CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

AN UNWELCOME GUEST

As Ken descended the trail leading to his log-cabin home, he was surprised to see a horse and buggy just leaving the drive. In it was no other than the banker from Genoa, who was so loved by the Martin children. He did not seem to see the boy, who hurried on down the trail, his heart filled with dread lest the keeper of their income had been there to report that once again it had diminished.

This fear was confirmed, or so he believed, when he saw Dixie run out of the house and toward him, an expression on her face which plainly told her brother that her heart was perplexed or dismayed.

“Dix, what’s the matter? Is the money all gone? I say, Sis, if it’s that, don’t take it hard. I can go to work driving sheep over to the Valley Ranch any day! Mr. Piggins said so last week.”

“’Tisn’t money,” the girl replied, smiling almost tremulously, “It’s something different.” Then she glanced toward the open door of the cabin and drew her brother farther away, but he paused and looked back. “Is that Carol crying in there? Why don’t you tell me what’s happened? I can’t understand at all.”

As soon as they were out of hearing, the small girl told the story of recent events. “Just after you had gone up to see teacher,” she began, “I was cooking the porridge when Carol called that Mr. Clayburn was driving in, and that that horrid Sylvia was with him. Carol hadn’t finished dressing yet, and so she was up in the loft, looking out the little window.

“I ran to the door, and, sure enough, that was who it was. Mr. Clayburn seemed to be terribly worried about something, and that peaked little girl of his looked as though she’d ’most cried her eyes out.

“When the buggy stopped, he left little Sylvia on the seat, and he came in and said: ‘Dixie Martin, I’ve come to ask you to do me a great favor. I’m in deep trouble, and no one at this hour can help me as much as you can.’ Of course I said, ‘Mr. Clayburn, I’ll do just anything I can’; and he said, ‘I knew you would, Dixie.’ Then he told me that his wife had been taken suddenly and very seriously ill, and that she was in a Reno hospital, and that he would have to stay there for a time to be near her, and that he wanted to leave Sylvia with us. Oh, Ken, I just had to say that of course we would take her, even though I knew how Carol feels about her, and so that’s what happened. It’s Sylvia in there crying, and Carol’s up in the loft. I climbed up to tell her ’bout everything, and she said I needn’t expect her to come down-stairs as long as that horrid snippy Sylvia Clayburn is in the house. She declared she’d stay up there and starve unless I’d take her breakfast up to her. Oh, Ken, what shall we do? You can’t blame Carol, ’cause you know Sylvia was mean and horrid when our little sister was in her home.”

The older brother was indeed puzzled.

He did not blame Carol, for she had been most unkindly treated by the mother and daughter. “I guess we’ll have to just do what we can, Dix,” he said. “Mr. Clayburn’s one of the best friends we’ve got, and for his sake we’ll have to put up with that—that little minx of his.”

Dixie had been looking thoughtfully down into the sunlit valley. She could see a group of white buildings partly hidden by cottonwood trees. In her gold-brown eyes was the far-away expression which often suggested to Miss Bayley that the soul of the girl was beholding a vision. The boy’s gaze followed hers. Then he turned toward his sister as he said gently: “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to remember if Grandmother Piggins ever said anything that would help us. Aren’t you, Dix?”

The girl nodded; then, her eyes alight, she suddenly exclaimed as she 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.