caught his free hand,—the other still held the history: “Ken Martin, I
have it! I just knew I’d remember something. Once when Sue came home
from boarding-school she said that she just hated her room-mate. She was
going to be as mean as she could, hoping that the new pupil would ask to
have her room changed. But Grandma Piggins said: ‘Sue, just to please
me, will you try my way for one week? If it doesn’t work, then you may
try your own.’ Of course Sue would do anything to please her dear old
grandmother. Then she asked what she was to do.
“Grandma Piggins said: ‘It’s a game of make-believe. First, pretend, in
your own heart, that you like the new pupil, and that you are glad she
is your room-mate, and then treat her just as you would if you thought
she was the nicest girl you knew, and, by the end of the week, you may
find that the pretend has come true.’”
“How did it turn out?” the boy inquired.
“They’re still room-mates,” Dixie told him. Then she added: “But come
on, Ken, we’d better go in. Nobody’s had any breakfast, and it’s almost
school-time.” The little mother sighed. “I don’t see how I can go to
school this morning,” she said. “I can’t leave Carol up in the loft and
Sylvia down-stairs crying her heart out, and neither of them speaking to
each other.”
“I’ll go to school and take Baby Jim and tell teacher that maybe you
three girls will be along in the afternoon.” Then he added, in a low
voice, as they walked toward the cabin, “If I were you, Dix, I’d ask
Carol to play Grandma Piggins’s game, but if Sylvia’s as horrid as I
guess she is, it’ll take a lot of ’magination to play it.”
“Maybe Carol will. Anyway, I’ll ask her,” and, with a new hope in her
heart, the little mother of them all entered the kitchen and began to
dish up the porridge for the long-delayed breakfast.
But, try as the little mother might to be cheerful, the meal was a
dismal one.
Baby Jim, usually so sunny, seemed to be affected by the doleful
atmosphere, and suddenly began to sob as though his little heart would
break.
“Dear me! Dear me!” poor Dixie sighed as she glanced across the room to
where Sylvia sat in a miserable heap, her head hidden on her arms,
silent now, except for an occasional sob that shook her frail body.
Up-stairs in the loft there was no sound, and Dixie wondered if Carol
had covered her head with the quilt and was softly crying. How she
longed to go up and comfort her, but she was needed just then in the
kitchen.
Taking the small boy out of his high-chair, Dixie looked helplessly
across the table at Ken, who was gulping down the porridge as though it
were hard to swallow.
“Gee, Sis,” he said, “what can be the matter with Jim? He’s too little
to understand. I don’t see why he’s crying so hard. Is there a pin
pricking him, maybe?”
“No-o, that’s one thing that couldn’t happen,” the girl answered with
justifiable pride. “When he pulls a button off, I stop right that minute
and sew it back on, so I never have to use pins.” Then she added, “Once,
when young Mrs. Jenkins spanked her baby just ’cause he was crying,
Grandma Piggins said the best way to quiet a little fellow was to give
him something pleasant to think about.”
Then Ken had an inspiration. “I say, Jimmy-Boy,” he began, leaning over
and peering into the tear-wet face that was half hidden on Dixie’s
shoulder, “if you’ll eat every spoonful of your milk and porridge, Big
Brother will let you ride on Pegasus and hold the reins all by your very
own self.”
The dearest desire of the small boy was to reach that age when he would
be considered old enough to sit, unsupported, upon the back of the
gentle, jogging creature, hold the reins, and drive alone. Ken’s offer
had been an inspiration, for the little fellow’s tears ceased, and his
face, which Dixie kissed till it was rosy, beamed up at her with its
sunniest smile. Then, once more in his high-chair, he fulfilled his
share of the bargain by eating porridge to the very last mouthful.
Dixie glanced gratefully over at Ken, managing to say softly as she
passed him on her way to the stove, “Stay very close to Pegasus when
Jimmy takes his first ride, won’t you?” Then she added, as she noted an
expression of reproach in her brother’s eyes, “Of course, Ken, I know
that you would, anyway.”
Five minutes later the two boys, hand in hand, went outdoors to feed the
“live-stock,” which consisted of a goat, Pegasus, the burro, Topsy and
her kittens, the three little hens, and Blessing, the pig. As soon as
the door closed behind them, Dixie went across the room and placed her
hand on the bent head. “Sylvia,” she said kindly, “won’t you come to the
table and have some breakfast?”
There was no response. The child curled up in the chair did not stir.
Pity filled the heart of the older girl, and impulsively she knelt, and,
putting her arm about the frail figure, she said tenderly: “Don’t grieve
so hard, Sylvia. Your father told me your mother is sure to get well.
You can go home again in two short weeks.”
Then the unexpected happened. The child lifted a face that was more
angry than sorrowing, and sitting erect, she exclaimed vehemently, “I’m
not crying about my mother. I’m crying ’cause I just hate my father.
He’d no right to bring me to this poor folks’ cabin. My mother told him
I was to be put in a boarding-school where children from the best
families go. My mother don’t want me to associate with poor folks’
families. O dear! O dear! What shall I do?”
The sobbing began afresh, but there was a chill in the heart of the
older girl, who, almost unconsciously, held herself proudly. “Well,” she
said rather coldly, “since it’s only yourself you are pitying, I wish
your father had taken you somewhere else, but he didn’t. He wanted you
here with us, and so I suppose you will have to stay.”
Then she asked hopefully, “Sylvia, couldn’t you try to be happy here,
for your father’s sake, just two little weeks? Won’t you try, dearie?”
“No, I won’t!” the pale, spoiled child snapped without looking up. “And
I’m not going to stay, neither.”
Dixie sighed, and, turning, she started toward the ladder that led to
the loft. Was Carol going to be as stubborn as Sylvia was, she wondered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A HARD GAME
Dixie climbed the ladder to the loft and looked quickly toward the bed,
but the little sister whom she sought was not there. Going to the
curtained-off corner, she quickly drew aside the cretonne, and there,
sitting on the floor, holding fast to the old doll for comfort and
companionship, was Carol.
There were no tears in the beautiful violet-blue eyes that were lifted,
but there was an expression in them so hurt that Dixie knew that it
would be very hard for her little sister to forgive their unwelcome
guest. Too, when she recalled the spoiled girl’s rudeness of a moment
before, Dixie suddenly resolved that she would not ask Carol to put
herself in a position to be again humiliated as she had been in her
recent experience in the Clayburn home.
“Dearie,” she said, as she stooped and took the warm hand of the younger
girl, “please come out of that dark, smothery place. I’ve thought of a
plan, and I want to talk about it to you. First of all, I want you to be
happy ’cause this is your home, not Sylvia’s.”
Carol smiled up gratefully and came out willingly. “Oh, Dix,” she said,
“what shall we do? I don’t want to go down-stairs and have to see that
mean-horrid girl. Won’t you please send her away?”
Poor Dixie looked her despair, for, after all, she was very young
herself, and this problem seemed too difficult a one for her to solve.
They owed so much to kind Mr. Clayburn, they just couldn’t turn his
little girl out of their home, but what could they do with her in it?
“I ’most don’t know what to do,” she confessed, turning toward Carol a
face that quivered sensitively. “I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like
to go over to the Valley Ranch and visit. You know Sue’s mother has
often asked you to come. I didn’t know but maybe you’d rather do that
than stay here with Sylvia.”
Carol pouted. “No, I don’t want to leave my own home. If anybody’s sent
over to the Valley Ranch, I should think it ought to be Sylvia.” The
tone in which this was said was so reproachful that the perplexed girl
could be brave no longer, and, throwing herself unexpectedly upon the
bed, she sobbed as Carol had never heard her cry before. Feeling that
she was in some way to blame, she ran to her side, exclaiming
contritely: “Oh, Dixie, Dixie! Please don’t cry that way. I’ll do
anything you say. I won’t care if Sylvia slaps me even—if only you won’t
cry.”
With a glow of happiness in her heart, the little mother of them all sat
up, and, catching the younger girl in her arms, she held her close. It
was such a comfort to her to know that Carol loved her and was willing
to do something that would be, oh, so hard, to prove her love.
To show that she had really meant the hastily-made promise, the younger
girl said, “Tell me what you want me to do, Dix, and I’ll go right this
minute and do it.”
Then Dixie, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding fast to the
little sister she loved, told her, as she had told Ken, about
Grandmother Piggins’s game of pretend. “It’ll be awfully hard to pretend
even to myself that I like Sylvia Clayburn,” Carol said; “but I’ll play
that game, Dix, I will, honest, if you want me to.”
“Goodie, let’s start right this very minute,” the older girl exclaimed.
“Now, remember, we’re to pretend that the horrid, rude things she will
say are pleasant things.”
The younger girl sighed as she replied, “Well, I like hard games, but
this one will be the hardest that I ever played.” Then, rising, she held
out her hand as she continued, “Come on, Dixie, I’m going down to
breakfast.”
What a glad light there was in the plain, freckled face of the older
girl, and, springing to her feet, she kissed her truly beautiful younger
sister as she whispered: “Thank you, dearie, you have made me very
happy. Now it won’t be half so hard.” Then they left the loft and went
down the ladder together.
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
RUDE LITTLE SYLVIA
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE YOUNG ENGINEER DREAMS
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.