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.