When everything Nellie Mae had cooked and baked was set in place on the cold steps, she rapped on the back door. Fourteen-year-old Emmie came to the storm door, a slight frown on her pretty face. “I’m so sorry ’bout your father’s accident,” Betsy began, realizing from the girl’s slack jaw that she was either hesitant or worried. “My parents ain’t here. . . . Mamm’s with Daed at the hospital.” Emmie’s voice faltered as she looked longingly at the row of hot dishes and pastries. “Ach, Betsy, it’s awful nice of you, but I ain’t allowed to . . .” It was obvious the poor girl had been given strict orders not to accept benevolence from the hand of the New Order folk. “I’ll be goin’, then.” Betsy forced a smile, wanting to make things easy for Emmie, whose mouth was watering, no doubt. “Here, let me help you.” Emmie opened the door and stepped out. “No, no, that’s all right. Really.” She didn’t want to get Emmie in trouble. But fair-haired Emmie, more like her mother than her father, offered her a hand with the food anyway, while Betsy silently beseeched the Lord to intervene on behalf of this hurting family.
