Carol, eager to please Dixie, upon reaching the kitchen at once looked about for the small visitor whom she was to treat just as though she really liked her. She soon spied the little figure curled up in the big rocker, and a feeling of real sympathy swept over the heart of Carol.
Sylvia was indeed to be pitied, for she did not have a big, brave brother like Ken, nor a wonderful sister like Dixie, nor an adorable Jimmy-Boy, and, although she did live in a much finer house, it was not a real home. But, more than all else, the pale, sickly, spoiled child was to be pitied because she had such a vain, foolish mother.
Although Carol did not think these things out, she nevertheless did feel sorry for the little girl who was as unhappy because she had to visit them as they were to have her, and she decided to make the ordeal easier for Dixie by doing her part in the pretend-game.
The elder girl went at once to the stove to reheat the porridge for her own and Carol’s breakfast, but the younger little maid skipped across the room and said pleasantly: “Hello, Sylvia! You’ve come to visit us, haven’t you? Did you bring your dollie?”
“No, I didn’t!” was the sullen response. “You broke my best doll and I’m never going to forgive you. Never! Never!”
Now this was untrue, for it had been Sylvia’s own carelessness that had broken the doll, as she very well knew.
The injustice of it was almost more than Carol could bear, and her natural inclination was to angrily retort and tell the unwelcome guest just how “mean-horrid” she really was, but that wouldn’t be playing the game, and so, with a quick glance across at Dixie, who returned an encouraging smile, Carol silently repeated the formula which her big sister had suggested before they had left the loft: “What would I do or say if I really loved Sylvia?” What, indeed? How would Sylvia receive her advances? Would the spoiled little girl fly into a temper, or would she be kind?
With a long breath, the small girl said, “I’m sorry, Sylvia, if you really think that I broke your big doll. I wouldn’t have done it, not for anything.”
Then, as Dixie was serving the porridge, Carol asked, “Won’t you come over to the table and have breakfast with us?”
“No, I won’t,” was the ungracious response. “I’m going to starve right here in this very chair, and then I guess my father will be sorry be brought me to this poor folks’ cabin.”
Dixie, hearing this cruel retort, glanced anxiously across at her little sister, whose cheeks were burning, while her violet-blue eyes flashed. Would she be able to play the game after that, the big sister wondered.
Six months before the small girl would have informed Sylvia that she was a descendant of James Haddington-Allen of Kentucky, who was “blue-blooded.”
Before Carol could decide just how to reply, the sweet voice of her sister called her: “Come, dear, breakfast is ready! We’ll keep the porridge warm, and Sylvia may have some nice rich cream and sugar on her share when she feels real hungry.”
Then the two little Martin girls seated themselves at the table, and Carol felt well repaid for the effort she had made when she felt Dixie’s hand clasp hers just for a moment. Anger left her heart. What did it matter what Sylvia said or thought since Ken and Dixie and Jimmykins loved her?
When breakfast was over, the boys returned from feeding the “live-stock,” and then all was hurry and scurry while the little mother got them off to school. Their unwelcome guest had turned the big chair so that the high wooden back hid her from their view, but at the door Carol paused to call, “Good-by, Sylvia.” There was no response from across the room, but Dixie caught her little sister and kissed her, whispering gratefully: “Thank you, dear. You are such a help.” Then the door closed, and Dixie was left alone with the rebellious guest.
Dixie stood in the open door, watching the three children as they climbed the trail, and when they reached the top, before they turned into the cañon road, they waved back to her, and the little mother of them all smiled and nodded. Then she went into the kitchen with a sigh that she tried to change into a song. She noticed that the big chair had been turned, and that Sylvia was no longer curled up in it, but sat, leaning back, her thin legs hanging listlessly, for they were not quite long enough to reach the floor.
Sylvia looked so wan and miserable that Dixie silently asked herself the question that she and Carol had planned for the game: “What would I say and do if I really liked Sylvia?”
For a few moments she said nothing as she went about her morning tasks. Her thoughts were busy searching for an answer to her query, but it was hard to decide what would be best to do, since her former advance had been so rudely met.
Dixie went into the small lean-to room to make Ken’s bed and Jimmy-Boy’s crib. When she returned she found the blue eyes of the little guest watching her.
“I’m hungry,” Sylvia said, in a tone of voice which implied that she was being much abused. “I want cake and cocoa.”
“I am sorry, but we children always have porridge for breakfast, and we drink cold milk,” Dixie said. Then, fearing that she had not been as gracious as a hostess, even an unwilling hostess, should be, she added: “You can have all the sugar you want on the porridge, and the cream is so good.”
“Well, you may bring me some, but I won’t promise to eat it,” said the small girl condescendingly as she curled one thin leg under her and leaned back as though she intended to remain indefinitely in that comfortable chair.
The lines of Dixie’s sweet mouth became firmer. “Dearie,” she said in a tone which convinced the listener that she was in earnest, “if you wish breakfast, you must come to the table.” Then more gently she added: “If you were sick and couldn’t walk, I’d fetch it to you on a tray. But you can walk as well as I can, Sylvia.”
The pale-blue eyes opened in unfeigned astonishment. “Why, I have always had my breakfast brought to me on a tray,” she said. “Fanchon brings it.”
“Of course you do, dearie, at home, where you have a maid to wait on you, but here we all wait on ourselves. There now, I’ve put your porridge in one of our prettiest kept-for-company dishes, and here’s a pitcher of cream and the sugar. You may eat it when you are ready to come to the table. Now I’m going up to the loft to make our bed.”
Two minutes later Sylvia heard a sweet, birdlike voice trilling overhead. Ten minutes later, when Dixie reappeared, the small guest was sitting at the table eating the delicious porridge and cream with hungry enjoyment.
“It’s ’most as good as cake, isn’t it?” Dixie said brightly as she sat by the window to mend. There was always something waiting for the little mother to patch or darn.
Sylvia rather grudgingly had to confess that the porridge was good, adding that the cream in Genoa wasn’t so thick and yellow.
“Town cream never is, I guess,” Dixie said. Then, that the conversation need not lag, she told about the recent arrival of the kittens.
The little hostess glanced sideways, and was glad to see an almost eager expression on the thin sallow face that was turned toward her. “I’ve never seen baby kittens!” Sylvia was saying. “I’d like to.”
Dixie laid down her sewing. “If you’ve finished your breakfast, I’ll show you all over our tiny ranch. We have three hens, too, and a piggie and a burro.”
Together they left the house, and before many minutes had passed Sylvia was actually laughing, for the goat was kicking frolicsome heels up at them as the two little girls stood leaning over the rail fence that surrounded the small enclosure. After a time they visited the shed down near the apple-orchard, and Topsy was induced to come forth into the sunlight and show her babies, who blinked and winked, for their eyes had not been open very long, and they wabbled and tumbled down to the great delight of the town girl, who had never owned a pet.
“Oh! oh!” she exclaimed joyfully as she picked up the snow-white pussy that was growing whiter and fluffier and more lovable every day, “how I’d like to own this kitty-cat. Can I have it to take home with me to keep?”
Dixie hesitated, then she added: “I’m sorry, Sylvia, but I couldn’t give Downy-Fluff away. Topsy belongs to me, but that little white kitty is Carol’s. You may have the spotted pussy, if you want him.”
Sylvia put the white kitten down and walked away as she said: “No, I don’t want that one. I will tell my father to pay you for that white kitten if you don’t want to give it to me.”
Dixie flushed and bit her lips while she hurriedly asked herself the game question: “What would I say or do if I really loved Sylvia?”
Catching the hand of the child, who was beginning to sulk, the older girl exclaimed brightly: “Come on and see Pegasus. You may ride him if you wish.”
The burro came across the barnyard when Dixie called, and nosed her pocket, hoping for a lump of sugar.
Sylvia actually clapped her hands with delight. “I’ve always wanted to ride on a pony, but mother was afraid I would fall. May I ride this cunning little horse? He’s so small it wouldn’t hurt me if I did fall off.”
Willingly Dixie put the simple harness over the head of the mouse-colored burro, and then patiently, for a long hour, she walked around and around the house, leading while Sylvia rode. At last as it was nearing noon the little hostess, weary indeed, suggested that they go indoors and have their lunch, and afterwards, when Sylvia said she was sleepy, Dixie hung the hammock under the pines, and the unwelcome guest curled up in it, and, lulled by the wind in the trees, she was soon asleep.
Dixie wished that she, too, might rest, but with an added member in her family to feed, she set about baking, tired but happy because she believed that the “pretend game” was really progressing.
Carol and Jimmy-Boy returned alone from school, for Ken, with the book he had borrowed from “dear teacher” under his arm, had gone at once to the top of the low peak, and, having shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun that was low in the west, he looked toward the high mountain beyond. Then, as he did not find what he sought, he let his gaze wander slowly over the valley that was silvery with sand and sagebrush.
With a sudden whoop of joy, he leaped from the rock upon which he had been standing, and started running as best he could down the trail on the lake side of the low mountain, toward a column of wavering smoke which could be seen half a mile away, near a stream where small trout were plentiful. As he approached the place, the column of smoke died down, but he no longer needed its guidance for he had reached the rushing, bubbling mountain brook and was soon clambering up over the jagged rocks, pausing now and then to halloo. At first only a hollow echo replied, but soon he heard the voice for which he had listened.
“Hi-ho! Friend or foe?”
“Friend, I’ll say!” Ken joyfully shouted as he scrambled over the remaining boulder, and found, as he had suspected, a fisherman standing on the brink of the stream casting a tempting fly. On the bank at the side of the young giant, lay at least two dozen of the shining trout that would be so delicious when fried.
“Shall I keep quiet?” the boy asked, his eyes sparkling as he looked at the catch, but the fisherman shook his head and drew in his line.
“No, sonny, indeed not. You have only a few moments to stay, for the days are short now. The darkness drops down almost as soon as the sun is set. So-ho, you have a book for me? A ponderous volume, indeed! Wells? Great! I’ll enjoy reading that. How long may I keep it?”
“I—I don’t know. I—I didn’t ask teacher.” Then the boy grinned as he seated himself astride a rock near one on which Frederick Edrington sat turning the pages of the book.
Looking up suddenly, the young engineer asked, “Why so merry?” Then, closing the volume, he queried with interest, “What did you tell your teacher about me?”
“I tried not to tell her any lies,” Ken declared, “but I’m afraid she sort o’ got the idea that you’re a real old man, and, ’cause I said that you liked to read history, she took the notion that you’re a hermit-professor, and that you’re living up here to study out something, rocks or fossils, whatever that may be.”
The young man, with hands folded behind his thick, waving chestnut-brown hair, laughed as he replied, “I’m glad she does, although I can’t see quite how she can reconcile that image of me with the name of my choice.”
“Oh, I know now!” cried the boy, springing up in his eagerness. “Miss Bayley thinks you’re a very old man, ’most a hundred, who is a naturalist, and she wanted me to ask you if you’d like to have her new book on the snakes that inhabit these mountains.”
“Indeed I would! It doesn’t matter what—er—your teacher suggests sending to me, Ken, tell her I’ll be delighted to have it.” The boy, who, just to keep his hands occupied, had started whittling, looked up when his companion hesitated. Little did he dream that on the tip of Frederick Edrington’s tongue had been “vision of loveliness,” but, since only two days before the engineer had declared that he had never been in love, and never would be in love, he did not wish to awaken in the lad’s mind even a suspicion of the real interest with which the “old hermit” regarded the young teacher. Rising, the fisherman selected twelve of the largest of the small trout. “Ken, old pal,” he said, “would it be too much to ask you to take these to your teacher? I’d like to have her see them just as they are, with their glistening scales still on, but, when she has admired them, will you prepare them for her, that she may fry them for her supper?” The boy had also risen and his eyes were glowing. “Bet you, I will,” he declared. “That’ll be a jolly fine way for you to say thanks for the book.” Then, after promising to return the following Saturday, the boy took up the string of fish, shook the big hand of the tall friend whom he so admired, and started, half-running, half-sliding down the trailless side of the mountain, turning back every few moments to wave to the young man who stood, with arms folded, watching until the lad disappeared over the crest of the lower mountain on the other side of which lay the small hamlet of Woodford’s.
Then, reseating himself, Frederick Edrington again opened the big book. As he did so, a kodak picture fluttered to the ground.
With a heart thumping in a most disconcerting manner, the young man, who “never had been in love and never would be in love,” stooped to pick it up.
“Queer now,” he thought, as he gazed long at the beautiful face that smiled up at him. “Queer now, isn’t it?”
A wind, rising with the setting of the sun and the cool rush of the waters, was all the reply that he heard, and feeling happier than he had in many a day, he returned to his camp.
The sun had set, but the western sky above the mountains was a glory of radiant colors when Ken leaped upon the low porch in front of a small log cabin and knocked eagerly upon the closed door. Instantly it was opened, and Josephine Bayley, in a blue bungalow apron, appeared. Her face gladdened at sight of the small lad who was holding up a string of glistening fish.
“Oh, Ken, did you catch those for me?” The young woman took the proffered gift and held it up in the soft crimson light that reflected back from the other side of the cañon.
“No’m, teacher, ’twasn’t me, though how I do wish it had been! It was-er— Oh, yes, Rattlesnake Sam caught them, and he said he’d like me to dress them after you’d seen how pretty they are with their scales on.” For one panicky moment the small boy had forgotten his friend’s assumed name, and he had been on the verge of saying “Mr. Edrington.” What a narrow escape that had been! For a second he was hardly conscious that Miss Bayley was speaking, then he realized that she was asking him if the “old gentleman” had liked the book she had loaned him. “Oh, yes’m, teacher, Miss Bayley. Rattlesnake Sam, he said ‘Great!’ when he saw it, and—and he told me he’d like the snake book, too, if you’d loan it to him. I’m going up to his camp next Saturday, so I could pack it along then if you could spare it.”
The girl-teacher laughed. “I can spare it all right until next spring. Since all of the snakes have hibernated for the winter, I can’t get near enough to one to see if he looks like his picture.” Then, at the small boy’s suggestion, she gave him the string of trout and he at once began, in a manner that showed his skill, to prepare them for the frying-pan. “Won’t you stay and share them with me, Ken?” the girl-teacher asked, really hoping that he would accept.
“Oh, no’m, thank you, I couldn’t. Dixie will be expecting me back, and—and—we’re sort of having trouble over at our house.”
“Ken! Trouble?” anxiously. “Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon and I would have gone to Dixie at once. I meant to ask you after school why my little leader-of-songs was absent, but you disappeared so quickly after the bell for dismissal rang that I could not, and then I looked for Carol, and saw that she and Jimmy-Boy were running for home as fast as his chubby legs could go. Tell me, dear, what is wrong? Can I help?”
Ken had finished preparing the small fish, and had placed them side by side on a platter that his teacher had brought out. He handed the dish to her, and having wiped his knife, he closed it before he replied.
“It’s a queerish kind of trouble,” he said. Then he told the story, beginning with Mr. Clayburn’s great kindness to them, and ending with the favor which he had asked them to do for him. “Of course Dixie’s right, she always is, but it’s awful uncomfortable having some one in the house who won’t speak pleasant when she’s spoken to.” Then the troubled expression vanished as the lad declared brightly, “I shouldn’t wonder, though, if by now Dixie has won the game.”
Miss Bayley looked puzzled. “What game, dear?” she inquired. The lad explained the pretend-game which Grandmother Piggins had originated when Sue had disliked her room-mate. “That blessed old lady,” the young teacher declared warmly. Then she added: “And that blessed sister of yours, too. Of course she has won the game, Ken, and I’ll prophesy that you’ll all be in school to-morrow with your guest. Please tell Sylvia Clayburn that the teacher of the Woodford’s Cañon school will be so glad to have her, either as a visitor or as a pupil, just as she may prefer.”
“Thanks, Miss Bayley, Dixie’ll be powerful grateful to you for sending that message, and now I must be goin’ along. It gets dark awful early, doesn’t it? Good-by, teacher!”
The lad had not gone far through the deepening dusk when he heard a sweet voice calling after him, “Ken, do you think your old hermit would let me go fishing with him some day?”
“I’ll—I’ll ask him,” was the lad’s reply; then he raced off into the darkness of the cañon.
Here was a new problem, and one which the small boy might have realized was ahead of him. If his beloved Miss Bayley ever saw Frederick Edrington, she’d know he wasn’t an “old hermit,” and, worse than that, she’d know that Ken hadn’t told the square-honest truth.
But he felt better when he recalled that the young engineer very much disliked girls, and so, of course, he would keep in hiding, and equally of course it would not be very long before he would leave the mountain country.
How Ken wished that he had never agreed to let teacher think that Mr. Edrington was so old. To be sure, he hadn’t really told any lies. What he had said was that the man who had built the camp-fire had said that his name was Rattlesnake Sam, and Mr. Edrington had said that, and of course even teacher knew it was an assumed name. Then, when she had asked if the camper was old, Ken hadn’t said he was old; he had replied that Rattlesnake Sam wasn’t a hundred yet. But, after all, he hadn’t been square-honest. He could hardly wait until Saturday to ask Mr. Edrington if he might tell teacher the whole truth.
When Ken neared the log cabin, he suddenly stopped and listened as though he were much surprised at what he heard. Surely that was Dixie singing, and Carol piping in at the chorus. Then, when the song was finished, there was a joyful clapping of small hands. What could it mean, he wondered. Ken had dreaded this home-coming, believing that he would find the girls both on the verge of tears after a long hard day of playing the pretend-game.
A bright light streamed out of the cabin window, beckoning the lad to approach. Before going around to the door, he glanced in, and was truly amazed at the pretty sight that he saw. His sisters were preparing the evening meal, Dixie at the stove and Carol placing on the table the best kept-for-company dishes. This, however, was not what amazed the boy, for he often beheld a similar scene when he returned home after dark. The unusual part of the picture was the small girl who sat on a low stool, holding two kittens, one snow-white and one spotted with black. The watchful mother-cat was lying on the bear-skin rug near by.
Ken actually blinked his eyes hard, and then opened them wide again to reassure himself that he was not dreaming. Could that smiling little girl be the disagreeable and unwelcome guest of but eight hours before? It was indeed Sylvia. She had awakened from her nap that afternoon greatly refreshed, and had been eager to again ride upon the mouse-colored burro. This time she had declared that she was not afraid to ride alone, and so the little hostess, after starting her down the road toward the apple-orchard, had returned to her task in the kitchen, but often she had looked out of the window, when Sylvia, with a merry halloo, had announced that she was returning.
So courageous did the small girl become that one time she had actually urged Pegasus to canter, and then, as she rode past the open door, her shout had been one of triumph. Dixie, skipping to answer the call, had been glad indeed to see that the pale face of their little guest was flushed with excitement and real pleasure. When at last Sylvia, weary but happy, had entered the kitchen, she had exclaimed, as she sank down in the big chair, “That was the best fun I ever had in my whole life!”
In the heart of Dixie there had been a prayer of gratitude because dear old Grandma Piggins’s pretend-game had been such a success, but of this she said nothing. “I’m glad, dear,” had been her quiet reply; “you may ride every day if you wish, while you are with us.”
Then, when Carol came home from school, Sylvia had at once said that she wished she could have the snow-white kitten. Almost unconsciously Carol had asked herself the question, “What would I do if I really loved Sylvia?” In a burst of generosity which delighted as much as it surprised Dixie, the small girl replied almost at once, “You may have Downy-Fluff for your very own pussy if—if you’d like to.”
Then the unexpected happened. The little guest, perhaps for the very first time in her short life, considered some one else’s wishes. “Why, Carol Martin,” she exclaimed, “your sister Dixie said you loved that pussy so much you wouldn’t want to give it away.”
“I do love Downy-Fluff,” the other little girl had replied.
“Then why did you say that I could have her for keeps?” To the small girl who had never had an unselfish impulse, this act was incomprehensible.
“Because I want to make you happy, Sylvia,” had been the quiet reply.
Then, before more could be said, Carol had announced that she was going out to the shed and bring Topsy and her pussy-babies into the cabin.
That had happened about an hour before the return of Ken, and during that hour there had been a brand-new emotion stirring in the heart of Sylvia Clayburn, which just before bedtime prompted the small girl to perform the first unselfish act of her eight years.
Ken was about to take Topsy and the kittens back to the shed when Sylvia, rising, went to Carol, and, holding out the snow-white kitten, said: “Here’s Downy-Fluff. She wants you to cuddle her good-night.” Then stooping, she picked up the less attractive pussy that was rubbing against her foot. Smiling at the astonished Carol, she said: “I’m going to have this one for my very own kitten. Dixie said I might, and anyway, I think Spotty’s kind of lonesome, ’cause nobody loves her nor wants her, the way they do Downy-Fluff.”
And Ken, listening, knew that his sisters had won the “pretend-game.”
Miss Josephine Bayley was not at all surprised the next morning to see the four little Martins appear above the ridge of the cañon road. Carol and Dixie were trudging side by side, while Ken, with a stick in his hand, was walking beside the mouse-colored burro, on which rode no less a small personage than Sylvia Clayburn, whose thin, sallow face was beaming above the yellow curls of the four-year-old, who sat in front of her.
When the schoolhouse was reached, Ken lingered behind to tie the burro in a grassy spot, and Dixie, taking their guest by the hand, led her into the little log schoolhouse.
“Miss Bayley,” she said to the young teacher, who at once approached them, “this is little Sylvia Clayburn. She thought she’d like to come just as company to-day. She’ll be going back to Genoa in two weeks, so maybe that wouldn’t be time to really start having lessons.”
“We are very glad to have Sylvia with us as a guest or as a pupil, just as she prefers,” Miss Bayley said, as she took the frail, claw-like hand of the child who had never been strong. “Carol, your seat is wide enough for two little girls, isn’t it? I am sure that Sylvia would rather sit with you than be alone, wouldn’t you, dear?”
To the surprise of the younger Martin girl, she found that she was actually pleased when Sylvia somewhat shyly nodded her head and slipped her hand trustingly into that of the other little maid. She no longer had to ask herself the pretend-game question, for she really did like their little guest, and she was even eager to have her for a seat-mate.
As usual the morning session began with singing, and the teacher said: “Now that it is nearly November, I am going to suggest that we begin to learn a Thanksgiving song. I have written the words on the board. I will sing it first, Dixie, that you may get the tune; then we will go over it all together.”
The pupils read the poem aloud, that they might become familiar with the words that told the many simple things which small boys and girls had to be thankful for. Then the teacher sang it, first alone, later with Dixie. There was a lilting little chorus that even Sylvia soon could sing, and the girl-teacher smiled as she glanced down at her. It was plain to note that this new experience—for Sylvia had never before been in a school-room—was greatly interesting the little guest.
Then the reading-hour began and Miss Bayley suggested the much-loved story of Cinderella. Each pupil, sufficiently advanced, read two pages, and, as the special fairy-tale reader was passed about, it at last came to Carol. When that little maid was seated again, Miss Bayley smilingly said, “Perhaps our little guest will read a page to us.”
No longer afraid, that small girl willingly read the story, with which she was familiar, and a flush of pleasure appeared in her pale face when the kind teacher said encouragingly, “You read very well indeed, Sylvia, just as though you were telling something that really had happened.”
The old grandfather’s clock was soon chiming ten, and then the pupils flocked out into the golden October day, where Sylvia, for the very first time in her short life, found herself actually playing games with children who were not from the best families.
Maggie Mullet caught her hand in a ring-around game, and at another time Sylvia actually chose Mercedes Guadalupe for a partner in a hide-and-seek game.
That noon found the small girl, whose chief diet had been candy and cake, so hungry that she gladly accepted the thick sandwich offered by Dixie, and ate it almost as ravenously as did Ken. It was during the lunch hour that Miss Bayley beckoned to Dixie from the open door of the log schoolhouse. Excusing herself, the glad-eyed little girl bounded away from the others, wondering what dear teacher had to tell her,—some plan, she was sure, for Carol’s birthday “s’prise.”
A week passed, and what a week crowded with wonderful events it had been.
November came, in the same golden glory that October had gone out.
“Doesn’t winter ever come to your mountain country?” the teacher asked Ken one day, and the lad, after searching the soft, hazy blue of the sky for a threatening cloud, shook his head. “There’ll be winter enough soon, Miss Bayley,” he said, as one who knew from the experience of having lived through fourteen of those blizzardous seasons. Then the lad was silent as he trudged along by the side of the young woman whom he so admired. It was Friday afternoon, and the boy was “packing” the books for teacher.
“A bright new penny for your thoughts, Ken,” Miss Bayley suddenly exclaimed. They had reached her doorstep, and she held out her hand for the packet he was carrying.
The lad actually flushed. “I—er—I was wondering if—that is, I was hoping that somebody would be marryin’ soon.”
“Goodness, Ken!” said the young teacher, her eyes showing surprise. “I didn’t suppose that small boys were ever match-makers. Is there any one around here who is contemplating matrimony? Sue Piggins is too young, isn’t she? I have seen her driving on Sunday afternoon with Ira Jenkins of late, but—”
“Oh, no’m, Miss Bayley,” the small boy hastened to say. “I wasn’t thinking of Sue and Ira. Mis’ Piggins wouldn’t hear of her daughter marrying a blacksmith’s boy. I—er—I was thinking of a rich girl in the South; I guess she lives there, and I was a-wishing as how she’d marry the Lord of Dunsbury.”
After a puzzled moment, Josephine Bayley laughed merrily. “Boy,” she said, shaking a finger at him, “you’ve been reading one of Mrs. Jenkins’s yellow-covered novels. Mrs. Enterprise Twiggly tells me that the blacksmith’s wife reads novels even while she pares potatoes or scrubs the floor, and there is always a rich girl marrying a lord in one of them.”
Ken grinned rather sheepishly.
“I don’t wonder that you think I’m loony, Miss Bayley,” he acknowledged. “I—er was hoping that Rattlesnake Sam could come down from the mountains before the blizzards set in.” Then, fearing that he would have to reveal his friend’s secret if he said another word, he started to run back down the trail, calling over his shoulder: “Good-night, Miss Bayley. I’ll see you at the party to-morrow. The girls are terribly excited.”
“Gee,” he thought, as he went more slowly after entering the dusk of the cañon that was caused by the sheltering pine-covered stone wall that shut out the sun, although it was still golden in the valley and on the far peaks. “I ’most spilled the beans that time. I’d hate awful to have Miss Bayley find out that Rattlesnake Sam isn’t an old, old ‘fossil,’ whatever that may be. An’ I’d hate to have Mr. Edrington think I couldn’t keep his secret, but it came over me so all of a sudden that to-morrow will be November sixth, Carol’s birthday, and last year we had an awful storm that day, though often the real blizzards don’t set in till Christmas.” Then, as he thought of something more joyful, he began to whistle. “Gee, but I’ll sure be glad when the snow does come, for then Mr. Edrington’s coming down to live with us, and hide up in our loft, if his aunt should prowl around trying to find him to make him marry that girl he doesn’t want. Aunts are queer!” the lad continued to soliloquize as he sauntered along more slowly, swinging a stick he had cut from a tree as he passed. “There’s our great-aunt now. Dixie says she’s rich as anything, and that she lives in such a big house in the South that she could put four little children like us in it and not miss the room we’d take the least mite.” Then, as he turned into the trail that led down toward their own picturesque log cabin, the boy’s heart warmed with a sense of pride and ownership. “Far as I’m concerned,” he decided, “I’d heaps rather live right here than I would with our mother’s priggish Aunt Judith, even if she does own acres and acres, and live in a sort of a mansion with white pillars.”
A moment later Dixie appeared in the open door for she had heard a familiar whistle and the tune was one they both loved— “Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.”
“Be careful, Ken, that you don’t even hint about the party,” the older girl whispered. “Carol hasn’t an inkling of an idea, and we want to s’prise her.”
“Happy birthday!” Dixie cried the moment that she was sure that the pretty violet eyes of her sister were really open.
“Oh, goodie! I’m nine years old to-day. Sylvia, are you awake?” Carol then called to the little guest who was sleeping on a cot bed in another part of the big loft room over the kitchen of the log cabin.
That small maiden sat up and nodded. Although she was still thin, a remarkable change had taken place in the one week that she had lived with “poor folks.” She actually looked interested and happy, and there was a flush in the sallow cheeks, for even in seven days plenty of porridge and cream, hours of riding on the mouse-colored burro, and no candy and cake had begun to transform her from a sickly, spindling child to one who, were the pleasant simple ways continued, would soon be rosy and robust.
“Happy birthday, Carol,” Sylvia called gleefully. Then she added. “There’s a s’prise coming to-day.”
“Oh, goodie, what is it?” The younger of the Martin sisters was already dressing, for Dixie had said that “whatever you do on your birthday you will do all the year,” and so great had been the change in Carol that she now actually wished to be down-stairs in time to help her older sister prepare breakfast.
Ten minutes later they were all in the kitchen. Carol’s pretty face was flushed with excitement. “If there’s a s’prise for me,” she said, “why can’t I have it now?”
The others shook their heads. Ken, who had come in with a pail brimming with creamy milk, looked up at the clock, and then began to count. “Oh, it’s hours and hours before the real surprise is to begin,” he said to tease.
“But I can’t wait hours and hours. I just can’t. I’ll burst with curiosity! I know that I will,” the small girl declared as she brought Baby Jim from his crib and began to dress the little fellow.
Only a few months before, as Dixie could easily recall, this same little maid had pouted and felt very much abused if she had been asked to perform this loving service for her small brother. What gratitude there was in the heart of the little mother of the brood that glorious sixth of November.
Ken was straining the milk. Sylvia was setting the table. “Let’s use the best kept-for-company dishes all day,” Dixie said. “Birthdays are very special.”
This was done. Then, while the five children sat about the board, eating the porridge and cream, on which bananas had been sliced to make it “extra better,” as Ken declared, Carol began to tease first one and then another. “Sylvia,” she accused, “I know, by a sort of laughing look in your eyes, that you know just what the s’prise is to be.”
“Of course she knows, and so do we all,” Dixie put in, “but we won’t any of us tell, not until the clock strikes two. Then it’s going to happen.”
Carol clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! It’s something that’s going to happen, is it?” Then, whirling unexpectedly and facing her big brother, she challenged: “Ken Martin, I never knew you to tell a lie in your whole life, and so I’m going to ask you. Is the surprise going to happen here in this house?”
“Don’t you tell, brother,” Dixie warned.
The laughing lad sprang up. “I’m off for the Valley Ranch. Won’t be back till lunch.” Then, seizing his hat, he darted away, stopping in the door to say, “Now, if Carol finds out, it won’t be from me.”
Such a merry morning as those three girls had. Jimmy-Boy was too young to understand what the laughter and bantering was all about. At last lunch was over; Ken had returned, and the excitement in that old log cabin was tense, for the two older Martins and their guest were preparing for the surprise trying all the time to hide even the simplest of these preparations from the curious gaze of the one most interested.
At last it was half-past one and time to dress. The three small girls had climbed the ladder to the loft, and Dixie looked often at her small sister, who was donning the very best gingham and buttoning it down the front. Now and then the violet eyes glanced across the room to where Sylvia Clayburn stood arrayed in her pretty pink silk dress, but the sigh of yearning that arose to Carol’s lips was quickly changed to a song.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the little mother, and, kissing the flushed cheek of the small girl who was nine that day, she said softly: “Carol, dearie, how long and beautiful your curls are this year. They hang almost down to your waist now, and they’re so shimmery and silky.”
The younger sister, knowing that Dixie was trying to help her count her blessings, smiled up beamingly, and little Sylvia crossed the room, and, taking one of the truly beautiful curls in her frail hand, she said: “You’d ought to be so happy ’cause you have them, hadn’t she, Dix? My hair looks as though the color’d been all washed out, and it’s straight as anything.”
Carol glanced at the head of her little friend. The pale yellow hair wasn’t a bit pretty, but Dixie was saying: “Sylvia, don’t you mind a thing about it yet. Lots of times hair grows darker. I’ve heard Sue Piggins say that hers was nearly like yours when she was eight and now look at it, a heap of sunny gold.”
“Somebody’s driving in,” Carol exclaimed. “Who do you suppose it is?”
“Go down and see,” Dixie suggested.
The smaller girl, having heard the clock strike two, was sure that the “s’prise” was about to take place, and so she scrambled down the ladder that led from the loft to the kitchen. Skipping to open the door, she beheld on the porch no less a personage than Miss Josephine Bayley, and with her was Sue Piggins, while behind them loomed a tall youth who was Ira Jenkins, the blacksmith’s good-natured, very shy, and much-overgrown son.
Miss Bayley held out both hands and kissed Carol first on one cheek and then on the other. “Happy birthday, dear,” she exclaimed, “and may you have many more, and all as happy as I am sure that this one is.”
The flushed little girl looked up at the young teacher with glowing eyes. “Oh! Oh!” she cried, “Now I know what the s’prise is. It’s a party!” She whirled to find Dixie, Sylvia, and Ken standing back of her in the big sunny kitchen. Jimmy-Boy was taking his nap.
The older sister nodded. “That’s part of the surprise,” she began, when the awkward Ira stepped forward and handed Carol a long, flat box, as he said, “Here’s ’nother part of it.”
How the violet eyes sparkled. “It’s a present, I do believe!” the small girl cried. “Oh, Dix, do see, here’s a box with a present in it. Who do you ’spose it is from?”
“Open it and see,” her sister, who was trembling with excitement, suggested. This was a wonderful hour for Dixie, an hour long dreamed of, but one that she had sometimes feared would never come true.