A minute later Sadie came back down Mary’s wooden steps carrying an empty covered glass dish wrapped in a yellow tea towel.

“Mrs.

Bennett gave us eight dried apples from her cellar tree,” Sadie said, a little out of breath as she reached our porch step.

“We’ll bake them into our oatmeal tomorrow morning,” I said, steering her inside and locking the door latch behind us.

The front hall smelled of fresh pine needles and warm cinnamon, the heat rising steadily through the brass floor vents from the furnace below.

In the living room, the tall brass floor lamp threw a soft circle of yellow light across the brown leather armchair.