CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

The next morning Sylvia was unusually fretful, and little wonder, for she had had two helpings of the rich, creamy dessert the night before, and would not eat the wholesome breakfast which was served to her in bed.

Carol was told to remain in her room that morning as a punishment for the manner in which she had misbehaved the night before. This message was brought with her breakfast by Fanchon. To the surprise of the maid, the small girl was up and had on her own old dress that buttoned down the front.

“Oh, I just wanted to put it on,” the child said, when the kindly maid expressed her surprise.

“Poor little colleen, I guess ye’re homesick, and I wouldn’t wonder at it if you are,” was what Fanchon was thinking, but aloud she made no comment, as the pale-blue eyes of her little mistress were watching her from the bed where she sat propped among downy pillows.

All the time that Carol sat at the low table eating her mush and milk, she, too, was wondering if she could be homesick. Almost unconsciously her eyes roamed over the creamy net curtains and rose-silk draperies, at the bird’s-eye maple furniture, and at the wide window-seat heaped with rosy cushions.

Then her thoughts wandered to the little loft bedroom which she and Dixie always shared together. There was one small window, with a turkey-red curtain, a very old-fashioned chest of drawers, and in one corner sat her doll, Peggotty Ann. Of course she was too old now to play with dolls, for would she not be nine the very next month?

She glanced at the little brass bed in which she had slept. It was covered with creamy net, lined with rose-colored silk. Spread over the four-posted bed at home there was a many-colored piece-quilt that her grandmother had made when she was a bride.

Somehow that loft-room seemed more homey after all. Fanchon had come to take the trays. She asked Carol if she wished to put on one of Sylvia’s pretty morning-dresses.

“No thank you, not yet,” the child replied. She walked over to the window and looked out. It was a gray, gloomy day. If she were looking out of a window at home, she would probably see Ken digging around somewhere in the garden and whistling. What a jolly whistler Ken was!

Just then Sylvia, unable to longer remain unnoticed, said fretfully, “Carol Martin, I was just falling asleep, and you made so much noise you woke me right up, and my mother said I was to sleep all of this morning because I am sickly.”

Carol felt that this was very unjust, for a little mouse could not have been more quiet. She sat down in a chair by the window, trying hard not to cry. Sylvia spoke again, “Well, as long as I can’t sleep, you may bring me my best doll, and be sure you don’t drop her.”

Carol looked in the direction indicated and saw a beautiful French doll 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.