that was nearly as big as she was. “Oh, what a beauty,” she exclaimed.
Very carefully she lifted it and took it to the little girl in the bed.
Then she turned away and was far across the room when a shrill scream
from Sylvia was followed by a crash. Sylvia had let the doll slip from
the bed.
“You did it, you horrid beggar-girl,” she cried, “and now my beautiful
doll is broken.”
The door burst open and Mrs. Clayburn appeared. She had hastily thrown
on a velvet lounging-robe and her hair was down her back.
“Mother,” Sylvia fairly screamed, “she made me drop my doll.”
Again the just wrath of a Martin was in the heart of Carol. “You _know_
you’re fibbing!” she said almost scornfully. “I’m not going to stay here
another moment. I’m not! I’m not! I’m going right home to-day where
folks live who are honest, and who l-love me, and I’m not going to say
I’m grateful ’cause you brought me here. I’m not! I hate you. I just
hate you both!”
Dashing to the closet before the astonished woman could realize what was
happening, the girl snatched her best hat from a hook and ran from the
room.
The bell for Fanchon sounded through the halls. “Stop that child before
she gets out of this house. Then lock her up in the coal-room,” was the
imperatively given command.
“Yes, ma’am. Which way was she after goin’, ma’am?” the maid lingered to
inquire.
“How can I tell, stupid! She can’t unlock the front door, so she is
probably there this minute, trying to get out.”
Mrs. Clayburn was right. That was where the Irish maid found her, but
instead of taking her to the dark, windowless basement-room, Fanchon
quickly unlocked the front door and set her free.
“Poor little darlint,” the maid thought, as she glanced anxiously up the
long flight of stairs to be sure that she was unobserved, “it’s me as is
wishin’ I had a log-cabin home in the mountains I could run away to.”
Mrs. Clayburn, at an upper window, saw the small figure flying across
the lawn. She went at once to the telephone and called up the bank.
“Samuel, have that child caught and brought back here at once. She’s got
to beg my pardon and be properly punished before she can leave this
house.”
But the banker was busy, and he failed to send any one to search for the
little runaway, and so, though Mrs. Clayburn watched and waited, at noon
the culprit had not been returned to her. Several hours later her
husband called to say that he was going into the country on business and
would not be home to dinner.
“Poor little Carol,” he thought as he started driving toward the
mountains, “she probably has tried to walk home, but her little legs
will tire out long before she gets there, and no one living along the
way except the Washoe Indians.” Mr. Clayburn hastened the pace of his
horse as he thought of this. Meanwhile Carol, on leaving the home of the
banker, had slipped unobserved through side-streets until she came to a
highway on the outskirts, which she believed led in the direction of her
log-cabin home.
She had been to Genoa but once before, and that was when she was six
years of age, and though she knew that she must follow one of the
side-roads toward the mountains, she was not sure which one to take.
On and on she trudged. The houses were very far apart now, and at last
there were none at all. The child looked very small indeed as she
crossed the desert-like stretch of sandy waste where only sagebrush and
a few twisted trees were growing.
At last she reached a crossing, and to her joy, a sign-post informed her
that Woodford’s was but six miles away over in the mountains. At least
it was a comfort to know that she was going in the right direction. The
pine trees grew bigger and denser and the road began to ascend.
The child’s feet were very tired, and, at last, she was so weary that
she felt that she just could not take another step, and so she sank down
on a boulder to rest. How silent it was, save for the moaning of the
gentle breezes in the pines. The only living thing that she saw was a
great wide-winged vulture that was swinging around overhead in circles.
Never in her life had the child felt so alone in the world, but she was
not afraid. The children of Pine Tree Martin had never learned fear.
“I must hurry on,” she thought, as she again arose and trudged bravely
up the rough mountain road. With feet that would lag, however eager she
might be to go on, she slowly climbed, but, with five miles still ahead,
the small girl realized that she could walk no farther. Sinking to the
ground, she curled up under a pine tree and began to sob softly.
Suddenly she sat up alert, listening. She had heard the pounding of a
horse’s feet around the curve that she had just passed. Some one was
coming!
She hid behind the trunk of a tree that she might see without being
seen, and then watched and waited. Soon a horse and rider appeared.
After one glance the small girl, with a glad cry, leaped out into the
road. It was Tom Piggins riding on a big dappled work-horse. He had been
to Genoa on an errand for his father, and was returning to the Valley
Ranch. Never before had Carol been so glad to see any one.
Running out into the road, she waved and shouted, “Tom! Tom! Please give
me a ride!”
“Why, Carry Martin, what you doin’ here?” For once the small girl did
not resent being called by that much-hated name. The long, lank boy
continued: “Ken was over to our place last night, and he was sayin’ as
how you’d been adopted by a rich banker. He said he was sort of glad of
it, you being so selfish and hard to live with, but Dixie, she’s been
sniffling ’round ever since you left, and the little kid keeps askin’,
‘Where’s Carol? Jimmy wants Carol.’”
Upon hearing this, the small girl sobbed afresh.
“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “I don’t want to be adopted. Please, please take
me home.”
The blunt boy was nevertheless kind, and so he helped the small girl up
on the big horse in front of him, and, as they rode along, Carol told
the whole story to sympathetic ears.
“Gee-crickets!” the boy exclaimed admiringly. “I’m certain glad you had
some of your pa’s spunk.” Then he added hopefully, “Maybe you’re goin’
to change, and get to be more like Dixie. Ken’ll like you heaps better
if you do.”
Carol said nothing, but in her heart she resolved that she would try to
be so much like Dixie that folks wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
It was noon when Tom helped the little girl to the ground in Woodford’s
Cañon, and, after having thanked him, she started walking slowly down
the trail toward the log cabin, for a dreadful thought had come to her.
What if she wouldn’t be welcome. What if Ken should say, “You left our
home and now you can stay away.”
The window nearest the trail was open, and Carol thought she would look
in before going to the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A HAPPY REUNION
Within the cabin the three children sat about the table, eating their
midday meal. Carol at the window heard Ken say: “Dix, this is the second
day that you haven’t eaten one bite. If you get sick, how on earth’ll
Baby Jim and I get along?”
The girl turned from the table and began to sob. “I’m sorry, Ken,” she
said, “truly I am, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to eat again
unless Carol comes home.”
“Well, I sort o’ wish she’d come, too,” Ken declared, blinking very
hard.
There was a sudden warm glow in the heart of the little listener. After
all, she would be welcome. Even Ken wanted her! With a glad cry she ran
in the open door and threw her arms about her sister. Then she pounced
upon Ken and kissed him.
“I’m home,” she cried, “and please, please let me stay forever and
ever.”
Baby Jim was clamoring for attention, and he was caught in a crushing
hug while he waved his spoon and uttered joyous little squeals, although
he did not understand Carol’s home-coming any more than he had her
departure only the day before.
After a time, in which tears and laughter blended, Carol cried, “Dixie,
I’m ’most starved with that long walk and not eating much breakfast. I’m
so glad you’ve got fried potatoes and baked beans.”
“I’m hungry, too, now that I take notice of it,” the older girl said,
her freckled face beaming.
“Well, I thought I’d had enough, but I guess I could take another
helping,” Ken declared. And so they all sat down, and a merry meal it
was.
Oh, how much nicer her own home was, Carol thought, where even Baby Jim
could talk if he wished and not be told that only grown-ups should
converse at table. Carol didn’t tell all that had happened. In fact, she
didn’t seem to wish to speak of her recent experience. She inquired with
interest about the well-being of the pig and the three hens as though
she had been away a year.
Then she asked what had happened at school that day. None of them had
attended. They hadn’t had the heart to do anything, but on the morrow
all of them would go.
After the dishes were done, Carol climbed to the loft. For some reason
that she could not explain to herself, she wanted to see her old doll.
She hadn’t played with it for a year, not since Jessica Archer had made
fun of her and called her a baby for playing with a doll.
How cosy the loft bedroom seemed, the small girl thought as she reached
the top of the ladder. Those turkey-red curtains, with the sunlight
shining through them, were very cheerful looking. Peggotty Ann was
probably the most surprised and the happiest doll in the whole State of
Nevada, when, a moment later, she was caught up and kissed by her little
mistress.
Ken entered the kitchen, and, going to the table where Dixie sat sorting
the mending, he said very softly, that the girl in the loft might not
hear: “Dix, something’ll have to be done, now that Carol’s back. We
can’t make ends meet on nine dollars a month, and one to be laid aside
for taxes.”
Dixie looked up brightly. “There’s still two dollars and thirty cents in
the sock, Ken,” she said, “and we haven’t reached trouble’s stone wall
yet.”
“Dix,” the boy declared admiringly, “you’re a brick!” Then he added,
with a mischievous grin, “and I don’t mean because you’re red-headed,
either.”
A moment later when Carol, with her doll in her arms, looked out of the
small window in the loft, she saw Ken digging in the garden and heard
him whistling, and, for the first time in her young life, she realized
something of the contentment and joy contained in that one word, “home.”
Being very, very tired, after an almost sleepless night and a long walk,
the small girl curled up on the husk-filled bed to rest, her doll held
close. Soon she was asleep, and so she did not hear a horse and buggy
stop at the door. In fact, she never knew that Mr. Clayburn had called,
but Dixie knew, and what that kind man told brought joy to the heart of
the little mother.
The banker said that he was glad to inform her that he had succeeded
that very morning in loaning her father’s small principal in a way that
would bring fifteen dollars a month interest.
He did not tell her that he had loaned the money to himself, as he knew
that no one else would pay so high a rate of interest, and he was
determined that the wolf should be kept from the door of the four little
orphans who were too proud to accept charity.
When he was gone, Dixie ran out into the garden.
“Ken! Ken!” she called, and the boy thought that never before had he
seen her face so aglow. “We’ve reached trouble’s stone wall, and there
_was_ an opening through and on the other side is a garden that’s all
sunshine.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A JOYOUS DIXIE
The next morning Miss Bayley’s glance wandered often to the corner of
the room in the old log schoolhouse where sat the four little Martins.
She wondered why they all looked so beamingly happy. Little did she
dream of the exciting events of the day before. Not only had the small
prodigal returned, but their monthly income had been increased, and no
longer need the little mother scheme, plan, and contrive just to make
ends meet. Little Jimmy-Boy’s much-needed warm coat now could be
purchased as soon as the money came, and that would be at least two
weeks before the really cold weather set in. In fact, there were years
when November was as pleasant as October, and where, in all the world,
could one find more beautiful autumn weather than in Nevada?
When Dixie, as usual, led the opening song, her voice rang out with
lilting joyousness, and when she stood up to read, Miss Bayley was
charmed with the expression with which she interpreted the little story.
In fact, so pleased was she that she forgot to stop Dixie at the end of
the second page, as was the custom, but permitted her to read the entire
story of “The Three Bears.” It delighted her to note how Dixie’s voice
changed when Papa Bear or the Baby Bear spoke.
Then, when the little reader had finished, the teacher exclaimed with
real appreciation: “Dixie, you read that splendidly! You surely have a
gift.”
Then it was that she recalled that the mother of the Martin children had
been an actress, and a very audible sniff also reminded her of the fact
that she was praising some one who was not a daughter of the board of
education.
The sniff had come from the front seat, center, and the sniffer was, of
course, the haughty little Jessica Archer. That maiden had risen, and,
with a toss of her corn-colored curls, she announced, “Miss Sperry, our
last teacher, said I was the best reader in this school, and my father
said yesterday that she was the best teacher we’d ever had in
Woodford’s.”
Miss Bayley was indignant, and yet, if she wished to remain, she must be
politic, and now that she was so interested in the Martins, more than
ever did she want to stay.
“You read very nicely, Jessica,” she told the irate little maid,
“especially when you are thoroughly acquainted with the text. You may
now read the entire story of ‘Henny Penny.’”
Somewhat mollified, Jessica Archer read the tale which she knew by
heart, forwards or backwards, with more expression than was her wont.
She did not intend to have those no-account Martins win more praise than
was given to her.
With an inward sigh Miss Bayley assured Jessica that she had never
before heard her read so well, which indeed was true, and then she
called upon Ken to do an oral problem in arithmetic.
At recess, when the other children had trooped out of doors to play,
Dixie remained, and Miss Bayley, who was writing on the board, turned to
find a pair of eager eyes watching.
“Did you want to speak to me, Dixie, dear?” she inquired.
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Bayley, please, if ’twouldn’t be interrupting too
much. I want to ask advice about something that’s very secret.”
The teacher smiled. She believed that she was at last to learn the cause
of the inward glow that radiated from the thin, freckled face of the
older Martin girl, who was sometimes called “homely.”
But the secret something was destined not to be told, for just then
Jessica Archer, who had missed Dixie from the playground, entered the
schoolroom in search of her. Not that she desired the companionship of a
Martin, but she did not wish to give Dixie an opportunity to be alone
with the teacher.
Miss Bayley frowned, and very softly she said: “Dear, can’t you come
over to my cabin after school to-night? I very much want to have a real
heart-to-heart visit with you.”
“Oh, teacher, Miss Bayley, I’d love to. You can’t think how I’d love
to!” was the eagerly given reply.
Jessica Archer could not possibly have heard, and so it was merely a
coincidence which prompted her to say, “Miss Bayley, my mother said I
was to tell you to come home with me after school to-night and have
supper at our house.”
“Thank you, dear,” Miss Bayley replied, “I am sorry that I cannot
accept. Please thank your mother for me, and tell her that I had already
made another engagement.”
The young teacher was rebellious. Her free time, surely, was her own,
and she determined that she would do with it as she pleased.
Dixie was about to protest that she could come any other day just as
well, but there was an expression in her dear teacher’s eyes that
silenced her. Then as the clock marked the hour of ten, Miss Bayley rang
a bell which ended recess and recalled the small pupils to their
lessons. Jessica Archer, with another toss of her corn-yellow curls,
seated herself, feeling that she was not being treated with the respect
that was due the daughter of a sheep-king. She was suspicious, and that
was why she lingered so long after school, rubbing imaginary marks from
her reader, washing off the top of her desk with unusual care, and all
this time, while the teacher was preparing examples for the following
day, Dixie Martin sat on the bench outside of the little log
schoolhouse, happily waiting.
At last the teacher’s patience reached the breaking-point. Looking up
from her work, she found the pale-blue eyes of the daughter of the board
of education watching her.
“Jessica Archer,” she exclaimed, and the degree of exasperation she felt
sounded in her voice, “will you kindly tell me why you are remaining?
The afternoon session ended at least fifteen minutes ago. You will
please leave at once, and do not remain after school-hours again without
asking my permission and explaining your reason for wishing to do so.”
Jessica’s expression was decidedly impudent. “There’s that Dixie Martin
staying after school.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “She is not in the schoolhouse. I have no
control over all the big out-of-doors. What is more,” and this took
moral courage, “Dixie is waiting for me at my request. Now take your
books and go!”
Miss Bayley had never before been so angry at a pupil, for she believed,
and truly, that she was being spied upon by the small daughter of Mrs.
Sethibald Archer.
Jessica did depart, but she did not go home at once. Having reached a
clump of low-growing pines near the inn, she hid among them to await the
return of Miss Bayley to her small cabin home. At last she saw her
coming, and with her was the hated Dixie Martin, and, what was even more
shocking, Miss Bayley was swinging the little girl by the hand and
skipping; yes, she was actually skipping in a way that no
self-respecting teacher had ever done before.
Jessica remained in her place of hiding until she was sure that Dixie
was going in the cabin with the teacher. Then, when she believed that
she was unobserved, she crept but, keeping hidden as best she could
behind the sagebrush, until she reached the trail that led down to her
valley home.
Bursting into her mother’s room, she began to sob. Mrs. Sethibald Archer
at that moment was struggling to write a speech, and a very large
dictionary lay open on the table at her side.
Her real reason for having invited Miss Bayley to supper that night had
been to have the assistance of the teacher in preparing the paper which
she was to read on the day following in Genoa. Once before Miss Bayley
had given invaluable assistance, and the ladies had greatly praised Mrs.
Sethibald on her clear and lucid exposition of the subject. Just what
that meant, the speaker of the day had not known, but she was convinced
that it was praise, and she was desirous of doing equally well on the
morrow.
“Do stop crying,” the weary mother now remonstrated, “and tell me where
is Miss Bayley? I didn’t see her coming down the trail with you just
now.”
“She—she wouldn’t come, Ma,” Jessica sobbed afresh. “She—she treats me
awful mean. She says that horrid Dixie Martin is the smartest girl in
the school. She says she can read better’n I can. I told her you wanted
her to come to supper to-night, and she said she had another engagement,
and—and, ma, it wasn’t so. She just had Dixie Martin go home with her,
that’s all, for I hid and saw, and she didn’t act ladylike neither, ma;
she skipped!”
Mrs. Sethibald Archer arose, and the expression in her eyes was not
pleasant to see. “There’s your pa coming into the barnyard this very
minute,” she said. “Run right out, darling of my heart, and tell him not
to unhitch. Tell him I’m wishing him to drive me over to the inn. We’ll
see whether or not my requests are to be set aside like this.”
Jessica ran out to deliver the message, which was really a command, and
Sethibald Archer understood it as such. Then, returning, the child asked
eagerly: “Ma, I want to go along.”
“Of course you may go. This thing’s going to be settled this very day.
I’m not going to have any upstart of a teacher refuse my hospitality
when I offer it. Indeed not.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A DEFIANT TEACHER
When Dixie entered the pleasant living-room of the little log cabin near
the inn, she clasped her hands, and her eyes glowed with appreciation as
she looked about.
“Oh, teacher, Miss Bayley,” she breathed rapturously, “you’ve got books,
haven’t you? I never did see so many books all in one room. Oh, please,
may I touch them?”
Then it was that the young teacher remembered that the little girl had
said that “Oliver Twist” and “Pilgrim’s Progress” were the only books
that she had, and an almanac.
“Poor little story-hungry girl,” she thought, as she removed her hat and
turned toward the child. “Of course you may touch them, dear. I’m going
to make us some hot chocolate to drink, and you may browse around all
that you wish. Choose any book that you like and I will help you read
it. One of my reasons for asking you here to-day, Dixie, was to suggest
that once or twice a week you come with me and let me tutor you in
advanced reading. Then you can take the book home and give the same
instruction to your brother, Ken. There is no reason why you two
children, who are so unusually gifted, should be held back by one of
little natural intelligence.”
Then Miss Bayley entered the lean-to which was also her kitchen, and
humming to herself to endeavor to erase from her memory the unpleasant
conflict with Jessica Archer, she filled the tiny teakettle, lighted the
oil-stove, and prepared a few dainty sandwiches.
When she re-entered the living-room, her small guest sat on the
window-seat, one long, spidery leg curled under her, and she held two
books. The gold-brown eyes seemed to have sunshine in their depths as
they looked up.
“Oh, teacher, Miss Bayley,” she piped, “it was so hard to choose. It’s
like when the spring flowers are in blossom and the valley-meadow is all
blue and gold with them. There are so many, and they are all so lovely
it’s hard to tell which ones to pick. I guess, though, that these two
would be nice. This one says ‘Little Women’ on the cover, but that
wouldn’t interest Ken so much, it being all about girls, but this one
would, for, in the picture, there is a boat wrecked and animals swimming
to the shore. I’m sure boys would like it.”
Miss Bayley nodded, beaming her pleasure. “You will like that one, too.
My brother, Tim, and I read ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ through seven times
when we were your age and Ken’s.”
Skipping over to the long, home-made bookshelf, the child replaced
“Little Women,” and held lovingly the volume of her choice.
Then a cheerful humming in the kitchen announced that the teakettle was
beginning to boil, and Miss Bayley went thither to complete preparations
for the lunch.
While they were eating it, the young woman, who was little more than a
girl herself, having graduated from a normal school when she was hardly
twenty years of age,—and this was her first school,—smiled across at her
small guest as she said: “Dearie, at recess you wanted to tell me
something. What was it?”
__Dixie’s thin, freckled face became suddenly serious. “I’m going to
tell you all about us, Miss Bayley,” she began, “then I guess you’ll
better understand.”
And so the little mother of the Martins told to a most sympathetic and
interested listener the drama which had recently been enacted in their
log-cabin home.
“And, oh, teacher, Miss Bayley,” the child said, “I never, never could
have come to school again if my little sister had stayed away. She’s all
the sister I’ve got to love. I couldn’t give up Ken or Baby Jim either,
but—but I guess a girl needs another girl in a special way that boys
can’t understand, don’t you, teacher?”
The young woman nodded emphatically, and there were tears close to her
eyes. What a cruel, hard experience these children had been going
through, and all alone.
“I do, indeed, Dixie,” she said. “There are so many tasks and pleasures
and little confidences that only girls can share with each other, but I
am glad that everything happened just as it did, for now Carol knows
that her own home is best and she will be more content.”
But Dixie looked a bit troubled, and the young woman asked: “Dear, what
is it? Was there something else that you wished to say?”