the block quickly. He glanced at Mr. Stromme’s porch, but the rocking chair sat empty, forlorn, as if not knowing what to do with its spare time. He kept going for half a block, ignoring the voice inside, but finally turned around and took the stairs to the old man’s house in one bound. He rapped on the screen door, staring into the long hallway toward the kitchen. There was no response. He rapped again. ‘‘Mr. Stromme, are you all right?’’
    Again only the silence of a waiting house answered.
    Thorliff set his school satchel and dinner box in the chair and leaped to the ground to trot around the house to the backyard. It was empty of human habitation, but the wheelbarrow sat out, rake and fork showing there had been a plan for work.
    ‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’ Thorliff looked around, checked the tool shed, then mounted the back steps. Do I go look for him or assume he stepped over to the neighbors? A voice demanded from inside of him: Go look . He opened the screen door, the screech of hinges needing oil the only sound. Calling every few moments, he checked each room downstairs, then mounted the stairs. ‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’
    He found the old man lying beside his bed, fully dressed, his eyes imploring him to help. One side of his face drooped like melted wax, and drool puddled on the floor under his cheek.
    ‘‘Oh, Mr. Stromme, I am so sorry. Do you have a telephone?’’
    A slight shake of the grizzled head, so slight that had Thorliff not been watching, he would have missed it.
    ‘‘Do your neighbors?’’
    Again that minuscule movement.
    ‘‘Then I shall run back to the Rogerses’ and call the doctor from there.’’
    One clawlike hand scrabbled on the painted floor.
    ‘‘I’ll hurry. I know. I don’t want to leave you alone either, but if I see anyone, I’ll send them up.’’ Leaving the man was one of the harder things Thorliff had ever done. Old Mr. Stromme’s eyes haunted him as he ran the distance, pounded up to the back door and, not bothering to knock, charged into the kitchen.
    Cook, eyes wide and mouth agape, turned abruptly, dropping her recently purchased potatoes onto the wooden floor. ‘‘Wh-what?’’
    ‘‘I have to call Dr. Gaskin. Old Mr. Stromme is on the floor.
    I’m sure he’s had a stroke.’’ The words trailed back from over his shoulder as Thorliff