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.