Free The Preacher's Daughter by Beverly Lewis

depth of color on each feather.
    â€˜â€˜If Louisa comes, you just might be one of her first paintings here,’’ she told the peacock, feeling silly talking to an animal.
    If Daed agrees, that is. He would put his foot down if he knew Louisa was an art instructor . . . and I a disobedient daughter, hiding my sin in Julia’s attic!
    She waited till the peacock turned, at last, strutting back to the pen, slowly closing his train and letting it drag behind him.
    Drawing in a deep breath, she realized now what Mamm had sensed in the air earlier. Not only was it the urgency of getting work completed before the onslaught of winter, she also felt a flood of excitement. She could enjoy it for the moment, because she was not at all sure what her father would say about Louisa’s request. Especially because she was considered to be on the very fringe of the church, although she still attended Preaching service regularly. And there was the knotty problem of adding a single girl to the mix of three courting-age brothers in the house.
    She climbed off the fence, anxious now to talk over Louisa’s letter with her parents, particularly her father.
    Won’t Daed be chagrined to find out my close friend is a worldly Englischer? She trudged back toward the house, clinging to a small ray of hope.

Chapter 8
    F inding Mamm alone in the kitchen having another tall glass of apple cider was a consolation. Neither Yonie nor Luke was in from plowing, and Omar wasn’t in from the barn snitching the usual chocolate chip cookies, his favorite afternoon snack.
    Annie had slipped into the room unnoticed and sat down at the table, observing her mother’s purposeful movements—back and forth between the counter where she was chopping vegetables, then to the big kettle on her left, scarcely moving her feet, only her upper body, the graceful rhythm of an experienced cook. Mamm chanted the necessary ingredients, depositing diced potatoes, chopped carrots, small onions, and, last of all, the cubed stew meat, already browned in butter, into the kettle. A bit of paprika, two small bay leaves, some flour, and a dash of allspice, along with the sugar, lemon juice, a clove of garlic, boiling water, and plenty of ground black pepper, and the stew was ready for more simmering.
    Mamm turned unexpectedly. ‘‘Oh, goodness, me. I didn’t see ya there!’’
    Annie hoped now was the best time to bring up Louisa’s letter.
    Mamm tilted her head. ‘‘What’s got ya lookin’ like that?’’
    â€˜â€˜I was just wonderin’ . . .’’ She stopped.
    â€˜â€˜Aw, just spit it out, Annie-girl.’’
    â€˜â€˜All right. Louisa, my pen pal, wants to come for a visit.’’ When Mamm seemed not the least bit flustered by the notion of having an Englischer around, Annie added, ‘‘She wrote that she needed some time away.’’
    â€˜â€˜Well, sure, tell her to come.’’
    â€˜â€˜But . . . she might need to stay longer than just a few nights.’’
    Mamm nodded, still smiling. ‘‘How long would that be?’’
    â€˜â€˜I don’t know, a few weeks . . . maybe a month.’’
    â€˜â€˜She’s not runnin’ away from home, I hope.’’
    â€˜â€˜Nothin’ like that.’’ Running from her beau maybe .
    â€˜â€˜Well, it might be a gut idea to talk this over with your father, ’specially since there are three young men still living in the house.’’
    She wasn’t surprised at her mother’s sensible response, but with all of her heart, she wanted to see Louisa face-to-face for the first time ever. She had daydreamed plenty of times about it. Now her chance was here at last, and she longed to stay up late talking with Louisa in person, to see her artwork, and to show her around the farm. And just maybe to get some pointers from a real art instructor who was a